PUBLISHERS' ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
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 THE "NO NAME SERIES." 
 
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 AND TWO POETICAL VOLUMES: 
 
 DEIRDRE. A Novel in Verse. 
 
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 SIGNOR MONALDINI'S NIECE. 
 
 THE COLONEL'S OPERA CLOAK. 
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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 NO NAME SERIES. 
 
 BABY RUE.
 
 NO NAME SERIES. 
 
 "Is THE GENTLEMAN ANONYMOUS? Is HE A GREAT UNKNOWN?" 
 
 DANIEL DERONDA. 
 
 BABY RUE. 
 
 [HER ADVENTURES AND MISADVENTURES, 
 HER FRIENDS AND HER ENEMIES.] 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS. 
 1881.
 
 Copyright, 1881, 
 BY ROBERTS BROTHERS.
 
 ps 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PART I. PAGE 
 
 CAMP AND GARRISON 11 
 
 PART II. 
 MOUNT HOPE 61 
 
 PART III. 
 BOUIK'S HILL 73 
 
 PART IV. 
 BABY RUE 107 
 
 PART V. 
 THE PURSUIT 133 
 
 PART VI. 
 THE CONFLICT 188 
 
 PART VH. 
 
 COACOOCHEE ... .... 241 
 
 1703658
 
 THE blessed damozel leaned out 
 
 From the gold bar of Heaven ; 
 Her eyes were deeper than the depth 
 
 Of waters stilled at even ; 
 She had three lilies in her hand, 
 
 And the stars in her hair were seven. 
 
 And still she bowed herself, and stooped 
 
 Out of the circling charm, 
 Until her bosom must have made 
 
 The bar she leaned on warm, 
 And the lilies lay as if asleep 
 
 Along her bended arm. 
 
 And now 
 
 She spoke through the still weather, 
 Her voice was like the voice the stars 
 Had when they sang together. 
 
 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.
 
 PART I. 
 
 CAMP AND GARRISON. 
 
 STILL when she slept, he kept both watch and ward ; 
 And, when she wakt, he wayted diligent, 
 With humble service to her will prepared ; 
 From her fayre eyes he took commandement, 
 And ever by her lookes conceived her intent. 
 
 SPENSER.
 
 BABY RUE. 
 
 PART L 
 
 CAMP AND GARRISON. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 So I '11 not seek nor sue her, 
 But I '11 leave my glory to woo her, 
 And I '11 stand like a child beside, 
 And from behind the purple pride 
 
 I '11 lift my eyes unto her, 
 
 And I shall not be denied. 
 
 SIDNEY DOBEU.. 
 
 " TT is hard to leave without seeing her, without a 
 
 word of farewell. Yet it is the right and honorable 
 thing for me to do. " 
 
 The words were uttered unconsciously, as the speaker 
 turned into Pennsylvania Avenue.- 
 
 " Hillo, Leszinksky, in travelling rig? Where the 
 devil are you going, this night of all others? I had 
 heard of your return from Albemarle this afternoon, 
 and was sure I should meet you at the Corcorans' at 
 Miss Cartaret's birthday ball." 
 
 " No, I cannot go. I was on my way to look j'ou 
 up. I leave to-night for the West. I have dispatches 
 from the Secretary for Newport and St. Louis." 
 
 " Oh, then I suppose you have made your adieux to 
 ' rare, fair, queenly Margaret.' " 
 
 " No, I have not seen her for the last two weeks. 
 Part of the time, as yon know, I was in Albemarle. 
 You did not know, however, that it was a farewell visit. 
 I am transferred to the dragoons. I join in St. Louis,
 
 12 BABY RUE. 
 
 and we shall leave immediately for service on the fron 
 tier." 
 
 " You? Why, I thought you were a fixture in "Wash 
 ington. A cousin of the Secretary, and ordered to the 
 plains ? Damn it ! * What good are relations ? If the 
 War Department serve you such sauce, what the h 1 
 will they do with a poor devil like me ? " 
 
 " You are a lucky }-oungster, Carson, and so will 
 fare better than you deserve. My going will make a 
 vacancy that may sweep }"ou with the tide to fortune." 
 
 14 Sweep me down a gutter into the Potomac more 
 likely ! I only wanted to stay in Washington if you were 
 here. It was a touch-and-go that brought me through 
 the West Point squeeze last year, after you left. Your 
 sermons and sister Mary's praying were the spurs that 
 carried me up the home-stretch. And now, when I have a 
 shoulder-strap, if I 'm not with you to learn to crowj'our 
 fashion, the devil will be sure to find me a special tutor." 
 
 " If 3*ou would like to go with me out on the plains, 
 3'oungster, mend your manners and your speech, and I 
 will try my interest with the Secretary. If you are not 
 in a hurry for the ball, come with me now. I am to 
 stop at his house on my way to the station." 
 
 On under the lamps walked the young comrades. 
 Stanislaus Leszinksky, then just twenty-two years old, 
 but aged before his time by the burden of care he had 
 taken in his boyhood from the frail, thin hands of his 
 mother, and later from his grandfather, Judge Mason, 
 who bent under the weight of sorrows and debts, debts 
 the paj-ment of which seemed hopeless after the flight of 
 a dishonest agent, who not only took with him all the 
 money in his hands, but had induced Judge Mason to 
 sign acceptances, which had left the trustful gentle 
 man so embarrassed that even the home place must go, 
 where he had been born, and where his daughter had 
 lived with him during her short girlhood and early, 
 crushed womanhood. Stanislaus Leszinksky was at that 
 
 1 In 1842 the army had not adopted its present refined and 
 pious method of conversation. I much fear me that, in those old 
 days, it swore as terribly as did the army in Flanders. EDITOR.
 
 CAMP AND GARRISON. 13 
 
 time in the second year of his stay at "West Point. The 
 boy's first impulse had been to resign and seek some new 
 and more rapid wa}' of advance to fortune. But a Wash 
 ington banker, who was the heaviest creditor as well as the 
 personal friend of Judge Mason, dissuaded him. Large- 
 hearted and generous, with a quick, clear insight into the 
 characters and capabilities of men, Mr. Corcoran ad 
 vised his young friend to stay in the army, where all his 
 natural likings and tastes held him, and to accept from 
 the banker, as a loan, enough to clear the name and the 
 home of his grandfather ; and in the years to come to 
 liberate himself from this engagement b}- strict and close 
 economy. Mr. Corcoran knew the character of Stanis 
 laus Leszinksky ; knew the resolution, the honesty, the 
 fidelity that must now be tried by the constant burning 
 of petty things : but he was sure the gold was pure and 
 the fire refining. 
 
 The bo}* accepted more willingly because he remem 
 bered another source of assistance which Mr. Corcoran 
 had forgotten, a gift sent by a royal relative, through 
 General Lafayette, to the Virginian Leszinksky, 1 at the 
 time of the marquis's last visit to America, a minia 
 ture portrait of King Stanislaus, set in superb brilliants, 
 which his father had given to his mother as a wedding 
 gift, and which she had kept through many needs for 
 her boy. 
 
 During Stanislaus Leszinksky's short leave of absence 
 at that time, he had done much to lighten the weight of 
 his grandfather's anxiety, and to establish himself in the 
 respect and regard of all his grandfather's creditors. 
 The diamonds had been unset and disposed of, and the 
 miniature itself was left with the banker to be kept, if 
 Stanislaus Leszinksky should die suddenly, in lieu of a 
 small balance still owing. 
 
 So the brilliants that were worth a knight's ransom 
 did knightly sen-ice : they saved the pledged honor of 
 a Virginian gentleman, and bought from that terrible 
 task-master, Debt, the freedom of the last of the Masons 
 of Mount Hope. 
 
 1 See Appendix.
 
 14 BABY RUE. 
 
 From that time until he graduated the young cadet 
 had to learn the hardest of all lessons to the young, 
 not only a resolute refusal of self, but something more 
 difficult, the resolute refusal of a self represented by 
 others. The liberal hand was empty, so empty that 
 the generous heart often ached sorely from its inability 
 to give. Added to this, the boy was proud and reticent : 
 so,like many another noble soul, he was misjudged and 
 undervalued. Youth is a stern lawgiver, rarely excusing 
 and never extenuating ; it takes into account only facts 
 that are patent to sight : causes are too remote for its 
 surface philosophy. Every old officer who remembers 
 West Point will remember how irksome was any little 
 economy he was compelled to practise there, and how 
 impossible it would have seemed to him then, to live on 
 the actually necessary. This Stanislaus Leszinksky 
 did ; consequently, those of his companions who knew 
 him slightly judged slightingly. 
 
 The professors knew better, but their attentions and 
 well-intended comments on Leszinksky 's prudence were, 
 to the unthinking young prodigals whom want had not 
 disciplined, additional proofs of the parsimonious mean 
 ness with which they had credited him. 
 
 Only a pure heart onl}* a calm, brave, patient soul 
 could have lived through this false estimate, and gathered- 
 no bitterness. It seems like telling the story of our 
 hero in one sentence to sa} T he lived it down, and per 
 fected and completed his own character in the living. 
 We lay stress upon completed. Character is more fre 
 quently perfected than completed ; perfection may be 
 reached through the wearing martyrdom of care and 
 suffering, but the broad whole of a complete character 
 keeps the wholesome sweetness of childhood's trust and 
 faith, the enthusiastic hope and ambition of youth, the 
 broader beliefs and charities of mature knowledge, 
 shrined on the innermost altar, where Wisdom waits for 
 Experience to light the torches. 
 
 No comrade had been more true to Stanislaus Les 
 zinksky during the days of his patient endurance than 
 bluff, blustering, bullet-headed William Carson. The
 
 CAMP AND GARRISON. 
 
 boy was a year }'ounger in grade. He had come from a 
 plain Western family ; but the men of his race had been 
 fighting pioneers, and, though unlettered and rude in 
 manner, had the innate pluck and manliness which make 
 a gallant yeoman the fit friend and trusty comrade of 
 the chivalric and high-born gentleman. 
 
 In his first hazing difficulties at " the Point," Carson 
 fought his tormentors like a young Turk. True to the 
 inherited instinct of the old Indian fighter, that even 
 then waked in him, he disdained complaint or outcry 
 when overpowered. His hearty cuffs and heavy kicks 
 had changed the fun of his tormentors to cruel earnest. 
 Humanity had succumbed to the animal nature ; the 
 pained brutes rushed upon a pre} r now helpless, and 
 avenged the victors upon the vanquished. 
 
 Leszinksk}-, coming in, tried reason ; but when rea 
 son could not get a hearing, he tried, with better effect, 
 hard knocks. Carson had both pluck and endurance. 
 The first brought him to his knees beside his rescuer, 
 the second helped him fight there. It was two against 
 twenty, and one of them nearly down ; but of the two, one 
 defended his insulted young manhood, whilst the other 
 bravely championed the right. So the two triumphed ; or, 
 to speak more truly, the}' gave their opponents time and 
 opportunity to rehumanize. The brute half in humanity 
 stopped in its blind cruelt}', the manly half began to 
 reason. Carson, with twice his pluck and four times his 
 strength, never could have morally so affected them. But 
 the physical courage of his ally had better backing than 
 mere endurance. The battle flash in the clear gray eyes 
 had in it a lightning of scorn that pierced into and 
 through the souls of his antagonists. The shame in 
 their souls fought for him. As the brute nature was 
 cowed and silenced, humanit} 7 asserted itself; a few 
 dropped out of the melee and waited ; the others fought 
 less heartily. One awakened sinner cried, " Shame ! " 
 The consciences of others assented ; all but two fell 
 back. That was all they would do ; that was their com 
 promise with conscience. 
 
 But that was enough. Ajax on his knees butted one
 
 16 BABY RUE. 
 
 with that bullet-head of his until he had a stomach full 
 of arguments for peace ; whilst the young demigod who 
 fought on the side of Ajax against oppression knocked 
 down the other. Then human nature showed still 
 another of its kaleidoscopic turns. The vanquished 
 twenty cheered the two victors, and, assisting Ajax to 
 rise, found him with a badhy sprained ankle. Never 
 was cub more spoilt than that one was in the curing ; 
 but the spoiling was wholesome. It was the "little go " 
 which passed him " Gentleman." 
 
 So under the lamps walked these two friends, 
 strangely assorted, it is true, contrasting in all quali 
 ties except manliness : that was their plane of equality. 
 The fraternity was now a thing of habit ; an affection 
 grown so strong that it needed no expression in words ; 
 stronger from the difference in their natures. Unlike 
 the attractive difference which in lover and loved charms 
 through its supplemental qualit}', this was an entire 
 difference almost an antagonism of character, har 
 monized through an affection which on one side was 
 blind devotion, and on the other a clear-sighted over 
 looking of faults that hid virtues. 
 
 The Secretary promised that Carson should soon join 
 his friend. At the station they parted ; a pressure of 
 the hand, and then a last word from Leszinksk}-. 
 " Carson, I think you know how much I care for Miss 
 Cartaret. You do not know that two weeks ago her 
 guardian, Judge Cartaret, refused me permission to ad 
 dress her, hinted that her fortune attracted. As he is 
 a gentleman, I presume he told her both request and 
 refusal ; since then I am silenced if she is silent. So I 
 asked to be exchanged. I cannot stay in Washington. 
 You see now why I go." 
 
 "Yes. God bless you! Good-by. I will follow }'ou 
 as soon as they let me." 
 
 " Good-by. Tell her I have gone." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 And then, as his friend whirled out of sight in the dark 
 night, the faithful fellow turned with a sad heart to the 
 ball, which was now only a painful thing, for he too
 
 CAMP AND GARRISON. I; 
 
 loved Margaret Cartaret. But not an instant did he 
 hesitate. His own love must be put away : his friend's 
 cause, his friend's trust, were everything. Later in the 
 night he led Margaret into the conservatory. 
 
 " You are sad, Mr. Carson." 
 
 " Yes, Miss Cartaret; for my friend Leszinksky has 
 to-night left for frontier service." 
 
 "Left?" And the stately head bent, and the hand 
 on his arm trembled. 
 
 " Did you know that your guardian had refused him 
 permission to address you ? " 
 
 "Certainly not. I did not know he had asked 
 it." 
 
 " I am very glad you did not send him to his 
 death." 
 
 "I? send him to his death! " And the fair face 
 grew pale and the trembling increased. 
 
 " It would be that if you refused him. I know Les 
 zinksky well. He loves you as few men could love, 
 deeply, tenderly, and with him love lives forever. He 
 may live away from you, silenced by your guardian's 
 taunt, but he will never forget }'ou, Miss Cartaret ; and 
 that love being hopeless would send him careless of life 
 into every battle." 
 
 " My guardian's taunt?" and the blue eyes blazed at 
 .Carson. 
 
 " Yes ; that being penniless he sought your fortune. 
 But do you know how and why he is penniless, Miss 
 Cartaret?" 
 
 " No ; tell me." 
 
 " To save his grandfather's name from a shade of dis 
 honor ; to save the home where his mother was born. 
 Ask Mr. Corcoran. He will tell }'ou the story. And 
 this is the man your guardian suspects, dishonors with 
 his suspicion." 
 
 " I am not responsible for my guardian. Will you 
 apologize to your friend for me ? Say if I had known 
 this he should not have left without seeing me if 
 if my invitation would have brought him."
 
 18 BABY RUE. 
 
 Off in the rapidlj' growing distance the lover was 
 saying to his heart: " If I could only have said fare 
 well could only have asked her to wait for what the 
 3 r ears might bring ! But now she must hear of me 
 through deeds. God give me the chance, I pray ! Let 
 glory woo her for me."
 
 CAMP AND GARRISON. 19 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE green on the trees looks far greener than ever, 
 And the linnets are singing, " True lovers don't sever." 
 
 THOMAS DAVIS. 
 
 EARLY in the spring of 1842 Margaret Cartaret, 
 having left " The Cedars," below Richmond, 
 three days before with onlj- her maid as travelling com 
 panion, reached Ivvnchburg, where she was to join 
 Major Anderson and his daughter on their way to Mem 
 phis. Two weeks earlier, on her coming of age, she had 
 written Stanislaus Leszinksky that she was willing to 
 accept his fortune if he declined hers, adding, "You 
 will find me in Memphis by the first of May, at the 
 house of my father's old friend, Major Nathaniel Ander 
 son. If you cannot have leave to come to Memphis, I 
 am sure my friends will accompany me to Fort Smith." 
 
 It was in the time of the old stage-coaches, when the 
 small discomforts of travel only gave additional zest to 
 the charm of mountain and valley. At three o'clock in 
 the morning after Miss Cartaret' s arrival in L^nchburg, 
 our party took the places Major Anderson had secured 
 for them, amidst the confusion attendant on such an 
 early start. 
 
 The lanterns were burning brightly, the horses stamp 
 ing with impatience, for at that day the horses of 
 the " Mountain Line," as it was called, were nearly all 
 thoroughbred ; dogs were }'elping ; negroes calling and 
 laughing in the delight of parting gratuities ; whilst, 
 above all, the throned coachman in a triumph of skill 
 held the lines in one hand, and in the other the musical 
 horn that woke the early echoes, telling sleepy burghers
 
 20 BABY RUE. 
 
 of his departure. When the lights faded he placed his 
 tin treasure in a rough leathern case, until a ten miles 
 run brought them near the post stables. Then again the 
 mellow notes woke the country, and the sleep}- passen 
 gers stretched themselves in the glow of the newly 
 risen sun. 
 
 Post-boys and manager were alert at every stable, and 
 in five minutes with a fresh team the heavy coach was 
 winding up the rocky steeps, or rushing in a rattling 
 gallop into the mists of the valleys. 
 
 Twenty miles to breakfast was the usual run ; and 
 steaming coffee, hot waffles, and juicy venison had a 
 relish unknown to the modern victims of railway travel. 
 
 A few days' rest at the White and Blue Sulphur 
 Springs, a short stay at the Falls of the Kanawha, 
 another at the foot of the Sweet Spring Mountain, 
 which rocky road had shaken Major Anderson's gout 
 into a fit of live fury, brought our travellers to the Ohio 
 River at Guyandotte. 
 
 Until their arrival at the Hawk's Nest the major's 
 patience had been sorely tried by his forced attendance, 
 in their mountain climbs, upon his daughter and Miss 
 Cartaret. The}' needs must walk when the slow-going 
 coach crept up the mountain heights. They were aided 
 and abetted by hints from the driver of cross paths 
 and short cuts. The mountain laurel and honeysuckles 
 were in their early flower, and there were armsful of 
 trailing vines and masses of bloom to carry, until their 
 collected treasures made a veritable lady's bower of the 
 lumbering coach. 
 
 At the Hawk's Nest a pitying Providence sent the 
 major help. 
 
 As our party descended from the coach, which waited 
 while they walked up the wood path that led to this most 
 picturesque of mountain views, they saw immediately 
 before them on the roadside one of those crazy vehicles 
 kept as hackney carriages in the mountain towns. This 
 particular one had lived through decades. In its better 
 days it had been the pride and glory of some old coun 
 try family. Hung high over dingy yellow wheels, with
 
 CAMP AND GARRISON. 2 1 
 
 its silk-lined Morocco curtains in fringed tatters, the 
 door open, and a succession of rust}' steps unfolded, 
 it told a tale of change and fallen fortune. The horses 
 were sorry jades ; and the driver, with his scant locks 
 of white wool, fitly matched the antiquated equipage 
 He was busy cutting withes of saplings and twisting 
 them into a rope to tie up a broken spring. As Miss 
 Cartaret passed him, touched by his look of patient en 
 deavor as he whittled away with an old broken knife, 
 she took her own from her pocket and gave him. 
 
 " Thankee, marm" ; and he doffed his torn hat and 
 bowed low before her. " I 's desprit obleeged. I 's most 
 dazed wid dese breaks. We 's done broke down fo' 
 times comin' from Mount Hope. De folks I brung ar' up 
 dar at de Ness, an' I 's try in' to patch her once mo' so 
 she '11 hold out to de tavern down dar at de foot ob de 
 mountain whar dey 's gwine to take de stage." 
 
 " Very well, keep the knife ; it may help you home." 
 
 " Lord bless }*ou, mistis ! You don't mean to guv it 
 to me ? " 
 
 " Yes, keep it, and my maid will give you a snack : 
 that's hungry work for an old man." 
 
 " De Lord lub you, mistis an' he do ; but I ain't no 
 kashun for vittles. De white folks dat's wid me is got 
 plenty, an' .de}' 's might}* good 'bout dat, but you see I 's 
 done broke all de knife de gemmun had. Dis one is a 
 beauty for sho ! 'Fears like I never will want to stop 
 thankin' yer." 
 
 " Oh, you are welcome. I hope it will bring you 
 luck." 
 
 " Dunno 'bout dat. Cum to dat I mus' guv you sum- 
 fin fur it jis fur luck, you know. Mus' do it, mum." 
 
 She stopped, amused, whilst he searched his pockets, 
 drawing out a motley collection of fragments. 
 
 " Heah, marm ; heah is de very gif I orter to guv you, 
 mistis. It is a haht my young marster cut las' time he 
 was home. It's mighty pretty fur a cherry-stone." 
 
 " Thank you ; it is beautifully cut. Good-by." 
 
 Having relieved a superstition and lifted a sense of 
 obligation, Margaret Cartaret hastened to join the party
 
 22 BABY RUE. 
 
 who waited. Their path ended in a clearing on one side 
 of the mountain summit, where a bold cliff jutted out 
 until it hung over the river which wound around the base 
 of the mountain, like a silver thread hundreds of feet 
 below. In the opposite mountain, facing the cliffs, were 
 clefts in the chain, now opening into valleys, then nar 
 rowing into ravines, through which two other streams 
 came to join the one beneath. 
 
 On the edge of the overhanging rock called the 
 "Hawk's Nest" grew a scrub-pine, and as the party 
 gained the clearing, Margaret Cartaret, who was in ad 
 vance, caught by the weird attraction of the dizzy 
 height, fascinated by the subtle charm that waits the 
 unwary upon the threshold of the Infinite, walked to the 
 very edge, catching unconsciously at the frail support 
 of the waving boughs of the little pine, as she bent over 
 to look down. As the party came into the clearing they 
 saw her danger. 
 
 Miss Anderson was about to cry out, when a hand 
 was gently placed over her mouth, and a voice said in a 
 low, warning tone : 
 
 "Hush! One cry, and yon send her to a horrible 
 death." 
 
 Leaving her trembling with the repression of feeling, 
 the stranger was almost instantly behind Miss Cartaret. 
 Catching her firmly in his arms he drew her out of dan 
 ger ; and then onl}' did she realize her near risk of de 
 struction. 
 
 From that moment, Major Anderson's troubles grew 
 lighter. William Carson, who, with his sister Mary, 
 was the temporary owner of the antique vehicle which 
 had brought them thus far on their way West, after a 
 week's visit at Judge Mason's, gladly took on his 
 sturdy shoulders the load of care that was inflaming 
 the major's gout and embittering a naturally sweet 
 temper. 
 
 Uncle Abram turned back without having to go to 
 "de foot ob de mountain." Seeing Miss Cartaret pale 
 and trembling, the grateful old man asked Carson the 
 cause. Hearing of her risk on the Hawk's Nest,
 
 CAMP AND GARRISON. 23 
 
 " It 's de Lord save her. I knowed she was one o' 
 his pet chillun. I seed it in her face when she guv me 
 dis knife, an' sho nuf dat haht dat Marse Stan cut has 
 brought her luck a'ready ; dat 's why you was privleeged 
 to cotch her from 'struction. An' now mebby she 's yo' 
 fortshun, Mr. Carson." 
 
 " No, Uncle Abram ; I can tell you something better. 
 She is your Master Stan's sweetheart, and she is on 
 her way to Memphis to marry him. Major Anderson 
 has just told me." 
 
 " Bless de Lord, dat I guv her dat haht ! It save her 
 fur Marse Stan sho. Won't you please tole him 'bout it, 
 sir?" 
 
 Carson promised, and the old man busied himself 
 changing the luggage to the stage, and arranging for 
 his return alone. When the coach, with its two new 
 passengers settled into place, was about to start, he 
 came to the window where Margaret's pale face was 
 resting against a cushion. 
 
 " I mus' say good-by, m}- 3*oung mistis. Mr. Carson 's 
 done tole me 'bout you an' Marse Stan. You did n't 
 know I b'longed to de family when I guv 3*011 dat haht 
 of Marse Stan's. You see it was de Lord's doin's, fur 
 you 's one o' his angels dat he sen's sometimes when 
 de}* 's wanted bad, and he knows, mistis, how de family 
 has suffered sorely since ole marster was bankrupped, 
 an' you '11 let us die eas}*, us ole uns, fur 3*ou '11 bring 
 Marse Stan home to us to de New Geruzlum. I '11 tell 
 ole marster. I knows it, fur I sees it in yo' sweet face, 
 mistis. Good-by."
 
 24 BABY RUE. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 UP on the hill and down in the dale 
 And along the tree-tops over the vale, 
 
 Shining over and over, 
 Low in the grass and high on the -bough, 
 
 Shining over and over. 
 world, have you ever a lover ? 
 
 And the hillside heats with my beating heart, 
 
 And the apple-tree blushes all over, 
 And the May-bough touched me and made me start, 
 
 And the wind breathes warm, like a lover. 
 
 SIDNEY DOBELL. 
 
 FROM Guyandotte to Cincinnati the trip was slow. 
 The Ohio River was at the low stage of water 
 that usually precedes the June rise. The little 
 steamer was heavily loaded, and had to unship and re- 
 ship part of her freight in crossing the sand-bars, for the 
 yellow ridges were uncovered by the washing of the 
 waves as the wheezing little "stern-wheeler" swept 
 down the narrow channel. 
 
 Major Anderson's gout kept him in his state-room, 
 the only change possible being to an easy-chair on the 
 guards near his door. He had on the trip renewed a 
 lang-syne acquaintance with a Kentucky gentleman, an 
 excellent cribbage player ; and so in mam- closely-con 
 tested games he was sometimes able for hours to forget 
 his twinges of pain. His daughter and Miss Cartaret 
 were thus left to the companionship and care of the 
 Carsons. 
 
 During these long detentions on the sand-bars the 
 obliging captain of the steamer would send them ashore 
 in the yawl. Landing at the nearest farmhouse, when 
 no village was in sight, Carson would hire any convey-
 
 CAMP AND GARRISON. 2$ 
 
 ance to be had, and drive down the river road through 
 long stretches of emerald-tinted meadows and blossom 
 ing orchards that covered the slope from the thickly- 
 wooded chain of hills to the river-side. 
 
 To the three girls these rides, with their homely inci 
 dents, made the happiest of holidays. There were farm 
 house snacks^ breakdowns that left them afoot upon the 
 road ; impromptu luncheons on grass}' knolls ; climbs 
 up the hillside to see if the laggard steamer was coming 
 through the curves of the beautiful river ; then, as the 
 wavy columns of smoke told of its liberation, rushes 
 downward, scrambles through hazel bushes, cross-cuts 
 to catch in running the earl}- blossoms of May-apple 
 and daffodil ; cool, shady walks in lonely paths through 
 the tender green overhanging boughs of swamp-willows, 
 with hands laden with buds and trailing vines ; ventures 
 on the slippery sands to points where the yawl could 
 land ; trembling balancings on the broad blade of a 
 stout oar that bridged the shoal-water line. 
 
 For William Carson, the purveyor of these pleasures, 
 this holiday work was a tough trial of honesty. Never 
 in all his after life in wild Indian fights and desperate 
 frontier shifts, or, later, when facing the veterans of 
 Lee as their solid ranks pressed on to victory, or stub 
 bornly resisting the deadly charge of the Stonewall 
 Brigade was Carson's courage more severely tested 
 than in this constant attendance upon the woman soon 
 to be his friend's wife, whom he was forcing himself to 
 regard as a sister. The man's honesty was so true, his 
 friendship so loyal, that in the holding himself to ac 
 count he was a far more rigid moralist than a man of 
 more refined sensibility, more subtile sensitiveness, could 
 have been. There was for him no tampering with 
 temptation, no self-excuses for concealed love. The 
 strength and ruggedness of his character forced its very 
 tendernesses to tear up by the root all that could offend 
 his consciousness of right. It hardly needs the telling 
 to know he reached the aim he had set himself, and 
 framed in his thought, as one with his friend, the woman 
 he had loved.
 
 26 BABY RUE. 
 
 Their stops in the mountains and their long deten 
 tions on the sand-bars so delayed our party that they 
 arrived in Cincinnati a week after they were due in 
 Memphis. As the steamer rounded to at the landing 
 in the early May morning, a pattering shower, that 
 dimpled the river under broken rifts of yellow light, 
 sent the girls down from their point of vantage on the 
 hurricane-deck to the shelter of the guards just as they 
 touched gratings with a newly-arrived steamer from 
 Louisville. In the crowd of passengers that looked at 
 them from the guards of the down-river boat Margaret 
 Cartaret recognized Stanislaus Leszinksk} T . A happy 
 light came into her clear eyes, a deeper color to the 
 bronzed face of the young soldier. In an instant he 
 cleared the railing and was by her side. Mar} r Carson, 
 seeing Miss Anderson's half-shocked, half-frightened 
 expression, explained hastily, "It's Lieutenant Les- 
 zinksky. Come." And the lovers were left to the first 
 telling of that old, old story whose past is coeval with 
 the world, whose present is the sunshine of earth's 
 heritage, whose future will last through the ages until 
 Love and his brother Death clasp hands to lead the last 
 human soul through the portals of the infinite. 
 
 In the glory of the brightest of May mornings, Stan 
 islaus Leszinksky and Margaret Cartaret were mar 
 ried. Never had there been seen in that little chapel at 
 Newport a fairer bride or a quieter wedding. Major 
 Anderson, his daughter, and Mary Carson, Carson and 
 two army officers on duty at Cincinnati, were all the 
 witnesses. The bride's guardian and nearest relative, 
 Judge Cartaret, a cousin of her father, had made 
 Leszinksky's resignation from the army and establish 
 ment at "The Cedars," in Virginia, a condition of his 
 consent to the marriage ; for, although legally of age, 
 Margaret had no control of her estate until she should 
 be twenty-seven, unless she married with Judge Carta- 
 ret's consent. She unhesitatingly refused to make this 
 request of her lover. With the intuitive, sympathetic 
 knowledge born of love, she realized what would be to
 
 CAMP AND GARRISON. 27 
 
 him the humiliation of accepting from her guardian, 
 who had thought her fortune an attraction, the custo 
 dianship of that fortune. She also knew Leszinksky's 
 devotion to his profession and what it would cost him 
 to sacrifice, even for her, the only path in life he thought 
 worth following, the path whose modest pleasures 
 were simple wayside flowers, blossoming in the light of 
 days filled with duties, and whose crown of living would 
 be to carry, unstained in danger and trial, the honor of 
 the name that had come to him through a line of 
 heroes. 
 
 So the little chapel in Newport was the point of ex 
 odus from which another pair, recreated in oneness, 
 were to lead their descendants through time and change 
 to the perfectness of the Beyond.
 
 2 8 BABY RUE. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 AND all fancies yearn to cover 
 
 The hard earth on which she passes 
 With the thymy scented grasses. 
 
 And all hearts do pray, " God love her ! " 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 FROM Cincinnati to Cairo the party of travellers con 
 tinued together. At Cairo the} 7 separated, the 
 Andersons going to Memphis, while Carson accom 
 panied his sister to their Western home, before joining 
 the 1st Dragoons at Jefferson Barracks, to which place 
 the Leszinkskj-s journeyed alone. From there Leszink- 
 sky was ordered to Leavenworth, with a detachment de 
 tailed as escort to emigrant parties crossing the plains. 
 
 Headquarters were at Leavenworth, and soon their 
 little home had all the comforts then possible in a fron 
 tier station. Many an adornment, before unknown there, 
 proved Stanislaus Leszinksky's care and thoughtfulness 
 for his young wife. The rough walls of her little sitting- 
 room were covered with beautifully-preserved ferns, and 
 garlanded with autumn leaves ; from the mat^y-branched 
 horns of elk and deer hung rustic baskets of bark, filled 
 with trailing vines and delicate prairie flowers ; here 
 and there a superb butterfly or rare bird proved the 
 taste of the collector and the skill of the taxidermist. 
 The black bear, the grizzly, the white wolf, and the 
 panther furnished rugs, which covered the rough oak 
 floor. 
 
 Even'thing that mountain and forest and plain could 
 furnish had been sought to decorate Margaret's bower. 
 The soldier on the scout was also a lover on a foray, 
 seeking every treasure that Nature hides in wild-wood
 
 CAMP AND GARRISON. 29 
 
 and dell, starry-eyed "flowers that looked up from the 
 gold-broidered carpet of emerald-green in some narrow 
 stretch of river meadow ; delicate harebells from the 
 rock}- heights ; the blue larkspur and bright-scarlet gil- 
 lia of mountain passes ; modest daisies, hidden beneath 
 the flaunting splendor of sunflower and golden-rod ; 
 wild, climbing roses of the ravines ; swamp honey 
 suckle and tin}' violets that covered the gnarled, up- 
 springing roots of sentinel oaks, dwarfed by the never- 
 ceasing battle on the forest's edge with raging storms 
 and fierce winds from the plains. 
 
 At first the soldiers watched curiously the ways of the 
 silent 3'onng officer, as he lifted tenderly from their hid 
 den nooks blossom and flower, or caught in the meshes 
 of his butterfly-net some glittering marvel of rich color. 
 Soon the watching grew s}-mpathetic. There is alwa}-s 
 infection in companionship with a lover of Nature : 
 first, the curious, half-felt eagerness of pursuit ; then 
 the triumph and physical delight of success : through 
 these, more slowl}-, comes to the inner conscious 
 ness an almost indefinable sense of the beautiful, 
 widening and strengthening with use, until the great 
 heart of the All-Mother sends a new thrill into the 
 pulses, a new meaning into all tSings. So she teaches 
 us that 
 
 "To know 
 
 That which before us lies in daily life, 
 
 Is the prime wisdom." 
 
 Whenever it was possible, Margaret Leszinksky ac 
 companied her husband. The heiress of " The Cedars," 
 the belle of Washington, the beauty of Richmond was 
 soon a hardy and fearless frontierswoman. Come of a 
 race of fox-hunting, hard-riding Virginia planters, the 
 transition was not unnatural. 
 
 The accomplished and graceful horsewoman seemed, 
 the fit and proper central figure of a cavahy squadron. 
 Splendid health, and the perfect fearlessness which 
 scarcely realized danger until it is past, made the 
 longest and most venturesome expedition not only pos 
 sible but pleasant to her. To no young subaltern, in
 
 30 BABY RUE. 
 
 all the freshness of a shoulder-strap, was the call " to 
 boot and saddle " more welcome. 
 
 Alwaj's ready for the start, finding in ever} 7 discom^ 
 fort or mischance of the rude encampment some cause 
 for merry laughter ; never failing in sweet and womanly 
 sympathy for the suffering of any ill or wounded 
 trooper ; alwa3"s recognizing with a bright smile or 
 clear, low-spoken thanks the homeliest wayside cour- 
 tes}^ ; with the tact which discerns when speech would 
 be less welcome, less difficult of response, than a glance 
 or smile of acceptance, Margaret was the idol of the 
 regiment. From the old officer, whose gray mustache 
 and thread-bare uniform were more carefully brushed 
 because of her presence ; to the youngest subaltern, 
 whose gaudiest trappings were recklesslj' exposed to 
 sun and rain when she was of the party ; to the rough 
 est soldier, who had been driven to the shelter of the 
 national flag by some outbreak against the law or his 
 neighbor, all were her worshippers. 
 
 Had Mrs. Leszinksky been less a lady, the charm 
 had been less : its completeness was in the perfect 
 grace and womanly sweetness of the thoroughbred 
 gentlewoman. The rejining effect of her presence was 
 alwa}~s perceptible. The officers were more consider 
 ate and patient ; the men, not only respectful and 
 obedient, but attentive and alert. The entire War De 
 partment could not have perfected the discipline as did 
 her presence in camp. The Board of Missions could 
 never have brought about such devout ways. The hard 
 est-swearing adjutant in the army rose at daybreak, 
 when they must march on Sunday, to read the morning 
 service, because it was her wish. Officers and men 
 came together, the more unlettered in church service 
 in the background, looking with mixed feelings of awe 
 and envy at the lucky " scholards," who stood forward 
 to join in the responses. 
 
 The October after Margaret joined (everything in the 
 regiment now dated from that epoch), on their return 
 from escorting a party of Oregon emigrants to the 
 Mountains, when near Fort Laramie, she was ill,
 
 CAMP AND GARRISON. 31 
 
 i 
 
 for the first time in her life. The decimation of a com 
 pany could not have so clouded every face. After two 
 days' rest they started for Laramie, with the beloved in 
 valid on a bed of buffalo-robes, in an ambulance. The 
 sandy shore of the South Platte made a heavy but 
 smooth road. The united strength of as man}- men as 
 could crowd around the wheels lifted and pushed when 
 ever the road roughened. In two days, they made the 
 forty miles to the post. Then the surgeon declared a 
 longer trip impossible for her: she must winter in 
 Laramie. 
 
 The commanding officer of the expedition instantly 
 decided that, for " the needs of the government, and the 
 better protection of the trading-post," a detachment 
 must be stationed there. Leszinksky was left in com 
 mand ; also the surgeon was left for " the good of the 
 service, as there might be wounded to attend," al 
 though the tribes were then peaceful, and they had not 
 found a " hostile" on the plains. 
 
 The morning the now low-spirited command left for 
 Leavenworth, they filed by Leszinksky's quarters. 
 Out on the rude porch of the Western cabin sat Marga 
 ret, pale, but trying to smile a hopeful farewell. For 
 the first mile or two of the march, caps were drawn low 
 over shaded eyes ; officers and men seemed struck with 
 an infectious influenza, until the swearing adjutant turned 
 on the troopers, and rolled out such a volley of weight}' 
 oaths, between such suspicious falling inflections, that a 
 ripple of half-hysterical laughter ran along the column, 
 as they closed up, and took on the ordinary manner of 
 godless cavalrymen, leaving their religion with their 
 saint at Laramie. 
 
 It was a happy, quiet, domestic winter for the Leszink- 
 skys. The little cabin of three rooms was decorated 
 with every possible frontier ornamentation. Not a 
 trader or trapper but brought his offering ; and after the 
 first few weeks, the little porch constantly echoed the 
 soft patter of beaded moccasins. Indian mothers came 
 with ailing children, and Margaret and her aide, the doc 
 tor, nursed and fed and physicked them in concert ; so
 
 32 BABY RUE. 
 
 in the fulness of her life the influence of this woman went 
 out to the needy. In the crowning glory of her woman 
 hood, approaching maternity, the character of Margaret 
 took on its finishing charm, the motherhood that gath 
 ers and shelters God's afflicted little ones. 
 
 There was less whiskey sold at the post that winter 
 than usual, and the profit of the traders fell off; but no 
 one grumbled. The influence which radiated from that 
 log hut in the wilderness led men to think of treasure in 
 heaven. When the springtime came, and a baby was 
 born, rough men stood about with full eyes ; and Leszink- 
 sky's hand was clasped in close grasps, as husky voices 
 wished mother and child well. For the one day of her 
 agony, the mother's life was in danger. Shops were 
 closed ; traders, trappers in from the mountains, Indian 
 women with pappooses on their backs, sat about, on and 
 near the little porch, expectant and sorro\vful, in the 
 sunlight of the bright Easter morning, to wait for news ; 
 and when the hope of life came, and the wail of a 
 little child was heard, walked awa}- silent and thankful. 
 Men, who for years had forgotten God, and what he had 
 set them here to do, thought of their mothers, and of 
 the great mystery of travail in childbirth. 
 
 The little wooden chapel of the Jesuit Mission had 
 strange visitors that day : wild-looking men, clad in 
 skins, came to listen once .more to the half-forgotten 
 strains that told of the passion and the glory, the cruel 
 death and triumphant resurrection, of the Child born 
 eighteen hundred years ago in Judaea.
 
 CAMP AND GARRISON. 33 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 OH, he indeed is happy, who still feels, 
 And cherishes within himself, the hope 
 To lift himself above a sea of errors ! 
 
 GOETHE. 
 
 THE first of December, in '43, found the Leszinkskys 
 established in the officers' quarters at Fort Gibson. 
 
 The day had been calm and cold and still, and in the 
 fading twilight the stars twinkled and silvered in the 
 frost}- air. By the window sat Margaret, waiting, with 
 her baby in her arms. Through the open door of the 
 dining-room the light shone from the lamp on the tea- 
 table, which also waited. Back and forward passed a 
 handsome, stalwart young negro man, arranging the 
 details of the service, changing and replacing article 
 after article noisily, as if to attract attention, with an 
 occasional look at the waiting figure by the window. 
 All to no purpose ; for his mistress seemed unconscious 
 of sight or sound within doors. Even the bab}' had 
 fallen into the same mood, and with solemn eyes peered 
 into the gloaming. A piece of light-wood thrust into 
 the bright coals, and the rattle of a falling shovel, broke 
 the spell. The baby turned to coo her delight at the 
 red flame as a firm, quick step sounded on the stoop. 
 Another moment and the door opened as Margaret 
 reached it, and wife and child were in the arms of 
 Stanislaus Leszinksky. t Then the much-tried servant 
 came forward. 
 
 "Howd'y', Marse Stan?" and the black hand met 
 the white one in a friendly clasp. 
 
 "I's mighty glad you 's heah, sir. Miss Margret 
 was gettin' oneasy, an' little Miss Rue looked like she 
 knowed it."
 
 34 BABY RUE. 
 
 " How did you know I was ' oneasy,' Oscar? " 
 
 " Lord, mum, you never looked round when I rattled 
 things. I made a heap o' noise sounded like I broke 
 most everything on the table." 
 
 Leszinksky smiled at his wife, and loosened the 
 clutch of baby fingers from his mustache as he asked : 
 " Were you anxious, Margai'et? " 
 
 " Yes. You said you would be here to-day, and " 
 
 " I have spoiled you by my punctuality. I always 
 arrive before you have had time to wait. l" should have 
 done so to-day but for an unexpected meeting with 
 Carson at the upper ford. They have had a hard time 
 of it on the march from Bent's, and I stayed to help him 
 over with his wagons and sick people." 
 
 " I am so glad. Is he not coming to us? " 
 
 " Yes ; he has gone to headquarters to report, but he 
 will be here to supper in a few minutes. I hope } T OU 
 have enough for two hungry men, Oscar ? " 
 
 " Thar 's prairie chicken an' briled ham, an' two kinds 
 o' bread, an' waffles." 
 
 " That is enough ; the ham and waffles alone would 
 do for a soldier just from the plains." 
 
 " How far did you go, Stan? " 
 
 "Out to Castalar's ranch; we staj-ed there night 
 before last. I was so near I had to go and. thank them 
 for their kindness to 3'ou and the little one. And now 
 the debt is increased. Madame lias sent you a fresh 
 cow. "We brought the calf in the ambulance, so had no 
 difficulty." 
 
 "That is a welcome gift, more precious to baby 
 than silver or gold. But here comes our guest." 
 
 Together husband and wife hastened to greet Carson 
 in the hall-way, as Oscar opened the outer door. 
 
 Margaret and Carson had never met since the week 
 after her marriage. The slight but stateh" girl had now 
 the noble proportions and full roundness of mature 
 womanhood. For one beat Carson's pulse gave a great 
 throb of half pain, half delight, and then stilled with a 
 strange, new feeling in his heart, as Margaret gently 
 placed her child in his arms, saying : " Stan and 1 wish
 
 CAMP AND GARRISON. 35 
 
 you to be her godfather. We have waited for your 
 return. You were a brother to him in the old West 
 Point days. You are a brother to me : that night at 
 the Corcorans', when you told me what gave me to your 
 comrade, made me your sister." 
 
 She stopped a moment, then, seeing that the servant 
 was gone, and Leszinksky standing silent, with his face 
 turned from the firelight, she continued : "If she should 
 lose us, we give this child to your care ; }"ou will be her 
 guardian. Neither of us has any near relatives. She 
 would be entirely dependent on your protection, a 
 helpless little woman with none but you. My brother, 
 you have but one fault, but one weakness. Will you 
 give it up for the sake of a little child whose vows to 
 God you must make ? " 
 
 " Yes ! " with a half-choking sob in his voice. Evi 
 dently trying to master himself, he added brokenly : 
 " I know perfectl}' what }-ou mean. I disgraced my 
 self on the boat from Cincinnati to Cairo. I was 
 drunk." 
 
 " Oh, but it was after Stan was with me. When I was 
 dependent on your care " 
 
 " Certainty, I was not blackguard enough to drink 
 then, or to come near you ladies when I was drinking ; 
 but I was sure you. could not fail to know. But I 
 promise you now, holding in my arms this baby, who 
 will always be more precious to me than anything on 
 earth except }-our respect, your trust, that I will never 
 so disgrace nryself again." 
 
 As Carson stooped to kiss the child, she looked up at 
 him with that wonderful, far-away look of baby e}*es 
 which seems entangled with lost memories. 
 
 Leszinksky threw his arm over his friend's shoulder, 
 saying: "Thank God! Carson, I am selfishly glad. 
 Now I can meet the chances of a soldier's life without 
 fear. Wife and child will be safe in your care, if the 
 odds go against me." 
 
 " I think }-ou can trust me, Stan. I was true to you 
 when it was harder than this. I loved Miss Cartaret 
 from the first moment I ever saw her, and Margaret
 
 36 BABY RUE. 
 
 Leszinksky, or any one she cared for, could have my 
 life for the asking. Now you know it all." 
 
 He placed the child in Margaret's arms, and faced 
 Leszinksk}'. For an instant the two 3*oung men re 
 garded each other steadily, then Leszinksky extended 
 both hands, which Carson grasped and wrung hard. 
 Margaret had gone out of the room. 
 
 " I was stupidly blind, Carson. I did not know." 
 
 " I did not intend you should. I knew it was hope 
 less, even had she never known you." 
 
 "I do not know why you should think so. You are 
 the manliest fellow I ever knew. Any woman miglit 
 treasure, might be proud of your affection." 
 
 " Hush, Stan ! You always saw the best side of me. 
 There is another for the blackguards I find in the devil's 
 thoroughfares." 
 
 Christmas came, and baby Rucheil was made a Chris 
 tian. The first woman-child born to the Leszinksk}-s 
 since Marie of France bore the name of the Mahometan 
 wife of old King Stanislaus, the name inscribed in the 
 wedding ring worn by every bride who had come into 
 the line since the time of Janet Macdonald. It was of 
 Margaret's choosing. 
 
 "The child," she said, "is all Leszinksky, and 
 Rucheil was the name of the woman whose marriage 
 united the three dynasties of the ' lilies of Kabilovitsch.' 
 The name itself is an inheritance, and the first daughter 
 of the house should bear it." 
 
 So the Jewish Angel of the Air and the Winds was 
 the tutelary saint of the little maiden born on the 
 plains. 
 
 The pale, delicate, worn wife of Paul Castalar, the 
 ranchero, proved the true catholicitj 7 sometimes found in 
 the Roman Church by acceding to Margaret's request 
 to be the child's godmother. Carson, we know, was her 
 godfather. 
 
 A pagan ancestress, a Jewish name, a Catholic god 
 mother, held at the font in the arms of a hard-swearing, 
 young cavalryman, what will become of her? Ah!
 
 CAMP AND GARRISON, 37 
 
 she is a " Sunday's child," christened on Christmas. 
 Will not the special blessing of the old proverb follow 
 her? 
 
 The spotless bud of an Easter morning, consecrated 
 on the day of the Nativity, through change and suffering, 
 through the martyrdom of affections and hopes and 
 ambitions, though broken from the parent stem and 
 soiled with sin, the blessed dew of a fructifying repen 
 tance shall fall upon the bleeding flower, until the up 
 lifted chalice of the lily holds its purified sweetness in 
 the soft dawn of the Sun of Righteousness.
 
 38 BABY RUE. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Now will I show myself to have 
 More of the serpent than the dove. 
 
 MARLOWE. 
 
 THAT winter the regiment had a new experience, 
 a fierce outbreak of temper on the part of its 
 saint. 
 
 Leszinksky had gone with the colonel to settle some 
 dispute between two friendly Indian tribes. 
 
 Captain Hartley, left in command of the garrison, was 
 disliked by the officers and detested by the men. A 
 coxcomb and a martinet, selfish, cold, and haughty, 
 reasons for dislike were as plenty as blackberries. 
 
 Because of this unpopularit} 1 - Leszinksky had been 
 kind and polite, Margaret impressively hospitable. At 
 Leavenworth the high-spirited young subalterns, who 
 could not well brook his insolent assumption, would 
 turn away from the house if they saw him there, or if 
 there when he came would leave on some subtle pretext 
 that deceived no one. Carson, who now met him for 
 the first time, instinctively hated the man. Whether it 
 was the side of his character that led him to ',' the devil's 
 thoroughfares " that judged Hartley is a question for the 
 psj'chologist. At any rate, he judged more correctly 
 than Leszinksky. Margaret's judgment was valueless 
 in the case ; for we who know her know she would overrule 
 any estimate which declared against the friendless. So 
 it happened that the man in the garrison the least fit for 
 the companionship of a pure woman was a constant 
 visitor to the Leszinkskys. 
 
 Only one member of the family stood proof against
 
 CAMP AND GARRISON. 39 
 
 an}* approach" to friendliness. Baby Rue sturdily set 
 herself against Hartley. No blandishment, no bribe, 
 could win her, although her nurse, Margaret's pretty 
 quadroon maid, never wearied in effort to soften her 
 obstinate antagonism. 
 
 Carson was boyish enough in his dislike to encourage 
 the child's resistance to the captain's touch, her rejec 
 tion of his offerings. When Margaret remonstrated, 
 he was prudentby silent. To Leszinksky he said : 
 "Children, dogs, and roughs are the best judges of 
 character. I am glad Rue backs my opinion with her 
 dislike. Her mother never will see the bad in an}- one, 
 she is too thoroughly good to find it ; but Rue is an 
 outcrop of the old Leszinksky shoot. She knows a 
 blackguard, and, thank God, she scorns him. If she 
 did n't, with that devil's temper and obstinate will of 
 her's, if she grew friendly with Hartley, I should 
 be in fear and dread of her future. She is not the sort 
 that can touch pitch and not be defiled. Young as she 
 is, j-ou can only rule her through love. Damn it, why 
 do you wish her to like a cold-blooded scoundrel? " 
 
 " Carson, you are excited, and are letting your preju 
 dice warp your better nature. You know nothing 
 against Hartley, except the general dislike to his man 
 ner." 
 
 " His manner is the best of him, cool and C3'nicalty 
 insolent as it is. The man has n't a noble or generous 
 impulse in his composition. He is only honest in the 
 law's sense. I would trust him with my pocket-book, 
 if he knew I had counted the contents ; but I would n't 
 trust the heart of a woman or the honor of a man in his 
 long, slim, white hands. He's a low brute. I could 
 tell you, but you would only think it a prejudiced sus 
 picion " 
 
 Margaret's coming hushed the discussion, and Les 
 zinksky left for the Indian country without learning 
 more from Carson. That was early in February. 
 
 Three days after Leszinksky's departure a soldier 
 came to Carson's quarters at daybreak to say Mrs. 
 Leszinksky wished him to come to her as soon as pos-
 
 40 BABY RUE. 
 
 sible. In ten minutes more Carson was in the little 
 sitting-room, where he found onh- Baby Rue, sitting in 
 Oscar's lap, with the half-frightened look that a baby's 
 face sometimes wears in presence of a grief it can 
 not understand. She was rubbing her little rose-leaf of 
 a hand over the black cheeks, down which great tears 
 were rolling. Carson had knocked impatiently, and 
 then entered unnoticed. 
 
 " What is the matter, Oscar?" and the stout soldier's 
 voice trembled. 
 
 " It 's it 's Cap'in Hartley, an' because he 's a white 
 man an' I 's a black one I can't kill him in a far' fight." 
 
 Carson's heart stood still as he caught at a chair and 
 gasped, " Your mistress, where " 
 
 " She 's out 3 T onder in the cabin wid Lucy an' an' 
 his chile." 
 
 "What child?" 
 
 " HIS'N ! That 's why Lucy married me las' fall. I 
 was a fool not to suspec' somethin' when she change her 
 mind, after tellin' me so long she never was agoin' to 
 many anj'bocly. Lord ! Lord ! Marse Carson, when I 
 seed that chile this mornin', an' Miss Marg'ret a-ciyin' 
 over it, I wanted to kill Lucy an' it an' him. I 'd a-done 
 some desprit harm I know, fur I pushed Miss Marg'ret 
 away, an' hurt her when I cotched her arm ; but she 
 would n't let go o' me. She jis cotch the chile in her 
 bres' an' held it, an' stood between me an' Lucy an' 
 kep' say in', ' Oscar ! Oscar ! ' ' 
 
 " You did n't strike your mistress?" 
 
 " No, Marse Carson, I could n't a-done that never, 
 not even then, an' she so good an' pitiful ; but I 
 must a-hurt her ami when I tried to take the chile ; an' 
 now I 's mos' glad I did : for if I had n't a-hurted her, 
 I 'd a-killed somebody sho, that brung rue out o' the 
 fit like; an' she said, so steady an' sorrowful that I 
 could n't help but mind her, ' Rue is crying ; go keep 
 her until I come.' An' poor little Miss Rue was cryin' 
 hard until she see me so struck an' poorly, an' she jis 
 stop fur pity o' me." And the poor fellow hid his grief- 
 stained face in the child's frock.
 
 CAMP AND GARRISON. 41 
 
 Carson looked at the baby, who put out her hands to 
 him, her lip trembling with its pretty quiver of hurt 
 feeling. He bent over Oscar, saying, " Give Rue to 
 me ; she is frightened." 
 
 As he took the child, Oscar stood up and crossed his 
 arms over his breast, evidently trying hard to repress 
 the gasping sobs that would come. 
 
 " How do you know it was Hartley?" 
 
 " Thar was Mrs. O'Dowd, an' old Betty the cook, 
 with her all night. Miss Marg'ret sot up, an' I was in 
 heah with Miss Rue while her mother stayed out in the 
 cabin. The doctor had been heah, an' said Lucy was 
 doin' well, an' he 'd come agin early in the mornin'. 
 Miss Rue had waked an' cried, an' her mother had 
 come to her. I was makin' up the fire in the dinin'- 
 room, fur it was near mornin', an' the doctor would be 
 back to breakfas'. When the ole woman came to Miss 
 Marg'ret's room, I wanted to heah 'bout Lucy ; so I 
 kep' still, an' I heerd her tell Miss Marg'ret, ' De chile 
 is born, an' it 's a white chile.' I dunno what come 
 over me till Miss Marg'ret said, ' Lucy is nearly white.' 
 She laid Miss Rue in the cradle an' went out to the 
 cabin. I was in a maze like when I follered her. I 
 stopped a minute by the kitchen-door, an' the women 
 was talkin' together. One o' them said, ' It 's Captain 
 Hartley's chile ' ; an' I went on quick to the cabin. I 
 heerd Miss Marg'ret say, ' Lucy, I can forgive you ; 
 but Oscar' an' they seed me, an' Lucy screamed, an* 
 Miss Marg'ret jis turn white ; but she stood before them 
 two. I tole you 'bout all the res'. But, Marse Car 
 son, somehow I know I '11 kill that man yet." 
 
 The door opened and Margaret came in. She spoke 
 first to Oscar, 
 
 " Stay here." 
 
 Then taking her child from Carson, 
 
 " I sent for you to ask you to go with Oscar to Van 
 Buren, and send him from there to Memphis. He must 
 leave here at once. Stan will be gone three weeks, and 
 I dare not let him stay." 
 
 The negro broke in excitedly: "Tore God, Miss
 
 42 BABY RUE. 
 
 Marg'ret, I won't do any one heah any harm ! Not 
 Lucy, or even that chile. Don't sell me, mistis ! " 
 
 "I never thought of it, Oscar. Do you think your 
 Marse Stan could sell his foster-mother's child ? " 
 
 "But I hurtyow, Miss Marg'ret. 'Twill be mighty 
 hard fur Marse Stan to get over that." 
 
 " He will know, as I do, that you never intended harm 
 to me. But you must go to Memphis, Oscar, for your 
 own sake, for my sake. I should be constantl}* anxious 
 if 3*ou were here. You would not give me trouble if 
 you could help it; but I cannot be sure of your 
 patience." 
 
 " No, Miss Marg'ret, you can't. If I see that man, 
 I 's feared I '11 kill him." " 
 
 The light of hate in the bloodshot eyes gave emphasis 
 to the fear. Carson said only, 
 
 " I will be ready to go in an hour. Oscar, will you 
 promise to go with me quietly ? I do not want to tell 
 any one or take any one with me.'* 
 
 " Yes, sir ; I'll promise to be read}* an' wait fur you 
 quietly, an' I '11 go peaceably, 'cept the Lord puts him 
 in my hands. If he comes out 'fore we gets off, an' I 
 see him, I ain't ans'erable. I '11 kill him or he '11 kill 
 me." 
 
 Margaret, putting down the child, followed Carson to 
 the outer door, asking, " Can 3*011 take him alone? Had 
 3*ou not better have a guard ? He has the strength of 
 two ordinary men, and to-night he is mad with the 
 sting of his injury." 
 
 Carson looked into the naming blue eyes, and felt his 
 nerves tingle and his pulses thrill: " I do not need 
 a guard for Oscar more than for nrvself. If I meet 
 that scoundrel I think Oscar's chance at him will be 
 small. He has outraged Leszinksk}*^ trust and 3~our 
 hospitalit} 7 . He shall settle the account." 
 
 The angry flash was now at Carson. " My husband 
 can care for his cause and mine. I sent for a friend to 
 aid me in a difficulty. I did not think 3*ou rated me 
 so lightly that you would add fresh fuel to garrison- 
 gossip."
 
 CAMP AND GARRISON. 43 
 
 "I beg your pardon. You are right. You are 
 always right. I will not take a guard, but I will take 
 Oscar to Van Buren, and there. shall be no trouble 
 about it. I shall be here with an extra horse for him 
 in half an hour." 
 
 And before she could speak he was gone. In the 
 little sitting-room she found Oscar walking back and 
 forward with Rue in his arms. 
 
 ' ' Is she not asleep ? " 
 
 " Yes, 'um ; but I 's goin' away from her, an' I '11 miss 
 her sore. I's loved her an' carried her 'bout, an' 
 thought how my chile would play with her an' grow up 
 with her like Marse Stan an' me. An' now I 's got 
 nothin' but her, an' I 's got to leave her. An' to-night 
 she was sorry for me, Miss Marg'ret. Miss Marg'ret, 
 when a man makes a heaven like this was, a hell, 
 ought n't he to be killed? " 
 
 " God will judge him." 
 
 "But then God's so slow 'bout it. O Miss Rue, 
 little Miss Rue, don't forget poor Oscar ! " 
 
 He knelt down at her mother's feet and gave up the 
 baby. 
 
 "Don't cry, Miss Marg'ret. I'll go now all right. 
 I 's goin' to tell Lucy good-by. I won't hurt her nor 
 it : I promise you. You kin trus' me, mistis. You do, 
 don't you ? " 
 
 "Yes, Oscar. Come back at once. Get the things 
 you will want and come here." 
 
 In a short time he returned. Then came Carson, 
 refusing to wait for breakfast : they could get it at a 
 farm ten miles down the river. And in the rosy light 
 coming through the window Margaret looked in the face 
 of the first grief that had touched her hearthstone. 
 
 The blow had struck her pride and her affection. 
 The young wife had a shrinking sense of being soiled 
 with the shame that had befallen her household. Be 
 sides this, she loved Lucy. The memory of their first 
 meeting melted her to pity. Only a week from the day 
 her own mother was buried, sitting beside her father in 
 the cemetery of Hollywood, silent through sympathy
 
 44 BABY RUE, 
 
 with the strong man broken \>\ grief, she was roused 
 from the dead ache of her own sorrow by the plaintive 
 wail of a child standing alone in the tangled under 
 growth of a remote and neglected corner of the grounds. 
 She put her hand in her father's, saying, " Papa, over 
 there is a little girl all alone. She is crying so ! "We 
 must go to her." 
 
 Near the child they found a woman lying on the 
 sward, her head resting on a newly-made grave. When 
 questioned by Colonel Cartaret the child only moaned, 
 " Mamm} T , mammy ! " 
 
 He raised the woman's head and found her quite 
 dead, the soft brown cheek and tangled curling hair 
 lying in a little pool of blood. The dark stains on the 
 pale ashen lips told the story of the broken heart and 
 spent life. 
 
 That night Colonel Cartaret learned the history of 
 the dead mother. The next morning he bought the 
 child from the creditors of the estate of Larry Hoyt, the 
 gambler. The woman had been his slave, the child 
 was his daughter. A rough, a gambler, a murderer, 
 shot down on the street by the Ibrother of the man he had 
 killed, society gained by his death. Society gained ; 
 but the poor woman to whom he seemed a god in his 
 kindly, rugged strength and grand perfectness of tower 
 ing height and muscle, lost everything. He had bought 
 her from a man he had seen whipping her brutally. He 
 had held his fiery temper under control until the bargain 
 was made and the bill of sale, which it took his last 
 dollar to pay, was receipted. Then he thrashed her 
 late owner to a jelly. From that moment she never 
 had cause to shed a tear, until the death which demand 
 ed so many that they came in the swift rush of the 
 scarlet tide on which her soul floated away in search of 
 the lost. 
 
 Old Betty, coming in to ask for orders, changed the 
 current of Margaret's thought, which had stra}'ed into 
 the past. Oscar's departure made the little, every-day 
 things of life more difficult, and Margaret (remember 
 she was only a woman : the regiment, not the church,
 
 CAMP AND GARRISON. 45 
 
 had canonized her) added these petty irritations to her 
 account with Hartley. The household affairs arranged, 
 directions given as to Lucy's comfort, she added posi 
 tive orders to old Betty to be silent about the child and 
 Oscar's departure. She also demanded from Mary 
 O'Dowd a promise of discretion in speech. Then the 
 doctor came, but he was Margaret's ancient ally and 
 could be trusted. 
 
 Four days later Carson returned. He had seen Oscar 
 leave on the steamer for Memphis. Again Margaret 
 asked his absence. Would he please go to Leszinksky 
 and tell him all, and, if it was not too much out of the 
 way, would he go to Castalar's and ask Madame and 
 Stephanie to come and stay at least until Stan's 
 return ? 
 
 Carson was rather vexed at all these trivial errands, 
 when he would so much rather have sta}-ed at the gar 
 rison and found some pretext to have it out with 
 Hartley. His grumbling was to himself; his ready 
 acquiescence only was visible. He asked, through his 
 captain, leave of absence, which Hartley was only too 
 glad to give him ; for somehow he mixed Carson, in his 
 thought, with the late repulse^ he had met with at 
 Margaret's door. In place of the smiling and polite 
 Oscar, old Betty had answered his knock. To his 
 inquiry for her mistress, she answered civilly, but with 
 just a shade of defiant asperity in her manner : 
 
 " Miss Marg'ret is not berry well, and can't see no 
 company jis yet." 
 
 Carson disposed of, Margaret was ready for her next 
 move. She sent for the chaplain and Captain Moore. 
 Now, the chaplain was very well if these troubled 
 waters were to be stilled, but "fighting Ben Moore" 
 seemed the last man alive to choose for peacemaker, 
 with such a beautiful opportunity to take on his broad 
 shoulders some one's quarrel. 
 
 The guests were shown into the dining-room, where 
 they found the doctor. Old Betty was on guard in the 
 sitting-room, to keep out chance callers. Margaret did 
 not put in an appearance until her ally had opened the
 
 46 BABY RUE. 
 
 council and stated the case. After a time she entered, 
 looking very quiet and stately ; but there was a red flush 
 in her cheeks, a steely gleam in the blue, eyes, an electric 
 quiver in the voice, that half frightened the parson, 
 though it pleased Captain Ben hugely. 
 
 "Gentlemen, I wish to have this this difficult 
 matter settled, as far as it ever can be, before nry hus 
 band returns. The principal offender is his superior 
 officer ; the woman " here her voice quivered and 
 broke for an instant " the woman belongs to me. So 
 it will be better to settle this vexing question in his 
 absence." 
 
 " But, my dear," broke in good old Mr. Page, " do 
 3*ou not think it would be better more proper, more 
 delicate to leave such a such a scandal as still as 
 possible ? I am sure your husband would think it best. 
 He would see at once how disagreeable, how unpleasant, 
 it would be to make any disturbance about what cer 
 tainly is a very improper affair." 
 
 " Can you, Mr. Page, a good man like 3*011, a hus 
 band, a father, call this stain of a woman's soul, the 
 grief and pain of her husband, only an * improper 
 affair'? Why, you gave them the sacrament of mar 
 riage !" 
 
 " That's all very true, very right, from } r our stand 
 point ; but 3'ou must see, my dear Mrs. Leszinksky, 
 that circumstances modify guilt. With negroes it does 
 not do to expect too high a standard of morals, 
 too" 
 
 " From 3"our standpoint, Mr. Page, has God given 
 one gospel to the white man and another to the negro ? 
 How dare 3 - ou urge his commandments upon them if all 
 sanctity is taken away from their relations in life ? " 
 
 "I do not think, my dear madam, you exactly 
 understand. I am very pained at this at this sinful 
 affair ; but I do not think 3 T our husband would like 
 3'ou to do an3'thing that would bring upon you the cen 
 sure of the censorious or the ridicule of the light- 
 minded." 
 
 " If, as a minister of God, that is your judgment,
 
 CAMP AND GARRISON. 47 
 
 Mr. Page, then I must appeal to another standard. 
 Captain Moore, I ask you, as a gentleman and a soldier, 
 what you think would be my husband's feeling and 
 expression ? " 
 
 " I think Leszinksky will feel like holding Hartley to 
 account for betraying his hospitality, and insulting his 
 family with his low intrigue. I think Mr. Page is right 
 about the moral accountability of niggers ; but Hartley 
 has certainly failed in respect to you, he has acted in 
 an ungentlemanly and unofficer-like manner. It will 
 afford me much pleasure to tell him just what I think of 
 his conduct. I will take it as a great favor a most 
 flattering proof of your confidence in m}^ discretion 
 if you will permit me, in Leszinksky's absence, to settle 
 this matter with Hartley." 
 
 " That is just what I am about to do." 
 
 " Thank }-ou, my dear Mrs. Leszinksky. I will go at 
 once." And_the bold dragoon started up in a perfect 
 flutter of delight. 
 
 " No; not just jet, Captain. I have not given 3*011 
 instructions." 
 
 ' ' Instructions ? I do not need any. Wiry, my dear 
 madam, it is the simplest thing in the world. I will 
 just give him the facts and my opinion. Of course I 
 shall put that rather stronger than I can word it to a 
 lady. After, I will leave him to take the initiative in 
 in the settlement." 
 
 " You mistake, Captain Moore. I do not wish \ou 
 to have a duel with Captain Hartley : that would touch 
 my husband's honor. It is because I think this man 
 unworthy to cross swords with a gentleman that I wish 
 you to act prudently in the matter before my husband's 
 return. I trust 3-011 to be discreet and wise. I wish to 
 give Captain Hartley no opportunity to defend his 
 conduct. I will accept your intervention if A-OU give me 
 your word of honor to do and say only what I could do 
 or say were it possible for me to speak to the to 
 Captain Hartley." 
 
 " My dear madam, the conditions are rather hard. I 
 would much prefer going to him prepared to act as
 
 48 BABY RUE. 
 
 occasion might demand ; but if you make me }*our 
 ambassador, and require me to keep within the strict 
 line of instructions, I promise you I will not dot an i or 
 cross a t without your permission." 
 
 " Thanks. I wish you to deliver this note to Captain 
 Hartley, and bring me an answer. If he asks any 
 question, makes any comment, you will then say to him 
 that you have promised to enter into no discussion, to 
 do nothing but give the note and bring the answer. 
 Now please read the note aloud." 
 
 He read : 
 
 "CAPTAIN HARTLEY, You have a little daughter 
 at my quarters, the responsibility of whose bringing 
 up knowing her parentage I do not choose to 
 take. She is too young to separate from her mother, 
 even were I regardless of the tie of mother and child. 
 The child is yours, the mother was mine. I will sell 
 her to you at any price you may name. You are 
 from a free State, and can find a home there for 
 your child (who would else be a slave) and its mother. 
 The bill of sale includes mother and child, that there 
 may be no difficuhv^ in their manumission. 
 
 "MARGARET LESZINKSKY." 
 
 The three gentlemen regarded each other when the 
 reading was finished. Then Mr. Page cleared his 
 throat nervously, and began : 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Leszinksky, you are too young, too 
 inexperienced, to see what a scandal this will cause if 
 Captain Hartley accepts ; and if he refuses it would be 
 no better. As a Christian you have not thought of it 
 from a religious standpoint. Why, you actually separate 
 the woman from her husband to sell her to to her 
 partner in sin." 
 
 " Damn him ! Only a piece of goods he has dam 
 aged," muttered Captain Ben, in an aside to the 
 doctor. 
 
 The doctor hushed him with a gesture that caused 
 him to turn. Our sweet saint was trying hard to
 
 CAMP AND GARRISON. 49 
 
 master her temper ; but the old Adam had got the 
 better of the new dispensation. When she did reply to 
 Mr. Page the voice was low and clear, but the face was 
 the face of an avenging angel. 
 
 " I think, Mr. Page, you and our Judge up there " 
 and the slender white hand was raised as if in invoca 
 tion "would differ as to who is her husband. In 
 His ej'es it is not the honest black man, whose affection 
 was made a cloak to hide her seducer. The man who 
 tempted and betrayed Lucy persuaded her into this 
 wrong she has done Oscar. He trusted to Oscar's 
 loving patience, and, like you, thought a false morality, 
 a cowardly regard for conventionalities, would keep us 
 silent. Now that I have been forced to send away 
 Oscar, who is honest and true and lo}*al, shall this 
 man's child and mistress find shelter here? " 
 
 " No, certainly not: but it would cause less talk 
 it would be better to send her to New Orleans and sell 
 her there." 
 
 Then the storm burst. ' ' The Cartarets never were 
 negro traders, neither are the Leszinkskys. My father 
 bought the girl to give her the shelter of his home. 
 She was brought up with me. I despair of making you 
 understand me, gentlemen, if you cannot see the fitness, 
 the absolute necessity, of this offer to the father of 
 Lucy's child." 
 
 She turned to leave the room when Captain Ben 
 exclaimed, " Please stay, Mrs. Leszinksky ! The church 
 and the army differ in judgment. The church is con 
 servative, and fears scandal ; the army is radical, and- 
 would stamp it out. Now, 3'ou and the doctor 
 for I see he is your all}- have found a more Chris 
 tian course than the church, a more courageous way 
 than that of the code, a way of settlement that is 
 neither cowardly nor brutal. I am not generally a man 
 of peace ; but I am a convert to your idea. I will take 
 your note and bring the answer at once." 
 
 And the clinking of the dragoon's spurs was lost in 
 the distance. 
 
 Mary O'Dowd came to the door for Margaret. In a 
 4
 
 50 BAB Y RUE. 
 
 twenty-minutes' discussion the doctor convinced fearful 
 but good little Mr. Page that Margaret's cutting of the 
 Gordian knot was just what the parson had always 
 intended to advise, only in the saint's excited con 
 dition he had not been able to make his meaning 
 clear. 
 
 Captain Moore's embassy was less embarrassing and 
 more immediately successful than he had anticipated. 
 Captain Hartley could guess from the stiff, constrained 
 manner of the ordinarily frank, gay soldier the judg 
 ment of the regiment. Brave old Ben's face was a 
 barometer. Hartley read the signs, the bad-weather 
 gauge was past, they pointed to a cj'clone. 
 
 Though stung by the cool contempt of Margaret's 
 note, Hartley gladly accepted the least troublesome way 
 out of what he felt was a dangerous as well as a contemp 
 tible position. Mary O'Dowd had leaked. The very 
 night before Captain Moore's visit Hartley's Leporello 
 spent a bottle of bad whiske} 1 on Mike O'Dowd in the 
 detective service. Through two intense Irish imagina 
 tions the story had gained size and color. Oscar's out 
 break was magnified into a murderous assault upon 
 Lucy, her child, and his mistress ; wounds and bruises 
 to her defenders, Mrs. O'Dowd and old Betty ; and a 
 desperate fight with Carson. To that was added a 
 lugubrious picture of Oscar's departure for the traders' 
 block in New Orleans, fitted with handcuffs of the val 
 orous Mike's clasping. 
 
 The only question Captain Hartley hazarded to Mrs. 
 Leszinksky's ambassador was as to the monej" value of 
 " the lot " offered him. Mindful of his i-and- promise, 
 Captain Ben's reply was a masterpiece. 
 
 " I have no authority to discuss terms. I am not 
 prepared to make suggestions. I am only the bearer of 
 Mrs. Leszinksky's cartel. I don't know the price of 
 niggers. I never looked in the girl's mouth ; and the 
 young one, I take it, has no teeth." 
 
 Hartley laughed. At which Captain Ben turned red 
 as a turkey-cock, puckered his bland face in an effort to 
 frown, with his right hand pulled at his heavy drooping
 
 CAMP AND GARRISON. 51 
 
 mustache, whilst the left sought his sword-hilt. Hart 
 ley's laugh was hastily choked. Asking Captain Moore 
 to wait a few minutes, he said he would return with the 
 money and settle this at once. 
 
 He returned with a roll of bank-notes, wrote a line or 
 two, and gave roll and billet to Moore, who received 
 them without a word, gave a stiff salute, and was soon 
 in Margaret's council-chamber, where the doctor and 
 the parson waited. Mr. Page had made his peace with 
 Margaret. At her request, he counted the money. It 
 was two thousand dollars. 
 
 "It is the full value," observed the doctor. Mr. 
 Page held it toward Margaret. 
 
 " No ; I could never even touch that money. I wish 
 3'ou to keep it and invest it for Lucy. She will need 
 it. Now, sir, it is your duty to see to it that this man 
 sends her North and makes some provision for the 
 child." 
 
 The doctor suggested, " You have not read his 
 note." 
 
 It was : 
 
 " MRS. LESZIXKSKT : 
 
 " MADAM, I retain the receipted bill of sale, and send 
 you two thousand dollars. I have no words in which to 
 offer you excuse or apolog}*. I can only obey your in 
 timated wish : I will manumit Lucy as soon as she is 
 able to go North. Respectfully, 
 
 " W. HARTLEY." 
 
 Mr. Page rubbed his hands, and said, in a feeble, 
 palliative tone : " I think he wants to repair his offence, 
 to do what is right." 
 
 To which the doctor responded : " It was his best 
 way out of it. He is selfish enough to see what is good 
 for him." 
 
 Margaret was silent, which argued badly for her 
 temper. A woman is only silent at white heat. 
 
 Somehow the story got wind. (Possibly Mr. Page 
 told his wife ?) The garrison gossips waited anxiously
 
 52 BABY RUE. 
 
 for new developments. There was a constant flutter of 
 femininities in Mrs. Leszinksky's little cottage, though 
 no one exactly dared question her. Every one was in 
 awe of the saint in her anger ; and ah 1 knew she had 
 shown temper. (Mr. Page must have told his wife.) 
 There were lounging masculine groups constantly about 
 the parade-ground in front of Margaret's door. Mike 
 O'Dowd wore an air of mj'ster}- and importance, and 
 would come at all hours to the kitchen-gate, calling in 
 a tragic whisper to Mary, as if there were a corpse in 
 the house. 
 
 There is no use to try to stifle or conceal the truth : 
 our saint was in a rage. a rage which all these prickles 
 made explosive. She would have kept her anger hid 
 den in her own house but for these prying, persistent, 
 kindly-enough-meaning intruders. So one evening she 
 appeared on parade-ground at the hour of drill. 
 
 Hartley was stupid enough to misunderstand her ap 
 pearance. He walked up to the group of ladies, and 
 commenced a half-spoken " Mrs. Leszink " when she 
 turned on him, with eyes flashing and cheeks aflame. 
 A moment's hesitation, and the hastily-closed hand un 
 clasped. She could not give the lie to all the traditions 
 of those stately Virginian ladies whose blood was in her 
 veins ; but she would not recognize as an acquaintance 
 a man for whom she had no feeling but contempt. So, 
 looking at him steadily until his eyes dropped before 
 the clear, pure light of hers, she turned without a word, 
 and left him. Captain Ben and even' young subaltern 
 uncovered as she passed. Not one did she fail to recog 
 nize : she intended to make the difference seen and felt. 
 They would have cheered her if they had dared. Hart 
 ley's brow darkened : the evil in the man was forever 
 set against the saint who had scorned him before men's 
 eyes. 
 
 Before Leszinkskj* returned, Lucy and her child were 
 gone. Captain Hartley had given Mike O'Dowd a fur 
 lough. Margaret's bitterness (for the saint's anger 
 had not altogether subsided), was somewhat sweetened 
 by the thought that the poor girl would have the
 
 CAMP AND GARKISON. 53 
 
 kindly care of the O'Dowds to Cincinnati. Mr. Page 
 had arranged, with a friend who lived there, half-yearly 
 payments of the interest of the purchase-money. As 
 the receipts must come back, Lucy would not altogether 
 drift into the unknown.
 
 54 BABY RUE. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE prince of darkness is a gentleman. 
 
 MARLOWE. 
 
 HARTLEY'S manner was so changed for the better, 
 he was so guardedly courteous in his general 
 demeanor, so modestly generous in the arrangements 
 made, through Mr. Page and the doctor, for Lucy's 
 journey, that he began to win partisans in the garrison. 
 Women, who had hitherto hidden their jealousy of our 
 saint, now " let slip the dogs of war." All admitted 
 that " the painful fact had been a glaring indiscretion " 
 (the expression and the emphasis were the parson's), but 
 Hartle} T 's after conduct, his defenders [ !] claimed, was 
 unexceptionable. Moreover, in a gossip-loving little 
 garrison, Margaret's silence and reserve offended. Little 
 by little, envy and jealously found tongue. At length one 
 feminine critic hazarded the remark that Mrs. Leszink- 
 sky had been " negligent in the supervision of her 
 household, and then unjust in her anger." 
 
 The blank look of astonishment in the face of Cap 
 tain Ben, who was one of her auditors, caused a hastily 
 added, " But she is so young and has been so spoiled, 
 we all excuse her." 
 
 Then the bold dragoon found words: "Very good 
 of you all, I am sure, to excuse her for Hartley's 
 misconduct. By JoA r e, I begin to believe the more 
 thorough a blackguard a man is, the more sure is he 
 of defence from the sex he insults ! A }*ear ago that 
 fellow had n't a friend in the regiment, whilst now, 
 since he has betrayed the hospitality of the house that
 
 CAMP AND GARRISON. 55 
 
 was opened to him because of his friendlessness, you 
 women take him up and make of him a sort of pattern 
 sample of suffering virtue." 
 
 Before the smoke of his hand-grenade had blown 
 away, Captain Ben retired in good order, disregarding 
 the scattering shot fired in his rear. 
 
 Notwithstanding the feminine verdict which " recom 
 mended to mere}'," the officers of the garrison in a 
 courteously cool way sent Hartley to Coventr}*. The 
 jovial Florida veteran and the beardless graduate of 
 West Point stiffened into a rigid politeness which was 
 not unbent in his presence. 
 
 I do not wish the reader to understand that the 1st 
 Regiment of dragoons were unswerving find incorruptible 
 moralists. I regret, as a truthful historian, to be forced 
 to say they fell very far short of such perfection. But 
 they were gentlemen in the main. Graft a gentleman 
 into the army, and to the fearless honesty of the soldier 
 is added a finer quality, a chivalric clairvoj'ance, quick 
 and true in its recognition of right, its reverence for 
 purity. It was this that had shrined Margaret in the 
 heart of the regiment, and made devout worshippers of 
 these caval^men of facile manners and ( I am sorry to 
 record it) loose virtue. 
 
 In meeting the difficulties of his position Hartley 
 proved superior to the estimate heretofore made of his 
 abilit}'. With wonderful adroitness he had turned the 
 move of his antagonist to his own advantage. His instant 
 acceptance of Margaret's offer ; his ready acquiescence 
 in every proposal made by Mr. Page ; the respectful 
 attention given to every suggestion of the doctor ; the 
 tact and foresight with which all arrangements were 
 made for the quiet and unobserved departure of the 
 O'Dowd travelling party, won open compliment from 
 Mr. Page, reluctant approval from the doctor, and 
 fierce oaths from Captain Ben, whose antagonism was 
 growing more and more pronounced as Hartley untan 
 gled the meshes of the net into which he had fallen. 
 
 Many who had hitherto hesitatingly excused, now 
 openly defended Hartle}'. Others were willing to ignore
 
 56 BABY RUE. 
 
 the offence in consideration of the changed manner of 
 the man. The doctor, certainly the shrewdest analyst 
 who observed him, regarded curiously, and with no 
 slight admiration, the ease with which Hartley turned 
 every incident to his advantage in his battle with opin 
 ion, until he finally plucked " the flower safety from the 
 nettle danger." 
 
 Late in the evening after Leszinksky's arrival, Mar 
 garet sat in the little sitting-room alone with Baby Rue. 
 Madame Castalar and her daughter had been sent for, 
 and had returned to the ranch two days before. Cap 
 tain Ben and Mr. Page had both been sometime with her 
 husband in his smoking-den across the hall ; now they 
 too were gone, and the doctor alone was there. She was 
 anxious and nervous. She had tried in all ways to tell 
 the story of the last few weeks to her husband, without 
 exciting him to anger. She had done what she could 
 in his absence. It was something, in her excited state, 
 to remember his solemn smile of approval as he read 
 the copy she had kept for him of her letter to Hartley. 
 But she had been interrupted before she could win from 
 him his determination as to his own course of action. 
 It was late : she wished the doctor would go, but there 
 came a knock at the door. She heard her husband 
 answer it. Shiveringly she recognized Hartley's voice. 
 How slowly the minutes dragged ! She bent over her 
 baby's cradle and thought of her own orphanage. She 
 had unbounded trust in her husband, but he was a sol 
 dier, and in those days men stood face to face in deadly 
 encounter with far less cause than Hartley had given. 
 
 Then, for the first time in all those trying weeks, her 
 courage failed, failed as her anger burnt out, and the 
 Christian remembered she had not forgiven the sinner 
 who had injured her. Prostrate beside her child's cradle, 
 she prayed for forgiveness, for the life of her husband, 
 and also that he might do no murder, that her pride of 
 heart might not be visited on him. Who dare say the 
 Great White Throne is not reached by such pra}-ers? 
 
 To Margaret an answer came. Her husband's arms 
 were around her. From his lips came the praj'er of all
 
 CAMP AND GARRISON. S7 
 
 pra}-ers, and the words, "Forgive us our trespasses 
 as we forgive those who trespass against us," told her 
 that her fear was needless. 
 
 Of his interview with Hartley, Leszinksky told no 
 one. The doctor also was silent, but Hartley, meeting 
 Captain Ben with Mr. Page next day, said : 
 
 "Moore, I know you think me a scoundrel: for the 
 past your judgment is correct, but do not judge me now 
 for the future. The truest gentleman of you all is 
 Leszinksky : I saw him last night, and old King Stanis 
 laus himself could not have forgiven me more royally."
 
 PART n. 
 
 MOUNT HOPE. 
 
 No cord or cable can draw so forcibly, or bind so fast, as love can 
 do with only a single thread. 
 
 LORD BACON.
 
 PART H. 
 
 MOUNT HOPE. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 WHO everjoved that loved not at first sight ? 
 
 MARLOWE. 
 
 MARCH was going out like a lamb. The air was 
 soft and warm as it swept up the valley from the 
 south, laden with the faint, sweet odours of the early 
 spring ; the sky overhead a tender blue, flecked with 
 tiny, white cloudlets. At the horizon's verge it banked 
 in misty, gray rifts, that were lost in the deeper shades 
 of the pine-clad peaks and broken chain of the Blue 
 Ridge. From cleft and ravine, from jutting spur and 
 mountain-top, little rivulets came dancing into the val- 
 le}^, threads of silver on the mountain-side, bur 
 nished steel in the meadows, with the dark-blue sheen 
 of a Damascus blade as they gurgled over rocky beds 
 in the forest, at last all their wild beauty and glad life 
 lost in the rolling, yellow waters of the Hardware, that 
 wound in serpentine coils through the county of Albe- 
 marle to its confluence with the James. The valley is 
 some thirty miles in extent, with a northern and 
 western boundary of mountains, while to the south and 
 east stretch the long, rising swells which finally grow 
 sharp and well-defined in the hills on the southern 
 bank of the James that mark the beginning of the Pied 
 mont range. 
 
 On a knoll which from its solitary situation seemed a 
 lost spur of the mountains stood an old-fashioned frame 
 house, with a wide hall that divided, and verandas that
 
 62 BABY RUE. 
 
 surrounded it. Ever}'thing in its appearance told of de 
 cay and changed fortune. On one side the roof of the 
 veranda had fallen, hastened to its doom by the clinging 
 weight of a tangled Virginia creeper, that now shrouded 
 with glossy leaves and tender green shoots the ruin 
 it had wrought. The blurred gray and blue color 
 that had succeeded the worn and weather-stained white 
 paint deepened the artistic effect. The house fronted 
 south, where the ascent was easy and gradual, through 
 an avenue of old Lombard}' poplars, their topmost 
 branches palsied and dying. On the north side the 
 knoll was broken to a sharp, bold cliff, and against 
 its base the Hardware chafed and fretted when a 
 spring freshet gave it strength for attack. From the 
 top of this cliff to the north veranda, there had once 
 been a succession of wide terraces ; but these were now 
 broken and irregular, overgrown with myrtle and peri 
 winkle that had crowded out the less hardy plants, 
 though here and there the blue 63*68 of violets gleamed 
 from their hiding-places as the wind played through the 
 leaves. 
 
 The view from the terraces was one of the most rest 
 ful and beautiful in that restful and beautiful county of 
 Albemarle. It overlooked the rich valley of the north 
 ern bank of the Hardware with its carpet-like furrows, 
 where later the waving corn and broad-leaved tobacco 
 would ripen in the sun. Beyond this were sloping hill 
 sides, where woodland, orchard, and clearing revealed 
 some modest home ; or else steeple-like chimneys, 
 stately trees, far-stretching grain-fields told the pres 
 ence of some old manor-house. Back of all curved that 
 cloud-touched ridge of wonderful, deep-sea blue. 
 
 On the west side, half-hidden by the gnarled boughs 
 of an old orchard, was the kitchen. Lower down the 
 hillside were three or four dilapidated negro cabins, 
 where the "truck-patches" already planted showed 
 some signs of life. Still lower, at the very base of the 
 hill, near the river, were the " folks' quarters," now 
 only a deserted village. It was evident, from all signs, 
 that the Masons of Mount Hope were so nearly
 
 MOUNT HOPE. 63 
 
 obliterated that they would be swept away in the surg 
 ing rise of another generation. 
 
 On the south porch, seated in an old splint-bottomed 
 easy-chair, was the last of a line of Virginian gentle 
 men whose progenitor had fought with Prince Rupeit. 
 A stately negress stood near, arranging on a little table 
 her master's noon-day meal. The white cloth and beau 
 tiful old china, the appetizing odour of the chicken broth, 
 the golden butter and clear honey, the snowy bread and 
 rich milk, would have charmed an epicure ; but noth with 
 standing the kindly yet respectful insistence of his at 
 tendant, Judge Mason ate but little, turning from time 
 to time an expectant look down the avenue. 
 
 " Sara, it is time that Abram was back with the 
 mail." 
 
 " I dunno, marster. Brown Bess can't travel like 
 she used to ; an' if de stage ain't come by Dr. Carter's 
 3'et, Daddy '11 wait. He knows you mus' have a letter 
 to-day." 
 
 "I have not many days to wait in, Sara; but I 
 know Stan too well to doubt they will come. If he can 
 not get leave to come himself, he will send his wife and 
 child, that I may bless them, and tell Mary I have seen 
 them." 
 
 ' ' Lord ! marster, you '11 get well now. You 's a heap 
 sight better since de weather's turn. Dese wahm days 
 jis puts new life in us all. An' if Miss Marg'ret an' de 
 baby stay all summer, Marse Stan mus' come fur 'em ; 
 an' mebby den dey '11 stay fur good." 
 
 " No, Stan cannot resign. I would not ask it ; I do 
 not wish it. But God knows how my heart yearns to 
 see my Mary's boy before I go to her ! " 
 
 The rapid patter of bare feet was heard on the west 
 veranda, and a .young negro boy came flying around the 
 corner, fairly shrieking: "Oscar's a comin' froo de 
 near way wid Marse Stan's little pickaninn} r ! He brung 
 her straight frum de stage by de near path. Doctor 
 Carter 's sendin' Marse Stan an' young mistis in his 
 buggy an' grandaddy 's wid dem. Heah he is ! Heah 's 
 Oscar now ! "
 
 64 BABY RUE, 
 
 Before they had roused from the stupor produced by 
 this announcement, Oscar was on the veranda, with 
 Baby Rue in his arms. He wrung his mother's hand 
 hastily, who broke from his grasp to extend both hands 
 for the child. 
 
 " God bless her, Marse Stan's baby ! Give her to 
 me, Oscar." 
 
 " No ! Old marster first" ; and he held her toward 
 the old man. 
 
 " Heah she is, sir, Marse Stan's chile. An' her 
 mother 's as good as good as Miss Mary was. They 
 started jis as soon as they heard you was poorly, sir ; 
 an' they ain't stopped day nor night till we 's heah." 
 
 "Baby darling! My Mary's little granddaughter! 
 Blessed be God, that he has let me live to look on your 
 face ! " and the venerable old man took the j-oung child 
 in his arms. 
 
 She first looked wonderingly at him, then smilingly at 
 Oscar, after which, with a little, tired sigh (for she was 
 worn with the long, rapid walk through the fields), she 
 laid her head on her grandsire's shoulder, and slept. 
 
 When the others arrived the long, scant, white locks 
 rested softly on the deep gold rings that crowned the 
 baby head. 
 
 Here, O reader, is the proper time and place to intro 
 duce to you more particularly our heroine, the child 
 whose changing fortunes you and I shall follow together ; 
 the woman, yet in embryo, whose personality is so 
 strongly marked that her intimate acquaintances have 
 already learned its characteristics. We have heard 
 Carson define her. We know how persistent Captain 
 Hartley found her dislike. Oscar has felt the sweetness 
 of her sympath}', and in his grateful fervor has devoted 
 his life to her service. Her father, with what justice the 
 future will prove, calls her the "young voyvode." 
 Whilst our saint sometimes looks with a sort of pitiful 
 awe into the gray depths of the clear eyes which flash 
 and lighten with a weird consciousness of something we
 
 MOUNT HOPE. 65 
 
 are too far off to fathom. Is it the Past, crying its memo 
 ries to the soul that is escaping from a riven shell, or 
 the gathering of lost elements that have at length de 
 veloped new power to force themselves into visible form 
 and shape? 
 
 All about the child have already learned that neither 
 force nor restraint will tame her. To pain she is resist 
 ant, not submissive, with a queer, baby stoicism that 
 makes outcry rare. Obeying with perfect docility a re 
 quest, she is imperturbably obstinate to a command ; 
 taking with absolute insistence from a hand she dis 
 likes the least of her possessions, she is recklessly prodi 
 gal of gifts to one she loves. A wonderful instance of 
 heredity, this child, whose triune nature has come to her 
 through the ages from the Lechzynczski-Kabilovitsch, 
 intensified by change and reaction from change. She 
 has not a feature, not a trace, of the mother who bore 
 her. How could she? Margaret's utter abnegation of 
 self made of her the susceptible and impressionable 
 mould that nursed to life this reincarnation of the race 
 from which her king had sprung. 
 
 From the moment of her arrival at Mount Hope there 
 was the closest friendship, the most perfect understand 
 ing, between Baby Rue and her great-grandfather. The 
 imperious child ruled the gentle old man with a royal 
 kindliness. He was her playmate, her slave ; but he 
 had full pa3'ment for service. Bountiful!}' she gave him 
 an overflowing measure of affection. Her father, here 
 tofore chief favorite, was second to his grandsire. The 
 extremes of four generations and opposite tempera 
 ments had touched, and flashed into instant recognition 
 and affection through that magical magnetism which, for 
 want of truer definition, we call the instinct of blood. 
 For the old man this baby had blotted out two genera 
 tions, and seemed his very own, the child of his loins. 
 
 In the second week of her stay he made his will, and 
 named her heiress of Mount Hope. He had the less 
 scruple in so doing, as her mother's large estate, in a 
 dozen subdivisions, would make any other children that 
 might come far richer than his heiress. But, barren and 
 
 5
 
 66 BAB Y RUE. 
 
 in half- ruin as the place was, it was the manor-house of 
 the Masons, and so a fit gift for his darling. He half- 
 apologized to his grandson for his choice of legatee ; but 
 " King Stan," in his grand manner, thanked Judge Ma 
 son for the love that singled out as his heiress the first 
 daughter of the Leszinkskys. 
 
 In her last week, April took payment from March for 
 the days she had lent. A fierce wind blew from the north 
 east, driving in gust} r swells a beating, cold rain. The 
 Hardware was up and over its banks. Mount Hope 
 had its most sombre and gloomy look. The windows 
 rattled ; and the rising and falling tones of the storm had 
 for accompaniment the sound of the swollen waters that 
 surged and whirled around the rocks at the base of the 
 cliff. 
 
 In a lofty chamber that had once been the drawing- 
 room, the last of the Masons of Mount Hope lay dying. 
 During the warm days Judge Mason had rallied, but with 
 the first breath of the storm a change had come ; and 
 now the Leszinksk}-s knew that before another day the 
 blessed rest of death would settle on the 63'es that had 
 wept and watched and waited so long. The angel of 
 deliverance was at the door. 
 
 About four in the afternoon the clouds lifted in the 
 west, and a rich yellow light flooded the room. The 
 rain and the rush of waters were still heard, but over the 
 western horizon the bow of promise spanned the blue 
 arch. The warmth, the light, roused the d^-ing. He 
 looked for an instant at the faces that surrounded him, 
 and then said in 'a low but distinct voice : 
 
 " And the bow shall be in the cloud ; and I will look 
 upon it, that I may remember the everlasting covenant 
 between God and every living creature of all flesh that is 
 upon the earth." Then the tired hands folded in bless 
 ing upon the baby's head, the tired ej-elids closed ; and 
 with a low, faint sigh a soul passed into the presence of 
 the Great Teacher, to give an account of the lessons 
 learned in the flesh.
 
 MOUNT HOPE. 67 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 BUT on and up, Avhere Nature's heajjfc 
 Beats strong amid the hills. 
 
 MILNES. 
 
 THE departure of the Leszinksk3-s from Mount 
 Hope was hurried by the sudden illness of Baby 
 Rue. Meaningly she would put out her hands to be 
 taken from room to room, evidently in search of her lost, 
 playmate. Oscar's most subtle wiles to attract her out 
 into the grounds were unavailing. A peculiar, pretty 
 way she had of asking, with a wave of her open hand, 
 and a pathetic quiver of the lip, always brought the faith 
 ful fellow back to their ever-failing quest. A letter from 
 Carson decided the immediate return of the Leszink- 
 skys to the garrison. (Leszinksky had thought of 
 leaving Margaret and Baby Rue at the White Sulphur 
 Springs.) The last page of his epistle was : 
 
 " Hartley has resigned, and has gone to Kew York, 
 where he has inherited the savings of a miserly uncle, 
 who was in the American Fur Company. Chance al 
 ways favors a scoundrel. He a millionaire, whilst 
 honest fellows like 3*011 and me live on the pitiful pay 
 this grateful country allows the poor devils who get 
 hashed on the frontiers that peltries may be accumu 
 lated ! 
 
 "I see but one good in Hartley's windfall, 3~ou 
 can bring Oscar back with 3-011. He, too, poor fellow, 
 must bear the chafing of a fretful sore that the gentleman 
 ma3' have his pleasure. I am more orthodox than I 
 used to be in the West Point days when sister Mary 
 grieved over my heresies. I believe now in a hell,
 
 68 BAB Y RUE. 
 
 and a hot one ; for there are villains loose here who are 
 fit for no other finish, they were predestined from all 
 eternity to be damned ! I 'm going to squeeze through 
 Saint Peter's gate, if it rubs off all m}' pet sins, for the 
 pleasure of seeing them ordered the other road. 
 
 " However, since Judge Cartaret's recent marriage 
 with Hartley's sister, Mrs. Leszinksky may not like even 
 truths said of her new connections, though I fancy 
 she will not be anxious to include Hartley in the rela 
 tionship. 
 
 "But I have something better than all this to tell 
 you : Castalar was in last week, and he has traded his 
 warehouse at Van Buren for Bouie's pretty little place 
 on the hills. There were logs already hewn for a new 
 addition to the house, and the day after the purchase 
 Castalar had a ' raising.' The new house is well built, 
 and is now three rooms deep each side of a wide hall, 
 with outside kitchen and cabins in good order. The 
 situation is as healthful as it is pretty. Now for the 
 conclusion of my story : Castalar wishes you to live 
 there. He will make a lease for as long as you like, 
 the only condition being that when Madame Castalar or 
 her daughter needs change the} r may come to }~ou. 
 Stephanie is very delicate, and the doctor advises her 
 to stay here during the spring and fall, to avoid the 
 river malaria at the ranch. I knew Mrs. Leszinksky 
 would be glad to have them, so I promised that you 
 would accept. 
 
 " All ' Ours ' are helping to get things in order. Cas 
 talar begs 3'ou to come ' home ' soon. By the first of 
 May all will be ready. Some of us will meet 3-011 at 
 Van Buren with the ambulance and baggage- wagon." 
 
 Preparations already begun at Mount Hope for the 
 break-up, were now more hurried. An offer for the 
 place, on a ten j'ears' lease, for a boarding-school, was 
 accepted. The few servants left were given their choice 
 of being hired at Mount Hope or going with the Leszink- 
 skys. Uncle Abram, the patriarch of the tribe, had 
 packed his belongings for the trip to the Indian Territory 
 some da}-s -before this announcement. When the calm
 
 MOUNT HOPE. 69 
 
 and stately Sara suggested that he had better await 
 " Marse Stan's " decision, he said : 
 
 " My ole 'oman went to de New Geruzlum las' fall ; 
 an' now ole marster 's done follered her, I ain't no kashun 
 to stay at Mount Hope. Whar Marse Stan goes I 
 goes ; whar Miss Marg'ret lives I wants to live. Wh}', 
 don't yer see her a-wearin' dat haht I guv her, dat 
 Marse Stan cut, sot in pure gole? Ef I was sure an' 
 sartin dat de Injins would take my ole skullp, like 
 Oscar says dey do take 'em, I 'd go all de same. I 
 can't risk dem young folks to take keer ob demselves no 
 longer ; an' Oscar ain't got no prudent sort o' sense. 
 Now, Sara, you mout be some use. You's a-gwine, 
 ain't yer ? " 
 
 " Yes ; if Marse Stan '11 take me an' my boys." 
 
 "In course, he'll take you all. What else is he 
 gwine ter do? You didn't think he'd sell any ob de 
 Mason folks, did yer?" 
 
 " Ole marster's debts ain't all paid yet. Mebby he '11 
 have to sell some on us." 
 
 " No, he won't have to do no sich thing, an' Miss 
 Marg'ret so rich ! " 
 
 "Yes; but, Dadd}', I heerd ole marster say Miss 
 Marg'ret guv up all to marry Marse Stan. Leastwise, 
 she can't get nuthin' fur a long time. Her chillun '11 be 
 rich sometime." 
 
 " Den, why did n't ole marster leave Mount Hope to 
 Marse Stan, an' not to dat little pickaninny?" 
 
 "Mebby 'twas because ole marster knowed dat 
 Marse Stan would sell de place sooner 'n sell an}* on us. 
 I 's. mightily 'fraid some on us mus' go to pay de 
 debts." 
 
 " We ain't a-gwine to be sold to pay no debts," said 
 Sara's youngest son, looking with a sharp twinkle of his 
 bead}', bright e}*es at his mother. 
 
 " How you know so much? Whar you git so 
 smart ? " 
 
 " I wuz in de sittin'-room las' night playin' wid de 
 baby, an' I heerd Miss Marg'ret an' Marse Stan fix up 
 all 'bout us all."
 
 7O BABY RUE. 
 
 "How dar 1 you listen at de white folks, }'er lim'? 
 Ef }'ou heerd so much, I s'pose you kin tell what dey is 
 gwine ter do ? " 
 
 " Dey 's gwine to rent de place to de Miss Minors fur 
 a skool, an' hire dem Uncle Abe, cos he kin stay heah 
 an' go like he does now mos' ebery night to Doctor 
 Carter's to see Aunt Sukey an' de chilltm. Miss Mar- 
 g'ret say dat would pay de intruss, an' arter a while, 
 when she got her money, she would pay de res' of it fur 
 little Miss Rue." 
 
 ' ' I knowed 't was de Lord send her when I guv her 
 her dat haht!" exclaimed Uncle Abram. "I knowed 
 she was de angel ob deliberance to dis bankrupped 
 place. I's more sot den eber on gwine to de New 
 Geruzlum straight from whar she 's a-livin'. I '11 want 
 to tell ole marster jis whar de}* is." 
 
 A few daj's later the choice was offered Uncle Abram 
 and Sara that Solomon (the j'oung scamp was not 
 badly named) had foretold. Abram the second stayed 
 in the land of his wife ; whilst the patriarch, his daughter 
 Sara, Oscar, and the younger boys followed the fortunes 
 of their "Marse Stan."
 
 PART III. 
 
 BOUIE'S HILL. 
 
 THE web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together. 
 
 SHAKSPERE.
 
 PART HI. 
 
 BOUIE'S HILL. 
 
 CHAFfER X. 
 
 " Then he will talk good gods ! how he will talk ! " 
 
 NATHANIEL LEE. 
 
 AT Bouie's Hill, two miles from Fort Gibson, on a 
 hot, cloudless day in June, sat Uncle Abram, on 
 a mossy bank at the foot of the hill, looking -with justi 
 fiable pride at the work he had that morning completed. 
 It was a handsome new gate, opening into the hillside 
 orchard where the road wound back and forth in its 
 gradual ascent to the house, a gate easily opened by 
 the driver of any conveyance without descending from 
 his -seat. The weights and pullej's worked perfectly, as 
 Solomon, who had just brought his grandfather's din 
 ner, proved by repeated trials. The old gate had been 
 a sore grievance to Uncle Abram ever since his arrival 
 at Bouie's Hill. Brown Bess had been left in Virginia 
 to end her days in the home paddock ; so the mount of 
 the patriarch was a fractious mule, a mule capable 
 of a resistance to persuasion equalled only by its dis 
 regard of blows. 
 
 Mules and negroes, in their perfect adaptability to 
 one another, do somehow arrive at an understanding by 
 which the} T measure the necessary duration of their 
 contests. The}- learn to gauge perfectly the length of 
 time a well-bred mule demands before consenting to do 
 the will of an ii'ate African. But this mule and Uncle 
 Abram were either too new to each other or else ill- 
 matched in the ordinary mule-and-uegro requirements.
 
 74 BABY RUE. 
 
 Tinker no stress of compulsion would this hybrid come 
 near the gate without backing at every effort to open it 
 made by the luckless rider. In these daily contests 
 Uncle Abram had never been conqueror. To escape 
 the humiliation of repeated defeat, he had now made a 
 gate the successful working of which was to bring him 
 triumph. Solomon skilfully won permission for each 
 new trial of the chef d'ceuvre by compliments to his 
 grandfather's skill and defiance of his adversary. 
 
 "Hi! but it work s'purb. Dat mule can't holp 
 hisself now ; he jis 'bleeged to cum froo widouten a 
 fuss. Golly ! ain't he gwine to be might}' mad ? Hit 's 
 de very fines' gate I ever seed. Why, de white folkses 
 won't know de place w'en de}" cum back. Dere ain't 
 nuftin like it out here in Rackinsaw. Hit's mos' like 
 ole Firginny." 
 
 " Yer done pull at dat gate long nuff, Solomon. Go 
 right straight to de house an' holp Mead get things 
 ready befo' de folks cum." 
 
 Solomon, looking around for an excuse to linger 
 where he was, caught sight of two horsemen coming up 
 the ravine through which the creek wound its sinuous 
 course to the river, and answered : " Laws ! gran'daddy, 
 dere cum Marse Stan now, an' one dem hossifers frum 
 de fote wid him. I better show him how to open dis 
 gate 'fore I go." 
 
 " Your Marse Stan done open gates like dat befo' 
 yon was bawn. Dey'll want some dinner. He's been 
 two weeks now out in de Injin country, an' I spec he 's 
 mos' starved. You jis' run, yer lim', an' tole Mead to 
 hurry all he can 'bout dar dinner." 
 
 The reluctant Solomon turned slowly, casting from 
 time to time longing looks of curiosity at the party now 
 within the gate, then, thinking the next best thing he 
 could do was telling the news, he hurried on to Mead. 
 
 " Howd'y', Uncle Abram? Why, this looks like the 
 old days at Mount Hope," said Leszinksky, as he 
 caught the ring, made of an old horse-shoe, that opened 
 the gate. " I am glad you can show Captain Moore 
 some of our Virginia inventions."
 
 BOUIE'S HILL. 75 
 
 He then shook hands heartily, as he came through 
 the gate, with the old man, who stood, hat in hand, by 
 the roadside. 
 
 "It's a first-class job," said Captain Moore, with 
 his kindliest smile. 
 
 "Thank 3-011, sah. I reckon you's from Firginny 
 3'o'self, sah." 
 
 "No, I have not the honor to belong to the Old 
 Dominion." 
 
 " 1 'm sorry fur it, sah. I'd a thought you was frum 
 dar. We 's ob de Mason fam'ly, sah, de Masons ob 
 Mount Hope." 
 
 And the old man straightened himself with an air of 
 dignified consciousness of greatness that wonderfully 
 pleased the fancy of the frank, gay soldier. 
 
 " Yes, I know, ' King Stan ' is half a Mason." 
 
 " Yes, sah ; an' de very bestest half. I don't mean 
 no 'fence to de Desinkskys, Marse Stan; but you see, 
 sah," to Captain Moore, " he 's de very moral ob my 
 Miss Mary. Now, sah, it am a strange thing, dis 
 heah, who chillun takes arter. Sometime dey breeds 
 back an' back. It's like a fine stallion my ole marster 
 de judge's father, sah brung frum'Inglan. He 
 was a great racer, sah ; an' in dem ole times he jis beat 
 every boss in de State, an' he won ole marster a power 
 o' money ; but he had a glass eye. An' all his colts 
 arter two ginerations frum dat day to dis kin be tole 
 anywhar in Firginny, sah ; it broke out in 'em. Dey 's 
 all got glass eyes, leastwise all dem dat ain't crossed 
 wid scrubs. Now, dar 's our little Miss Rue, sah ; she 
 ain't one bit Cart'ret like Miss Marg'ret, needer am she 
 a Mason " 
 
 " She has the Leszinksky glass eye," laughed Captain 
 Moore. 
 
 " No, sah, not quite dat, but she am a Desinksky out 
 an' out. Sometimes I see ole Gin'ral Desinksky 
 dat's Marse Stan's gran'father, sah, de king's son 
 look right straight outen her eyes. Dat, sah, is when 
 she wants her own way, an' she mean to have it, an' she 
 mus' have it, an' she DO have it."
 
 76 BAB Y RUE. 
 
 Both gentlemen laughed \ and Leszinksky interrupted 
 Uncle Abram's discourse on heredity by an inquiry : 
 
 " Has your Miss Margaret returned? " 
 
 " No, sah; but we 's a lookin' fur 'em to-day. De 
 doctor cum frum Marse Cas'lar's yestedday ; he cum by 
 heah dis mornin' on his way to see dem sick Injins up 
 de riber, an' he 's a cornin' back heah to supper, sah. 
 He said Miss Mar*g'ret would be home befo' dat." 
 
 Captain Moore pulled his moustache nervously, and 
 asked : " Do they cross the river, coming from Cas- 
 talar's, at the ferry or at the upper ford?" 
 
 ' ' Neither : they come the old trail the road through 
 the prairies and by the south bank. It crosses the 
 Canadian a few miles above its confluence with the 
 Arkansas, and the Arkansas four miles below here." 
 
 They rode on up the hill. Leszinkskj*, leading the 
 wa}*, did not see the clouded face of the dragoon. 
 When they reached the house they found Solomon 
 ready to take charge of the horses. Captain Moore 
 said hastily : 
 
 " Do not put my horse in the stable. Take off the 
 saddle. and strap the blanket on, and let him rest out 
 there in the shade. I shall want him immediately." 
 
 " But, Moore," said Leszinksk}-, " you are not going 
 back to the garrison until evening. Why, 3*011 half 
 promised to stay all night. The doctor and Margaret 
 will be here, and we can have a game of whist. Be 
 reasonable, old fellow ; they will all want to see 
 you." 
 
 " It may be all nonsense, Stan, but I was going to 
 propose to you that as soon as we get some luncheon 
 which you had better tell them to hurry we go on and 
 meet Mrs. Leszinksky. A Delaware runner, in from 
 the Trading Post near the North Fork, overtook me 
 some ten miles from the fort this morning, and he 
 reported both North and South Fork as rising rapidly . 
 It is the June freshet, somewhat delayed, but now 
 nearly bank full. I had forgotten until I heard that 
 Mrs. Leszinksky was at Castalar's and was coming 
 home to-day. I trust they have heard of the rise and 
 are coming by the ferry."
 
 BOUIE'S HILL. 77 
 
 " No, the}- are not likel}' to hear of it. Castalar's 
 ranch is shut in between the hills, out of the way of 
 passers by. Margaret has gone over the ground so 
 often that she will be fearless. Oscar and Sara are 
 with her, and some of the family will come with them 
 to the ford of the Canadian, Castalar himself, I hope ; 
 he would be quick to see any change, as he is an 
 accomplished frontiersman. But we will go at once, 
 only you must excuse a hasty snack. Mead will give 
 us whatever he has. Solomon, is your Miss Margaret's 
 horse in the stable or in the field? " 
 
 " In de field, sah." 
 
 " Then see how quick you can catch him. Oh, here 's 
 Uncle Abram. He will get us a snack, and Mead can 
 go with you to catch Sultan. Be off this instant." 
 
 " Yes, sah; we'll be back wid de hoss 'fore you's 
 done eatin', sah." 
 
 In half an hour the}' were mounted and off, leaving 
 Solomon on top of the new gate, looking after them 
 and pulling up the weights and pulleys from below, 
 until a voice behind him brought him with sudden fright 
 to the ground. 
 
 " What yer doin', }-er lim' o' Satan, meddlin' wid 
 dem 'versions ? Ef I eber cotch you top ob dat gate 
 agin, I '11 give you sumfin to make }~ou 'member it ! 
 Heah 's de whole family upsot, an' mebby Miss Marg'ret 
 an' yo' mammy drownded, an' yer takes de kashun to 
 be a breaki n' dat gate." 
 
 " I wah n't a hurtin' de gate, gran'daddy. I got up 
 dar jes to see how fas' Marse Stan an' dat hossifer 
 gentleman ride. Den I thought mebby dey went froo 
 in sich a huny dat dey mout a spiled some o' yo' fixin's, 
 an' I was lookin' so I mout done tole }"er." 
 
 While the old man investigated any possible injury 
 that might have befallen his invention, Solomon pru 
 dently retreated.
 
 78 BAB Y RUE. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THAT he is gentil that doth gentil dedis. 
 
 CHAUCER. 
 
 AN accident to their light wagon had delayed the 
 party at Castalar's several hours after the time 
 intended for the start. The repairs completed, Margaret 
 insisted upon immediate departure. To the entreaties 
 of the entire family that she would remain another day, 
 she answered, 
 
 "I cannot stay. My husband may return from the 
 Osage to-day. He has never }'et crossed his own thresh 
 old without the welcome of his wife and child. You will 
 forgive my obstinacy. I must go." 
 
 Castalar glanced at the patient, worn face of his 
 wife, who, without another word of remonstrance, com 
 menced to gather up the little packages made read}' for 
 the travellers, as he said, "Then we must hurry jour 
 going. It is a long day's drive, and now late for a start. 
 I will see }*ou across the Canadian, and Stephen will 
 go on to Bouie's Hill with you. An outrider is always 
 needed in the bush." 
 
 "No, .you shall not go, neither you nor Stephen. 
 I am a good enough frontierswoman to know that the 
 herders will not soon recover the strayed cattle they 
 reported this morning without your assistance. Oscar 
 drives well, and the mules are gentle. There is not the 
 slightest danger, and I know the way perfectly. We 
 can reach the Arkansas River before sundown, and from 
 there home is not an hour's drive." 
 
 " The herders do need me. If j-ou will accept Stephen
 
 BOUIE'S HILL. 79 
 
 as escort, I will say farewell here. Marie would imagine 
 a thousand misadventures to }-ou and her goddaughter 
 if the ' gars ' did not go to bring her a faithful report of 
 your safe arrival at home." 
 
 Adieux were said. Castalar rode off up the valle}*. 
 Madame Castalar, her daughter, a pale, slight child 
 of thirteen years, and two younger children stood in 
 the doorway of the substantial log house, watching the 
 wagon and its bo3~-escort down the valley until they 
 passed through an opening in the hills and were lost to 
 view. 
 
 Two hours brought the part}' to the ford of the Cana 
 dian. After leaving " Castalar's Valley " they had grad 
 ually ascended the rocky divide that separates the head 
 waters of the San Bois from the Canadian. To the 
 bank of the latter the descent was abrupt, down shelv 
 ing, sandy inclines, covered in patches with broad-leaved 
 cactus and prickly pear. Below the ford, the shelving 
 bank, with its strata of colored clay, inclosed in a sweep 
 ing curve a little stretch of alluvial soil, covered with a 
 dense cane-brake that grew to the water's edge. Above 
 the ford the bank was steep, its ridges ending at the 
 base of a lofty chain of broken 1 hills, presenting an alter 
 nation of terraces and cliffs covered with scrub-oak and 
 stunted pine. On the opposite side of the river, which 
 was nearl)- one quarter of a mile wide, the trail wound 
 'upward through tangled thickets to a ridge five or six 
 hundred feet in height, covered with 3 T ellow pine and 
 fragrant red cedar, that gradually dipped in broken 
 swells, inclosing lakelike little prairies of wavy blue 
 grass, to the valley of the Arkansas. 
 
 On the divide above the ford Oscar had stopped to 
 breathe his mules and lock the wheels of the wagon. 
 Stephen, a handsome bo}' of sixteen, was on a mettle 
 some mustang that he managed with the ease and grace 
 of a Comanche. Unfortunately in his curvettings around 
 the wagon, whilst talking to Margaret and trying to 
 catch the attention of Baby Rue, he had disturbed a 
 hungry hornet. The winged warrior struck the mustang 
 fairly between the e}-es, and the animal, wild with fright
 
 80 BABY RUE. 
 
 and pain, executed a series of leaps that would have un 
 horsed the best rider of the most famous cavalry school. 
 But the spirited young Franco- American had learned the 
 manege in the wide arena of the prairie under a Comanche 
 tutor. "Bucking" was to him a familiar experience. 
 Mustang and metifweve fairly matched. Moreover, the 
 boy had spectators before whom he felt failure would be 
 disgrace. What boy of sixteen could bear failure in the 
 presence of women and servants ? Now a man might 
 understand the odds against him, but these inferior peo 
 ple would only know the fact of defeat. Then add to 
 the . feeling of the ordinary boy the conceit of Young 
 France, the deeper pride of the Indian who feels the 
 blood of a chief in his veins. As we said, in a mere 
 physical contest mustang and metifwere fairly matched. 
 Add the mental process and the moral result of such 
 factors as pride of race" and boyish conceit, and you will 
 see that our statement was in a measure incorrect : the 
 mustang was handicapped, the overweight told. Through 
 vault and demi-vault, despite filing heels that struck out 
 like a lightning flash and then gathered as rapidly in a 
 game of " all fours," the bo}' stuck. The mustang was 
 conquered in one point : he could not unhorse the 
 rider, who, in the ease and grace with which he swayed 
 to eveiy movement, proved that out in the forest and 
 the plains, where gloom}" depths and arid stretches repel 
 civilization, there is a more splendid centaur than the 
 fabled monster of the Greeks, a centaur which is the 
 perfect unity of two distinct organizations controlled by 
 a will that executes its mandates with the iron hand of 
 the autocrat whose throne is the saddle. The mustang's 
 final effort was expended in a rushing gallop toward 
 home, and before the boy could force an acknowledg 
 ment of submission and change his course, the wagon 
 was down the divide and at the river bank. 
 
 Rue was fretful and impatient. Margaret, already 
 anxious to go on, ordered Oscar to cross without wait 
 ing for Stephen. Oscar called his mistress's attention to 
 the deep reddish-chocolate color of the water, adding, 
 
 "I don't like the look o' the river nohow. It's a
 
 BOUIE'S HILL. 8 1 
 
 heap fuller 'n 't was las' week. Them cane-brakes was 
 clar out o' the water when we crossed las' week. Sandy- 
 bottomed rivers wash into holes mighty quick, an' thar 's 
 always a mighty deep one out thar jes' t' other side o' the 
 big san'bar. Can't see the san'bar now, it's all cov 
 ered. I think, Miss Marg'ret, you better let me go. 
 over an' try the ford on one o' the mules. It's a heap 
 safer." 
 
 " No, there is no danger ; the river is always a muddy 
 red. It is too late in the season for a freshet. Drive 
 on." 
 
 As they entered the water a gaunt, haggard man, bare 
 headed, with long, matted hair and beard, and clad in 
 a few loose rags, came out of the cane-brake about a 
 hundred yards below the ford, shouting to them. Sara 
 screamed. Margaret, looking back hastily, saw the man 
 running toward them followed by two others, one a 
 nearly naked Indian. She called to Oscar, 
 
 "Drive on! Quick!" 
 
 Oscar drove steadily, although he knew the river was 
 much above its usual level. One hundred feet from the 
 shore was the now hidden sandbar. Beyond that the 
 current swept by at its greatest depth. When they 
 gained the shallow water of the sandbar, Margaret 
 again looked back. The man with the long, tawn} r 
 beard was in the water, following the wagon ; the other, 
 a slow-motioned giant, had thrown his leggings and 
 moccasins on the bank and was leisure!} 7 wading into 
 the river. The Indian had disappeared. Margaret 
 called out, 
 
 ' ' Faster ! Drive faster ! " 
 
 Oscar struck the mules ; they sprang forward into deep 
 water, slipped, struggled an instant to gain a foothold, 
 and then fell, tangled hopelessly in the harness, rocking 
 the light wagon from side to side in their efforts to get 
 loose. Without hesitation, although he could not swim, 
 Oscar did the one thing he thought would save the lives 
 intrusted to his care : he climbed over the dashboard 
 with an open pocket-knife in his hand, to cut the drown 
 ing animals loose from the wagon. Sara's screams rang 
 
 6
 
 82 BABY RUE. 
 
 over the water ; whilst Margaret in speechless agony 
 held her baby to her heart. 
 
 At this moment a hand was laid on the wagon, and the 
 firm hold steadied its swaying. As Margaret turned 
 her head, a pair of kindl_y, reddish-brown eyes looked 
 into hers. The face to which they belonged had a suf 
 fering, half-starved, weather-beaten look, and water was 
 dripping from the tangles of hair and beard. The owner 
 of all these called to his companion, 
 
 " Hillo, Pike ! Swim 'round in front thar and holp 
 the nigger get them mules loose. Let 'em go ; you 
 can't save 'em nohow. If the boy can't swim, pull him 
 out ; then come back. I '11 steadj r this steamer till you 
 get here. Maybe we can get her off the wheels and pull 
 her on the bar thar." 
 
 Then he added, talking to Margaret, in a voice with hon 
 est intonations a child or an animal would have trusted, 
 "Don't be skeered. You didn't hear me time 'nough 
 to stop. You see I wah n't a-comin' out of the cane- 
 brake if I could a-holped it. I thought maybe you 'd see 
 for j'ourselves the river was on a bust ; but you did n't. 
 'T was my fault not tellin' you sooner ; so 3*ou see we 
 are boun' to get you out of this. On'y don't be skeered 
 at us. We are white men leastwise two on us and 
 we 've got mothers or if we ain't now, we had and 
 you and that little baby 's just as safe with us as }*ou 
 would be in heaven. We could n't let you two drown, 
 so be and we all went down. The Delawar' too, if he 
 is a Injin, he's got a white man's heart. He's gone 
 down the river thar, whar we hid the canoe, and he'll 
 be here with it direckly. Don't be skeered ; you look 
 a good plucky one, and so does the baby." 
 
 For Rue had reached out her little hand, and pulled 
 at the tangled beard, laughing as she did in her romps 
 with her father. 
 
 Margaret saw tears in the reddish-brown eyes, as the 
 baby kept up her play and laughed and crowed, as she 
 would with a shaggy Newfoundland. The man shook 
 the water from one rough, hairy hand, and caught the 
 dimpled little fist and hid it for an instant in the billowy
 
 BOUIE^S HILL. 83 
 
 wave of his tawny beard ; and a new light shone on the 
 haggard face as he kissed the baby fingers. 
 
 "Pike" literally followed instructions. He had cut 
 the mules loose from the wagon ; fished out Oscar, who 
 was half drowned by the struggle and the water he had 
 swallowed ; towed him ashore, and waded back to the 
 bar, from which a few powerful strokes brought him to 
 the still floating vehicle. 
 
 The two men now united their strength to tow it into 
 shallow water, but the current was too rapid. All they 
 could do was to keep it steady and afloat. Again the 
 leader spoke to Margaret. 
 
 "I don't know what keeps the Delawar* and the 
 canoe ; but you give me the baby, marm, and then climb 
 out here and hold on close by me till Pike can swim 
 round to }*ou. Don't cotch hold on him, but jus' let him 
 take 3~ou out : he '11 do it he 's a powerful strong sure 
 swimmer. The wagon-bed will float the nigger woman 
 till we get 3*ou out and come back for her." 
 
 At this proposal Sara commenced afresh. 
 
 "Good Godamity, Miss Marg'ret, doant leave me 
 heah ! Lemme go wid }~er ! " 
 
 Margaret quietly kissed Rue, and put her in the man's 
 arms. The baby, thinking this a part of the frolic, 
 clutched the shaggy head, and screamed her delight. 
 For the first time Margaret spoke to the man. 
 
 " Take my little daughter to Oscar. God bless you 
 for coming to us ! I will wait with Sara until you get 
 back." 
 
 "I'll come, marm; don't be skeered. The baby's 
 all right. So holp me God, she and you can trust Bob 
 Stearns ! " 
 
 ' ' I know it. I trust you and the mercy of our Heavenly 
 Father." 
 
 The baby, dripping wet, but still laughing, was placed 
 in Oscar's arms just as the now completely conquered 
 mustang came down the divide. One look revealed to 
 Stephen the accident. He was off his horse, threw off 
 coat and boots, and was in the water as Bob Stearns 
 reached the bar. Again that stout-hearted fellow was
 
 84 BABY RUE. 
 
 in the deep water, just in time ; for the wagon, caught 
 by the swift-increasing current, turned on its side as he 
 reached it, and drew Margaret out. Then the slower 
 Pike loosened the vise-like grip he had kept of the front 
 boards, and, with a water-dog's dip and plunge, brought 
 up Sara, who was fortunately too limp to resist or em 
 barrass him. He swam to the bar and placed her firmly 
 on her feet, and then turned to look for his comrade. 
 What he saw brought out all the latent energy of the 
 giant. His comrade, although near shallow water, was 
 slowly sinking, overweighted, exhausted. Notwith 
 standing the most desperate efforts, he was going down. 
 Margaret, understanding how she endangered her would- 
 be deliverer, clasped her hands as she broke from him 
 with a murmured pra} T er, 
 
 " My baby my husband God bless " and was 
 swept under the muddy current. 
 
 Stephen and Pike reached the fatal spot at the same 
 moment. Both dived came up dived again. This 
 time they won salvage from the waters. Pike had tan 
 gled his hand in Margaret's brown hair, whilst Stephen 
 had clutched the tawny mane of Bob Stearns. Pike 
 swam ashore with his burden, and turned to meet 
 Stephen and the Delaware pushing before them the 
 canoe which held the apparently lifeless remains of his 
 comrade.
 
 BOUIE'S HILL. 85 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 HE had got a hurt 
 0' th* inside, of a deadlier sort. 
 
 BTTTLER. 
 
 AT the moment Baby Rue was placed bj~ Bob Stearns 
 in Oscar's arms, Leszinksky and Captain Moore 
 were riding rapidly down the trail which wound in re 
 verse coils from the top of the ridge on the opposite 
 side of the Canadian to the bank. On a little plateau 
 overlooking the river, Captain Moore halted long enough 
 to take his field-glasses from their case and inspect the 
 stream. Seeing Oscar with the child in his arms by the 
 river side, and Stephen dismounting from his mustang, 
 he said, 
 
 "It's all right. They are on the other side, but cer 
 tainly not going to try the ford." 
 
 Mechanically he handed the glasses to Leszinksky, 
 and awaited. Suddenly Leszinksky dropped the glasses, 
 with a quickly exclaimed "God save my wife!" and 
 rode off at Sultan's best speed. Captain Ben, rather 
 dazed at the pra} r er and the action, dismounted, picked 
 up his glasses, and from his recovered seat in the saddle 
 again examined the shore and the river. Leszinksky 
 had seen the wagon as it upset, and, as the curtains 
 were up, saw that Margaret and Sara were in it. Cap 
 tain Moore looked as Pike placed Sara on her feet in 
 the shallows of the sandbar, at the instant Bob Stearns 
 and his burden went under. 
 
 Never had the spurs of the bold dragoon raked so 
 pitilessly the flanks of his good horse. With a mighty 
 oath (I am sorry to record it) and a yell that was half
 
 86 BABY RUE. 
 
 dismay, half encouragement to his comrade, he came 
 thundering down the bank. 
 
 Leszinksky, alread}' in the river, was stemming the 
 heavy current as Pike waded out with his senseless bur 
 den ; and Stephen and the Delaware, who had arrived 
 just in time to pull into the canoe the heavy weight of Bob 
 Stearns, pushed and paddled ashore. Sultan clam 
 bered up safely with his rider, a few minutes after Pike 
 had laid Margaret down beside her baby, on a shaded 
 spot high up the bank. Sara, completely overcome 
 with fright, was in violent hysterics ; while Oscar, in 
 speechless agony, knelt by his mistress, wiping the 
 muddy stains from her fair face. As his master arrived, 
 he looked up, and moaned, 
 
 "O Marse Stan, Marse Stan, God has took back 
 his angel ! They did ah 1 they could, them poor men 
 thar, but they could n't save her for us. O Marse 
 Stan, we 's on'y got her chile lef ' ! " And the poor fel 
 low burst into a storm of sobs as he saw the grief-stricken 
 face that bent over Margaret. 
 
 The 3'oung wife was tying with her hands clasped over 
 her breast, as she had gone down in that supreme 
 effort to liberate her rescuer. The sweet face, lit by the 
 slanting rays of the descending sun, was of a death 
 like pallor. The blue eyes, partly open under violet 
 lids, had lost their light. The white lips were closed, 
 and ashen shadows had gathered around the mouth. 
 
 Into this group on the bank strode Captain Ben. He 
 had had a hard fight with the rising waters. Accoutred 
 as he was, he had plunged in, and, when his good steed 
 was about to go under, had slipped from the saddle ; 
 and the horse, relieved of the overweight, swam easily ; 
 but his own heavy cavahy-boots would have taken Cap 
 tain Ben to the bottom, had he not held to his horse's 
 tail, and so been towed ashore. Fortunately for the 
 sufferers to whom he arrived, his helpfulness in disaster 
 was a quality to be counted on. Danger and reverse 
 brought him to his best. The careless, gay dragoon of 
 the garrison had a graver side, a cool, collected, reso 
 lute side, to front danger or mischance.- After shak-
 
 BOUIE'S HILL. 87 
 
 ing himself like a water-spaniel, he knelt b} r Margaret, 
 and slid one broad, strong hand under her shoulders, 
 and pressed firmly the pulseless chest with the other ; 
 then spoke cheerily : 
 
 "She's not drowned: she fainted before sinking. 
 Run, Oscar, and look in my saddle-pocket, and bring 
 the flask you will find. Don't be unmanned, Stan: 
 she '11 get over it ; there is no water in the lungs. Here, 
 Oscar, give me the flask. Get .her feet bare, Stan, and 
 rub them with the brandy." 
 
 All the time he was rubbing the cold hands and bath 
 ing the pale face with a touch that was as gentle as a 
 woman's. A feeble pulsation was soon perceptible ; 
 then long-drawn, pained sighs told the suffering that 
 came with resuscitation. In twenty minutes more they 
 knew she would live. Then, with a final administer 
 ing of his favorite remedy, Captain Ben left her 
 lying in her husband's lap whilst he looked after the 
 others. Stephen was soon mounted on Sultan, and 
 started to the ranch for help. (The mustang had 
 escaped for home the moment his rider dismounted.) 
 Captain Ben's orders to Stephen were : 
 
 " Ride like the devil ! Bring back dry clothing and 
 any conveyance }*ou can get the quickest, for Mrs. Les- 
 zinksky must be out of these wet things before the 
 evening chills her ; and don't fail to bring whiskey 
 enough for all these water-logged people. How soon 
 can you get back ? " 
 
 " As soon as zis horse he can run ten mile, I shall at 
 home be, mon capitaine. It will take ten mineits to 
 give ze orders and saddle 1' Empereur ; he will me bring 
 back me in twenty mineits more wiz ze whiskey and 
 clozing for Madame Leszinksky and ze bebe." 
 
 " Good ! Give Sultan the spurs. I shall expect you 
 in an hour." 
 
 " I will here be, mon capitaine, if it kills two 
 horse." 
 
 Captain Ben now turned to where the gigantic Pike 
 worked, in concert with the Delaware, for the restora 
 tion of their well-nigh-drowned comrade. They had
 
 88 BABY RUE. 
 
 turned over the canoe, and laid the body face downward 
 across it. The Delaware rolled it from side to side, 
 whilst Pike worked the lifeless arms like pump-handles 
 above the limp head, great tears rolling down the giant's 
 cheeks and washing furrows in the stains left by the 
 muddy river, as his grief found expression in porpoise- 
 like sighs, that seemed blown from the vent of a tired 
 whale. The captain aided, slightly changing the treat 
 ment, simulating respiration, pressing the lungs into 
 regular rises and falls, blowing into the nostrils, and, 
 at last when a feeble pulsation came, giving all that 
 remained of his panacea in small doses that acted like 
 magic. When Stephen returned the drowned man was 
 sitting on the canoe, looking with unqualified regret at 
 the flask he had just emptied of its last drops. His face 
 brightened when the newly-arrived supplies were un 
 packed, and Captain Ben approached with a leathern 
 drinking-cup full of whiske}-, although the words that 
 accompanied the gift somewhat damped his delight : 
 
 " Here, Stearns. I see you have n't given up the old 
 habit that brought you to* grief before you deserted. 
 There 's some excuse for your cups now. You have 
 swallowed more water to-day than you would like to 
 drink in a six-months' march over the plains." 
 
 Bob hesitated an instant ; then, thinking that words 
 would keep longer than unbottled whiskey, emptied the 
 cup first, and replied : " I see you know me, Capt'n, and 
 I ain't sorry for it. What with the Pawnees robbing on 
 us, and dodging soldiers and white men from the settle 
 ments, we 've had dogs' lives on the plains. It was all my 
 doin's, our desertin'. You know Pike always sot great 
 store by me : he would n't let me go by myself. We ain't 
 had but one piece of luck sence we left, and that was 
 gittin' Black Beaver here outen the clutches of a party of 
 Navahos who was about to brile him standin'. I s'pose 
 you'll take us to the fort. Now, jus' you say what you 
 can for Pike ; he wah n't to blame nohow. I 'd ruther 
 be shot than be in the garrison with Capt'n Hartley." 
 
 Oscar, who was listening, started forward, and then 
 suddenly stopped ; whilst Captain Ben said :
 
 BOUIE'S HILL. 89 
 
 " Captain Hartley has resigned. I will have to take 
 you to the fort. But you have behaved like a brave 
 man to-day. You would have made your way to the 
 Mississippi safely, if }-ou had n't come out of that cane- 
 brake to save the wife and child of an officer. By God, 
 they shall not shoot 3*ou, if I can help it ! Give me 
 j-our word that you will go to the fort, and I will leave 
 you free to go without arrest. It will be better for 
 
 you." 
 
 "Yes, Capt'n, I '11 go. I was a-goin' to the Missis- 
 sipp', and home to Missoury ; but I 'd a-alwa}-s felt mean 
 hidin' about like a thief or a Pawnee. I s'pose I '11 have 
 to take the chances o'f shootin'." 
 
 " You are not shot }'et, and after what }"ou 've done 
 to-day, 't will be damned hard to get a court-martial 
 that won't let you off easy. Lieutenant Leszinksky, 
 whose wife and child you have saved, belongs -to 
 ' Ours.' " 
 
 Captain M'oore walked back to meet Margaret, who, 
 with dry clothing on, now came with her husband from 
 her dressing-closet among the scrub-pines. Pike and 
 the Indian had gone down the river to try and secure 
 the wagon, which was lodged against the branches of 
 an overhanging willow. Oscar hesitated an instant, then 
 ran to Stephen's supplies, and came back to Bob with 
 bread and meat. Bob thanked him, and ate with the 
 appetite of a half-starved plainsman. After he had 
 finished, seeing that Oscar still waited, Bob asked : 
 
 ' ' Have you got any more of that whiskey ? My 
 bowels is powerful watery yet." 
 
 Oscar ran to the captain, and came back with the cup 
 half full, saying apologeticalh*, " Captain Moore say 
 't ain't safe to give you too much, an' you jes drownded ; 
 but I '11 try an' get you some more after while. An' I 
 jes wanted to say to you, if thar 's anything Oscar (that 's 
 me) kin do fur you, he '11 do it. If } r ou don't want to 
 go to the fort, you need n't. If 3-011 has cause to hate 
 Captain Hartley, so has Oscar. An' to-day you brought 
 us back the angel o' the fam'ly when she had started 
 for heaven. If you ain't no kashuu to go to the fort,
 
 QO BABY RUE. 
 
 don't go. We 's all got to go back to Marse Caslar's ; 
 but Marse Stephen an' me will fix it so you kin go your 
 own way 'fore the week 's out." 
 
 " So be and 't had been yesterday you 'd a-offered to 
 holp us, I 'd a been glad and thankful ; but you see I 'm 
 a soldier, if I did desert, and I 've jus give my parole to 
 the capt'n. I must sta}- here now, and I must go to 
 the fort to-morrow. I '11 keep my word to the capt'n. 
 I 'd like to be with the regiment, if Capt'n Hartley 's 
 gone." 
 
 "What did he do to you?" asked Oscar, with the 
 naive, straightforward manner of a child. 
 
 Bob's face grew black and angry ; but after a moment 
 he answered, simply : " He bucked and gagged me the 
 fust time I was drunk when he commanded. That 
 wah n't so much. The next time he give, me thirty-nine 
 lashes and chained me by the thumbs to a wagon for 
 a two-days' march. You can see the marks j-et ; a 
 piece of this left thumb sloughed off. Pike unchained 
 me when he see it had cut through the flesh, and he 
 had Pike bucked and whipped. Then I deserted." 
 Oscar drew a deep breath. 
 
 " He did worse fur me. Somehow, when I think of 
 it, I know I '11 kill him yet. Leastwise, I 'm sho the 
 Lord '11 deliver him into my han'. If it had n't a-been 
 fur Miss Marg'ret, I 'd a-killed him that day." 
 
 The negro walked away: Leszinksky was coming. 
 " King Stan " offered his hand to Bob, saying, " I owe 
 you a debt I can never pay, but which I shall never for 
 get. Captain Moore has told me your troubles, and we 
 hope to get you out of them safely. You may count 
 on all we can do." 
 
 "Thank you, Leftenant; but you don't owe me 
 nothin' for what I did for yo' wife and that little baby. 
 I oughter a-come out of the cane-brake sooner, and 
 saved them a-gettin' in. I mought a-knowed they 
 would n't know the river was up. Howsomever, I did 
 my best arterwards, and I 'm powerful glad they 're 
 safe. I ain't seen a little child like that sence I left 
 Missoury. If my wife had a- lived, and I 'd a-had a
 
 BOUIE'S HILL. 
 
 little child like that in my cabin, I would n't a-been the 
 worthless cuss I am. She 's a good, plucky one, that 
 little one, Leftenant; and that nigger ain't fur wrong 
 when he calls her mother a angel. When she give me 
 her child, and said she trusted her te me and God's 
 mercy, I did n't know what God mought do, but so be 
 and a man could save 'em both, I knowed I would."
 
 92 BABY RUE. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 To be weak is miserable, 
 Doing or suffering. 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 MARGARET was ill at Castalar's for some time after 
 the accident. Before her arrival at Bouie's Hill, 
 Bob Stearns and Pike had been tried, sentenced, and 
 then pardoned "in consideration of their gallant con 
 duct and voluntary return to the regiment." Black 
 Beaver was enlisted in the corps of scouts. So the Les- 
 zinksk}*'s had frequent occasion to bring to their home 
 these men, whose well-being and well-doing had for 
 them deep personal interest. 
 
 The Fourth of Jul}-, Oscar came back from the fort 
 early in the afternoon with some things needed for the 
 dinner, to which ah 1 our friends were invited, and this 
 one piece of news : 
 
 "I's sorry, Miss Marg'ret, to have to tole you, but 
 when I went to ~tole Black Beaver an' our soljers as 
 you 'd expect 'em to eat thar Fourth out heah, I foun' 
 Marse 'Bob Stearns too drunk to come. Marse Pike an' 
 the Injin has to stay to keep him outer trouble. They 
 say he 's a powerful han' to quarrel when he 's a-drinkin'. 
 That 's what's always gone wrong with him. If he can't 
 get no fightin' of his own, he 's sho to get somebody 
 else's. Jes now at the fort he done knocked down 
 Mike O'Dowd, 'cause he was disrespeckful talkin' 'bout 
 me and my my misfortshun." 
 
 Either Pike and Black Beaver had drunk too much 
 themselves to be efficient guards, or else in some way
 
 BOUIE'S HILL. 93 
 
 Bob flanked his friends. Before sundown he got into a 
 " free fight," and spent the night in the guard-house, 
 where, the next morning, by some process known only 
 to himself, Oscar furnished him a comfortable breakfast. 
 The jug of strong coffee had its effect, for when released 
 Bob came out sober, sorry, and ashamed at the violation 
 of the pledge he had only a week before made our saint. 
 The certain result, if left to himself, would have been a 
 fresh debauch. Remorse and shame go against a man 
 of weak will ; and poor Bob's good resolutions were as 
 yet untwisted flax, powerless to resist the pull of habit. 
 This day Bob had a new experience : he was not left 
 undefended to the fierce thirst that had hitherto led him, 
 helpless and unnerved, into the power of the enemy that 
 was spoiling him of his manhood. A friend stood in 
 the way of the tempter. A peerless Sir Galahad, all the 
 more pitying because of his own perfect purit}', waited 
 at the guardhouse door to save him from a fresh assault, 
 a stainless knight, whose heart was the shrine of the 
 Holy Grail ; for in it burned the strong love of human 
 ity that had taken Jesus of Nazareth into the haunts of 
 publicans ajad sinners. 
 
 At the first sight of Leszinksk}-, Bob recoiled, and then 
 turned the other way, pulling his cap low over his eyes. 
 A kindly hand was on his shoulder. Though at first he 
 looked down abashed, he felt the e^yes that finally drew 
 his own and held them, as the words came slowly and 
 with a sympathetic intonation that seemed to the rough 
 soldier a voice from heaven'. 
 
 "We are all grieved at this new trouble, Bob, we 
 who love you and who owe you so much. But for you, 
 I should have neither wife nor child. Whenever I thank 
 God for their spared lives I am thanking Him for }-our 
 unselfish courage, for the manhood that is in you. I 
 do not think }'ou know how we suffer in the fall of a 
 friend we fain would respect. Any stain upon you, any 
 failure in that brave nature of yours, grieves and hurts 
 the family you saved. It also shames us in that we are 
 so heavily your debtors, and yet cannot defend 3-011 from 
 the evil that pursues and ruins you. You must come
 
 94 BABY RUE. 
 
 home with me. I have waited for you, and my wife is 
 waiting for us both." 
 
 "Please, Leftenant, I can't go now. I ain't fit. I 
 don't want to see her nor the baby jus' now. I ain't 
 wuth the trouble you 've done took a'ready." 
 
 " You must come, Bob." 
 
 "I'll come in the mornin', sir; I've got to go on 
 duty, sir, this evenin'." 
 
 " No, that is arranged. I have an order from Cap 
 tain Moore. You are to stay at Bouie's Hill until the 
 company changes quarters." 
 
 "Please let me come in the mornin', sir. I don't 
 want to go thar like this." 
 
 There was repentance as well as shame in the e.yes 
 that looked into Leszinksky's ; but the evil habit clutched 
 the sensitive nerves until they quivered with longing 
 for the poison that " doth mock the meat it feeds on." 
 The poor drunkard felt that nothing but the devil's fluid 
 could quench the flame of remorse. The trinity in man 
 was disturbed : mind and soul had succumbed to the 
 bondage of the flesh, and the anguished heart would fain 
 have sought forgetfulness of its pangs in a fresh insen 
 sibility of drink. 
 
 " I dare not trust j-ou, Bob. You are not in a state 
 to resist the craving that is even now upon you." 
 
 "No, Leftenant, I ain't. I must have a drink. My 
 nerves is a-shakin' for it. If you '11 let me get one, sir, 
 I'll come." 
 
 " No : come with me now." 
 
 Bob followed. At the doctor's quarters Leszinksky 
 stopped, and bade the soldier come in. Leaving him in 
 the office, Leszinksky sought the doctor in his private 
 room. 
 
 " Doctor, I have brought Stearns to see you before 
 taking him to Bouie's Hill. He is shaky and nervous, 
 and begs for a drink. What shall I do ? " 
 
 " Give him one. Without it, after such a debauch, 
 he risks delirium tremens." 
 
 " Would not that be feeding the appetite for alcohol? 
 Captain Moore tells me that Stearns is powerless to re-
 
 BOUIE'S HILL. 95 
 
 sist this mania after the first drink. Have you no tonic 
 that will strengthen the nervous system sufficiently to 
 permit a short stop ? " 
 
 " I can give opiates, which are dangerous ; or emetics, 
 that will relieve the strain on the nerves, but then the 
 penalt}* may come upon the stomach and bowels. I had 
 ' one case that resulted in a fatal hemorrhage." 
 
 " Is medical skill, then, powerless to repair the phys 
 ical derangement that follows debauch ? " 
 
 " It has as yet found no antidote to the subtle poison 
 of alcohol, a poison that thoroughly impregnates the 
 brain, breeding the most fierce and craving desire for 
 reindulgence, whilst -it stupefies the moral quality of 
 resistance to evil." 
 
 "There must be a physical cure for its physical ef 
 fects. Nature is too richly endowed by the All-Father 
 to fail where failure wrecks so many of her children." 
 
 " I trust the discovery will reward a greater than 
 Herve}'. There is no puzzle to medical science like this 
 presented by the drunkard. Year after year men die 
 by thousands, poisoned by alcohol. Prisons are filled 
 with criminals whom law has held to account, although 
 their crimes were committed under the sway of the most 
 fatal and uncontrollable insanity known to physicians : 
 and this very poisoning, which alwa}'S ends in death 
 (sometimes long delayed, but then more terrible in suf 
 fering), madness, or idiocy is in a measure legalized. 
 The sale of alcoholic drinks is unrestrained ; the profits 
 enormous : human vampires fatten on the blood of its 
 victims. Law, which in England condemned the suicide, 
 and in this country punishes the vendor who sells him 
 quick oblivion of the ills of life, lets the distiller and 
 trader in alcohol, who put a criminal or a madman in 
 nearly every family in the land, go unwhipt of justice." 
 
 " Then, Doctor, you do not believe in the moral ac 
 countability of the drunkard?" ' 
 
 " In the main, no. In the beginning of the evil, 
 society is responsible for the custom that commends a 
 brain poison to the untainted palates of the young ; and 
 then society is again responsible for the condemnation
 
 96 BAB Y RUE. 
 
 of the victim who has lost all will-power to resist the 
 destixxyer." 
 
 ' ' Then there is no hope for this poor fellow to whom 
 I owe so much, and for whose redemption from this 
 slavery to hell-fire I would give all that a man ma} r give 
 to save a friend ? " 
 
 " Yes ; there is always hope in the power of human 
 love and human s} r mpathy. In Stearns's case the habit 
 is spasmodic. There are intervals for patient affection 
 to work a moral cure. Find a motive for regeneration 
 stronger than the physical appetite, and his case is 
 hopeful Nothing short of a miracle will stop the regu 
 lar drinker, and miracles do not occur in the nineteenth 
 century. The spasmodic drunkard can cure himself if 
 will is strengthened by an unselfish desire to save from 
 pain and suffering some one dearer than self. I know 
 of nothing else that will insure the victory. The first 
 difficulty in this case is tiding over the tendency to 
 delirium tremens." 
 
 "With God's help I shall struggle for his salvation 
 point by point. What shall I do first?" 
 
 "Give him a simple but nourishing diet, plenty of 
 milk, constant but light exercise in the open air. If he 
 cannot sleep then opiates : but still keep him in the 
 air, on horseback when possible ; that is of itself a nar 
 cotic. Above a//, give him a motive to reform, a reason 
 for self-control. I fear yon will find that }*ou have set 
 yourself a Herculean task." 
 
 " Doctor, you forget what I owe Stearns. With my 
 great debt in the balance, any task that may do him good 
 will seem light. Moreover, I feel sure of help from the 
 Father who watches over us all." 
 
 "Ah, Leszinksky, if faith were contagious, and you 
 could infect him with your beliefs, cure would be cer 
 tain ! Even I am ready to admit that such ' faith can 
 remove mountains,' not by abstract thought and wish, 
 but by its constant striving with the little things, with 
 the trivialities of a very material universe." 
 
 " Doctor, would that I might infect you by so much 
 as ' a grain of mustard seed.' "
 
 BOUIE'S HILL. 97 
 
 "You have, in so far that I believe in the earnest 
 ness of 3*our beliefs. They are not mere beliefs, barren 
 of effect; they are something more : they are motives 
 for action that are fruitful of result. Yours is a kindly 
 infection. I hope it may spread."
 
 98 BABY RUE. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 FOR years the Indians clung to the homes of their forefathers, 
 and it was at the cost of much blood and treasure that they were 
 finally expelled from that country. 
 
 BRACKETT. 
 
 LATE in the fall of '45, a little more than a year 
 after the accident at the ford of the Canadian, the 
 1st Regiment of Dragoons was in almost constant ser 
 vice in the Indian Territory : consequently Leszinksky 
 was frequently absent from Bouie's Hill. 
 
 The dismounting of one regiment in 1843 through 
 the false economy of the lip-patriots in Congress, who 
 were constantly meddling with the details of the War 
 Department had caused such a weakening of the little 
 army on the frontier that every mounted officer and 
 man of the small force left was almost continually in 
 the saddle. 
 
 The vacillation of the Government in its Indian affairs 
 was then, as now, the curse of the savage as well as 
 of the frontiersman. Its revocation and modification 
 of treaties which had been signed as final adjustment of 
 real grievances ; its constant changes of policy from 
 the tyrannj" of the autocrat to the subservience of the 
 trader; the causeless arrest and equally causeless release 
 of friendly chiefs, to say it in the very mildest form, 
 seemed like treachery. Naturally, the savage became 
 exasperated and distrustful. The entire history of the 
 Seminole War, and the removal of the feeble remnant 
 of the broken tribes across the Mississippi, was a dis 
 grace to the nation, but not to the armj', which simply 
 obeyed orders, after its wisest and bravest officers had 
 remonstrated in vain against their execution. At the
 
 BOUIE'S HILL. 99 
 
 close of a campaign in which the Seminole chiefs had 
 shown courage, endurance, and patriotism that Greece 
 would have rewarded with monuments, and Rome with 
 civic triumphs, General Jessup thus writes to the Secre 
 tary of War : "In regard to the Seminoles, we have 
 committed the error of attempting to remove them when 
 their lauds were not ^required for agricultural purposes ; 
 when they ivere not in the way of the white inhabitants. 
 We exhibit in our present contest the first instance, per 
 haps, since the commencement of authentic histoiy, of a 
 nation employing an army to remove a band of savages 
 from one wilderness to another. As a soldier, it is my 
 duty, I am aware, -not to comment upon the policy of 
 the Government, but to carry it out in accordance with 
 my instructions. I have endeavored faithfully to do so ; 
 but the prospect of terminating the war is anything but 
 flattering. Unless immediate emigration be abandoned, 
 it will continue for years and at constantly increasing 
 expense. Is it not, then, well worth}' the consideration 
 of an enlightened government whether even if the 
 wilderness we are traversing could be inhabited by the 
 white man, which is not the fact the object we are 
 contending for would lie worth the cost." 
 
 To this the Secretary replied that the Government 
 desired " their removal or extermination." The first act 
 of obedience to this order was an invitation to a friendly 
 council. Five hundred and thirteen Indians accepted, 
 hoping for peace and trusting the Government. Colo 
 nel Twiggs was ordered to " seize the whole part}'." 
 The leading chiefs and warriors had refused to come. 
 Osceola, Coacoochee, 1 Hospetarke, with their tribes, and 
 the little remnant of valiant Mickasuckies who foot 
 by foot had defended their country upon the Swa-a-nee 
 from the time of the landing of De Soto, had learned 
 to distrust such invitations. Osceola and Coacoochee 
 had been taught by personal experience that the council- 
 chamber of the white man was the ante-chamber of a 
 prison. The escape of the latter from San Augustine 
 was a marvel of adroitness and courage. 
 1 Co-a-coo-chee, Wild Cat.
 
 100 BABY RUE. 
 
 The son of King Philip, exceedingly handsome, mild 
 and amiable in manner, a fearless and daring leader, 
 a generous friend and magnanimous foe, endowed with 
 great personal bravery, Coacoochee was the idol of 
 the younger warriors. Although determined to resist 
 the forcible removal of his people, he had been the friend, 
 and would have been the all}', of the white man. 
 
 The seizure and forcible emigration of these Indians, 
 whx> had hoped b} r prompt submission to secure for 
 their tribes the privilege of living and dying in their 
 native villages in the Everglades, and the enslave 
 ment of their allies, had the immediate effect of uniting 
 for common defence against the aggressors the younger 
 chiefs whose petty jealousies had fallen before the 
 common danger and Ar-pe-i-ka (better known as 
 " Sam Jones, the fisherman ")5 who had sworn eternal 
 enmity to the white race. 
 
 The war was now fierce and earnest; the newly 
 established trading post on the Caloosahatchie was 
 attacked, and, with the exception of Colonel Harvey 
 and thirteen men who escaped, the entire garrison 
 massacred. In revenge, Harvey organized an expedi 
 tion to the Everglades, and utterly destroyed the tribe 
 to which the marauders belonged. Chikika, the chief, 
 and twelve of the leading men of the tribe were left 
 hanging in chains, as warnings of the vengeance of the 
 white man. The warning had no effect. Coacoochee, 
 with two hundred warriors, attacked a fort garrisoned 
 by detachments from the Second, Third, and Fourth 
 Artillery, and four companies of dragoons. The bold 
 ness and desperation of the assault, which lasted three 
 hours, obstinately repeated after each fresh repulse, 
 convinced the Government of the determined character 
 of the leader and the resolution of his followers. More 
 troops were sent to Florida. The Indians, heavily 
 outnumbered, retired to the fastnesses of the Big 
 Cypress Swamp, the desolate islands of which afforded 
 refuge to the women and children, whilst the warriors de 
 fended, from the hummocks, its outposts ; occasionally 
 making predatory excursions through the very camps of 
 the enemy who environed them.
 
 BOUIE'S HILL. 101 
 
 The Government now brought fresh allies into the 
 field. At great expense, it imported bloodhounds 
 from Cuba, bringing with them their Spanish trainers. 
 Atrocious massacres were followed by atrocious re 
 prisals. The first publicly to denounce the use of 
 bloodhounds as allies was Mr. Wise, of Virginia, who, 
 in the House of Representatives, made the inquiry : 
 " Whether the general Government had been a partici 
 pator in so infamous a mode of exterminating human 
 creatures." 
 
 More determined in their defence grew the chiefs, 
 who made their last desperate stand on the hummocks 
 of the Big Cypress. These hummocks, surrounded by 
 water from two to three feet in depth, swarming with 
 reptiles, were made more impassable by fallen trees and 
 brushwood. The need that had made warriors, now 
 taught engineering. Advance after advance of the 
 United States troops was repelled. But numbers and 
 the murderous weapons of civilization told. Even then 
 success was delayed ; so, finally, a spy was found who 
 knew the secret passes ; a traitor was bought ; a path to 
 the last shelter of the broken tribes was open. There was 
 a final assault, a terrible butcher}-. The dragoons, whose 
 feet and hands were cut and bleeding, by the sword- 
 grass (the only ally of the Seminoles), were not in the 
 humor to be merciful : they were men, and men are 
 cruel when resistance has enraged them. The very 
 officers, whose honest opinions, when expressed in 
 private discussion, had justified the Seminole chiefs in 
 the brave defence of the land of their ancestors, now 
 cried, " Kill ! " as they remembered the comrades dead 
 in the fatal hummocks, the friends shot by the watch- 
 fires in the camp. 
 
 The Secretary was obe3'ed : they were nearly " exter 
 minated" There was to be peace in Florida, and, to 
 secure it, her children were to be torn from the soil or 
 destroyed. 
 
 A captive for the second time, loaded with chains, in 
 the midst of enemies, and threatened with an igno 
 minious death, the bearing of C'oacoochee was that of a
 
 102 BABY RUE. 
 
 king. He awaited his doom with composure and 
 dignity. The only threat that drew from him reply was 
 " that unless he submitted to the will of the Govern 
 ment, and removed, with his people, peaceabty across 
 the Mississippi, every captive warrior would be hung to 
 the yards of the vessel" (broken and in chains, they 
 had not dared trust to imprisonment on shore), " for 
 he only could and must end the war." His reply is a 
 complete and eloquent epitome of the relative positions 
 of the white and red races in North America. It 
 depicts the first childlike trust of the Indian, a trust 
 from which he was driven by repeated and cruel wrongs 
 and how his just resentment of outrage was made 
 the excuse for pillage and extermination. 
 
 "I was once a boy," said he, in subdued tones; 
 " then I saw the white man afar off. I hunted in these 
 woods, first with a bow and arrow, then with a rifle. I 
 saw the white man and was told he was my enemy. 
 He said he was my friend. He gave me his hand in 
 friendship. I took it. Whilst taking it, he had a snake 
 in the other. His tongue was forked. He lied, and 
 stung me. I could not shoot him as I would a wolf or a 
 panther; yet like these he came upon me. Horses, cattle, 
 and fields, he took from me. He abused our women 
 and children, and told us to go from the land. I asked 
 but for a small piece of these lands, enough to plant 
 and to live upon, far south, a spot where I could lay 
 the ashes of my kindred. This was not granted me. 
 I was put in prison. I escaped. I have again been 
 taken. You have brought me back. I am here in 
 chains. I feel the irons in my heart. You say I must 
 end the war. Look at these irons. Can I go to my 
 warriors? Coacoochee chained! No: do not ask me 
 to see them. I never wish to tread upon my land 
 unless I am free." 
 
 His captor, Colonel Worth, was only the mouthpiece 
 of the Government when he made the chief understand 
 the inevitable, " Submission to removal, or extermi 
 nation." The Indian was then being taught the lesson 
 so often repeated : that his land was his only until the 
 white man was ready to claim it*
 
 EQUIPS HILL. 103 
 
 The Seminoles submitted. The remnant that had 
 escaped the butchery of the Big Cypress came in 
 voluntarily when they heard of the danger which 
 menaced their chief. They consented to emigrate. 
 With their wrongs rankling in their hearts, they were 
 removed to the territor}* west of the line of military 
 posts that guarded' the Arkansas frontier. 
 
 The 1st Dragoons, who had fought them in Florida, 
 were now their neighbors at Fort Gibson. So were 
 their late foes, the Creeks. Forty refugee Creek war 
 riors (whose homes had attracted the greed of Georgia 
 settlers) had fought as allies of the Seminoles and 
 Mickasuckies in the battle of the Big Cypress ; although 
 there was 'opposed to them a Creek regiment, whose 
 major, a Creek Indian, had graduated at West Point. 
 Surrounded by these discordant elements, one mounted 
 regiment of dragoons, three companies of infantiy, and 
 a small detachment of artillery were to keep the peace 
 upon a long line of frontier. 
 
 As stated in the beginning of this chapter, in the 
 fall of 1845, officers and men of the 1st Dragoons, 
 stationed at Fort Gibson, were almost constantly on 
 scout. True, the dismounted Second Regiment had 
 been restored to that acme of all hope to a cavahyman, 
 a seat in the saddle ; but the mutterings of war on 
 the Mexican border had compelled a gathering of 
 Taylor's " Army of Observation " at Corpus Christi, 
 in readiness for any contingency. The reserves at 
 Fort Gibson had been called for ; so the force actually 
 there were kept at hard and constant work. There 
 were rumors of incursions of hostile tribes. A large 
 party of young Seminole braves had ostensibly gone on 
 a distant hunt ; but old Indian fighters among the 
 officers and men began to examine the trails more 
 curiously. They kiiew the war-path was open.
 
 PART IV. 
 
 BABY RUE. 
 
 BFT oh ! as to embrace me she inclined, 
 
 I waked ; she fled ; and day brought back my night. 
 
 JOHN MILTON.
 
 PART IV. 
 
 BABY HUE. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 CALAMITY is man's true touchstone. 
 
 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHEK. 
 
 EXCEPT the frequent absence of Leszinksky and 
 the two soldiers, who now belonged of right to 
 the family, there had been few changes at Bouie's Hill. 
 The one likely to prove most grievous to that loving 
 little circle was, as } r et, scarcely perceptible to a casual 
 observer. Margaret's health was gradually failing. No 
 apparent disease ; but ever since that illness at Casta- 
 lar's, after the accident, she had slowly succumbed to a 
 growing feebleness and delicacy which the doctor had 
 watched with anxious solicitude. Leszinkslry, ordina 
 rily so clear-sighted, so observant, and carefully tender 
 of his wife, was completely deceived b}' the bright color 
 and gay spirits that marked, at his return, the feverish 
 reaction from languor during his now almost constantly 
 enforced absence. 
 
 The rest of the family news can best be gleaned by 
 an evening with Uncle Abram. It was the twent}'- 
 fourth of December. A bright fire of pine-knots, 
 which the old man had gathered in the hills "up the 
 river" to make a hospitable light when the comfort 
 able cabin held guests the patriarch delighted to honor, 
 gave the high lights and deep shadows of a Rembrandt. 
 In front of the fireplace was a table upon which Solo 
 mon was arranging a medley collection of delf, the last 
 pieces of many sets that had adorned hall and kitchen
 
 108 BABY RUE. 
 
 at Mount Hope through the changes of four generations. 
 The light-wood knots were burning in the end of the 
 huge fireplace near where the guests were sitting, whilst 
 in the other Mead was watching the red coals that cov 
 ered his 'possum roast, Awhile he carefully turned the 
 hoe-cakes that both sides might have the required color 
 of golden brown. In a sheltered corner the coffee 
 steamed slowly. Near the pot sat Uncle Abram, and 
 from his coigne of vantage in the shadow he could watch 
 his aids at their work, and yet not lose the admiring 
 looks his guests gave the preparations for the evening 
 feast. These favored guests were the gigantic " Pike " 
 and Black Beaver. The giant sat in the corner near 
 the bright blaze which bronzed his yellow hair and ruddy 
 complexion, deepening the blue eyes until the}- looked 
 like purple ametlrysts set in the huge face of some 
 roughly-sculptured Viking. Near him Black Beaver 
 reclined at ease upon a shaggy buffalo robe, his blanket 
 thrown aside for the greater luxury of the fire. Moc 
 casins and leggings removed, the shapely limbs showed 
 their network of compact, sinewy muscles. The ensemble 
 of light and shade, the rough walls with their mixed orna 
 ments, here a hideous print in the style of art known 
 to the decorative department of the travelling showman, 
 there a magnificent pair of antlers, a dresser decked 
 with the dishes Solomon dared not heap upon the table, 
 an old musket, and numberless strings of onions and 
 dried pumpkin, with here and there bunches of savory 
 herbs hanging from the rafters, combined to form a 
 picture that would have delighted an artist. 
 
 The taciturn guests left to Uncle Abram the delight 
 of a continuous flow of talk. Mead's occupation was 
 too serious for conversation, and even Solomon rarely 
 found time to interrupt the patriarch with question or 
 correction ; so the stream ran freel}'. 
 
 ' ' Yer see ef Marse Stan has to go wid de army to 
 Mexiker, ef dey can't do widouten him, fur he's de 
 on'y one ob dem ossifers dat wus bawn a gineral, leas,t 
 ways his gran'fadder was one, den I dunno what's 
 gwiiie to become o' Miss Marg'ret. She 's a gittin' dat
 
 BABY RUE. 109 
 
 peekid an' white dat I 's mos' 'fraid she 's got de ager an' 
 fever consumshun. (See heah, Mead, you 'tend to dat 
 'possum! I s'pec' he's a burnin'. I smell de cabbage 
 leaves dat 's roun' him a scorchin'.) Well, ef she don't 
 go wid Marse Stan, den she '11 git wusser every day. 
 I 's noticed dat 's what she 's a doin' all de time. 
 Now dis very day befo' Marse Stan cum home she look 
 white as my Miss Mary did dat summer she lef us, an' 
 jes as soon as he got heah her cheeks is like dein big 
 damas' roses at Mount Hope, an' her eyes as bright as 
 dat light-wood a burnin'. I tell yer she 's got fever an' 
 ager consumshun sho. (Solomon, don't yer touch dat 
 big dish; yo' 's too rambitious fur yo' size.) It's a 
 good thing Miss Cas'ler tuck little Miss Rue wid her to 
 de ranch. She was a-aggravatin' her mother an' makin' 
 her wuss. I never did see a chile like her nohow. She 
 ain't quite three year ole an' she sticks on dat little Injin 
 pony Marse Bob Stearns brung her, jes like a monkey. 
 I s'pec' clem ole Desinkskys mus' a had some Injin blood. 
 She ac' like it, she do. I don't mean no 'fence to 3'ou, 
 Black Beaver ; but she ar' dat cantakerous when }'er try 
 to make her behave like a little white lad}'. Not as I kin 
 say she cries or hollers ; fur she don't dat. But 't ain't 
 no use wurritin' her. I see Miss Marg'ret done guv 
 up try in' to break her in. Not dat she don't lub her 
 mother needer, but yer see she 's jes bawn bavin' her 
 own way. She do mine her father, now she knows 
 be 's a Desinksky too ; but she ain't 'fraid o' him one 
 bit. She go 'bout doin' what he say in sich a wa}', so 
 proud-like, dat it 's jes sayin', ' I mine yer, cos I want 
 to; ef I didn't, I wouldn't.' An' she wouldn't. But 
 fur all she so proud-like, she ain't got one bit o' proper 
 scristocratic notion ', she ain't. Now she don't take to 
 me ; but she '11 do anything for Oscar, cos he don't never 
 'tradict her in nothin'. An' Marse Bob Stearns, drunk 
 or sober, she 's his frien'. Now dat time las' Easter, 
 an' she wah n't but two year die, when Marse Bob got 
 on dat big spree an' rode up de steps ob de porch dar, 
 an' ax her to clum up in his lap, she did it, an' on'y 
 laffed an' hollered when he made de boss jump offen de
 
 1 10 BAB Y RUE. 
 
 end ob de porch an' flinged bofe ob 'ein. An' when 
 Miss Marg'ret run out all tremblin' an' pick her up, 
 befo' Oscar heerd de noise an' could get dar, wfry, she 
 jes would n't go in widouten Marse Bob ; an' 1 mus' say, 
 it sobered him, an' he ain't been drunk since. (Mead, 
 I know dat 'possum 's done ; did n't I tole yer long ago ? 
 Now jes' look at dem cabbage leaves yo's a peelin' off ; 
 dey 's burnt all to rags ; but I mus' saj~ it do smell 
 good. Now take dem 'taters outen de fire. Solomon ! 
 let de table 'lone. Don't do no good to keep a fixin' de 
 dishes an' 3-0' all de time stealin' dat sugar.) " 
 
 "No, I ain't, Grandaddj* ; I on'y spilled a little on 
 nry han' a moovin' of it. Dat's all I eat." 
 
 " Well, yo' quit a movin' of it, or I'll move yo' up 
 de lof widouten any supper. Now, Marse Pike, ef 
 you '11 sot at dat end ob de table dar, an' 't ain't no 'fence 
 to j'ou, Black Beaver and me '11 sot here at dis side." 
 
 And so the Viking was throned above the salt : thus 
 the rude courtesy of a negro cabin defined the differ 
 ence in race. Pike and Black Beaver now opened their 
 mouths to some purpose, and Uncle Abram was silenced 
 by the savoiy morsels the two attendants heaped upon 
 his plate. 
 
 There were also guests in the dining-room of Bouie's 
 Hill. At the fort, Leszinksk}',, newh' arrived from an 
 expedition up the Arkansas in search of a band of ma 
 rauding Pawnees, had met Carson and CaptaiifBen just 
 in from the Creek country ; they gladly accepted his 
 invitation to accompan}' him home. Another welcome 
 addition to the party arrived at sundown, the doctor, 
 who had been on a visit to the family of the Cherokee 
 chief at Talequah. Margaret's hot, feverish hand de 
 termined him to warn Leszinksky. Glancing from her 
 burning cheek to her husband, he said, "It is well you 
 are home, Leszinksky. I do not like Mrs. Leszinksky's 
 languor when you are awaj- any better than I do this 
 veiy high color, which is certainly feverish." 
 
 " Don't believe him, Mrs. Leszinksky," broke in Cap 
 tain Ben's cheery voice, " you were never looking better. 
 Randall 's getting to be a regular calomel croaker. He
 
 BABY RUE. Ill 
 
 has certainly frightened the color out of Leszinksky's 
 brown face ; so, to get even, keep yours. Wlty, Miss 
 Stephanie has a little pale-rose bloom in her cheeks this 
 evening, because Randall's pill-bags have been at Tale- 
 quah for a week " ; and he pinched the shell-like ear of 
 the daughter of Paul Castalar, and went on with a merry 
 teasing which the little child-woman resented with a 
 gravity that delighted him. 
 
 Leszinksk}*'s fears were aroused. All through the 
 supper he watched Margaret's face, and grew more 
 grave as he began to understand the story it told : she 
 was much thinner, and that deep circle around the eyes 
 and the blue veins of the pale temples, were all parts of 
 the history. Carson, too, was observant ; and Marga 
 ret, feeling the watching, blushed and paled visibly. 
 Then somehow Captain Ben caught the prevailing infec 
 tion of fear ; and, to hide it, grew more noisy. The 
 doctor led the conversation into another channel of 
 anxiety by an inquiry : 
 
 " What of the Seininole hunting-party, Captain Moore? 
 Has it gone to Mexico ? " 
 
 "Yes; it is impossible to believe anj'thing else. 
 Black Beaver and Stearns followed them to the Washita 
 River, whilst we waited in camp on the South Canadian 
 near their village. They were positive that it was a 
 war party. Black Beaver is the best trailer I know, 
 and Stearns's judgment as a frontiersman is simply per 
 fect. Moreover, I learned from some friendl}' Indians 
 that the party was composed of }"oung Seminole braves 
 and the disaffected Creeks who came with the Seminoles 
 from Florida. I know what they are up to. The Indian 
 women were all left at the village, provisioned for the 
 winter, whilst the negro settlement is deserted, which 
 proves it was no hunting expedition. The young braves 
 are burning for martial fame and a seat in the council. 
 I saw Coacoochee and saw that he had no love for us. 
 He has not forgotten old scores, although he has 
 learned that peace is the policy of his people. It is 
 possible that he could not control the young men. It is 
 also possible that he did not care to, if they were suffi-
 
 112 BABY RUE. 
 
 ciently prudent in the start not to inculpate those who 
 stay at home." 
 
 ' ' Do you think there will be trouble here ? " asked the 
 doctor. 
 
 "None ; unless from the Pawnees, who will naturally 
 grow bolder as our force is weakened. Leszinksky can 
 tell you news of them." 
 
 " Very little that is certain," said Leszinksky. " We 
 only learned that there are small marauding parties out 
 along the frontier. We heard of two which were going 
 toward the Canadian and probably further south. The 
 most alarming rumor is that they have made, or are 
 about to make, an alliance with the Comanchesof Sena- 
 co's band. I know they are in motion, their signals 
 were always before us. We saw the smoke rising from 
 peak to peak of every hill-top on our way out. The 
 signals multiplied behind us as we returned." 
 
 " You did not tell me of that, Leszinksky," said Cap 
 tain Moore. " I don't like the idea of these signals 
 following you. Where did you leave them ? " 
 
 " At the junction of the Red Fork." 
 
 " What direction from you ? " 
 
 "South. Nearly all the hill-tops south caught the 
 signal and answered." 
 
 " Did you report that fully to Colonel Kearny ? " 
 
 " I mentioned the signals, but possibly did not give 
 them the importance they deserved." 
 
 " The}- are all-important when the hostiles are out on 
 a fora}-. I should not wonder if the}' struck some out 
 lying ranch near us. Who is at Castalar's?" 
 
 " My baby Rue is there ! " broke in Margaret ex 
 citedly. " She is coming home to-morrow. " 
 
 " Calm yourself, my dear Mrs. Leszinksky. She is 
 in no danger. We are just in from the suspected dis 
 tricts ; but in a week or two it might not be quite safe. 
 Fortunately I sent Stearns to Castalar's to tell him to 
 guard his cattle from thieving parties, and also to ad 
 vise that he send the non-fighting part of the family 
 here. I do not know that Rue belongs to the peace 
 party, but still she will come with the non-combatants." 
 And Captain Moore laughed heartily, partly at Rue's
 
 BABY RUE. 113 
 
 well-known peace principles, and partly to cairn her 
 mother. 
 
 Before the ring of the laughter died the door opened, 
 and Bob Stearns staggered in, more haggard and wild 
 in appearance than when we first met him at the ford of 
 the Canadian. lie looked at Margaret, and then dropped 
 on his knees with his face covered by his hands. All 
 sprang to their feet. Leszinksky put his arm around 
 his wife, who paled and trembled like an aspen, before 
 the coming storm. 
 
 " What is it, man? Can't you speak?" said Captain 
 Moore. 
 
 " Take her out of here before I tell it. God o' mercy, 
 take her out ! " 
 
 " My babj' Eue my darling! She loved you 
 tell me what of her? It is that I know. Oh, tell me ! 
 If God has taken her I can bear it. She is safe with 
 my Heavenly Father tell me it is THAT ! " 
 
 "Tell her," said the doctor, forcing Bob to speak. 
 " This suspense is worse than what you have to tell." 
 
 " She ain't dead, marm. I wish to God she was, so 
 be and you could bar it. She 's a prisoner with them 
 damned Pawnees. She 's the only human thing they 
 spar'd outen the butchery thar at Castalar's." 
 
 The bolt had gone straight to the mother's heart. 
 There was no outcry, only a pitiful white face, with 
 a wan, unmeaning smile upon it, turned from one to 
 another, and then with a murmui'ed ' ' M_y little daughter, 
 you said I do not understand. Rue? Bab}' Rue! 
 She is coming to-morrow, for Christmas my bab}". 
 She will come, Stan. It is her fete day. You remem 
 ber, Doctor, she was christened on Christmas. You 
 are all here in time. Her god-father, too just in time. 
 Madame Castalar will bring her. Don't cry, Bob she 
 loves 3-011. I always can trust you now. You have not 
 been drunk since that day I thought you had killed her. 
 What is wrong with you all? Rue is coming Baby 
 Rue ! Are you not glad, Stan ? " then a burst of h} T steri- 
 cal tears and mad laughter, calling her child, always 
 calling her child, " Baby Rue, little daughter ! Rue! 
 Rue ! Baby Rue ! " 8
 
 114 BABY RUE. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 the difference of divers men in the tenderness of their con 
 sciences ! Some are scarcely touched with a wound, whilst others 
 are wounded with a touch therein. FULLER. 
 
 IT is needful for the understanding of this history to go 
 back to the moment when, in obedience to Captain 
 Moore's order, Bob left the command to warn Castalar 
 of the probable incursion of thieving parties of hostiles. 
 A few weeks previous Bob had met at the fort a trapper, 
 an old comrade, in from the headwaters of the San 
 Bois. The trapper had given a very accurate descrip 
 tion of the situation of his camp ; and a cordial invita 
 tion to Bob to visit it, if at any time his duties as scout 
 led him to that neighborhood. Remembering the soli 
 tary condition of his old friend, who had no idea of any 
 immediate trouble with Indians, Bob thought it no vio 
 lation of orders to make a slight detour from the direct 
 route to Castalar Vallej- and give the trapper the benefit 
 of the warning he was taking to the ranch. 
 
 The camp was at the head of a secluded little ravine, 
 through which flowed one of the smallest tributaries of 
 the San Bois. The judgment of the old Indian fighter 
 had ruled in its selection. The winding path that led 
 up the ravine was on a low ledge of broken rock over 
 hung by jutting points fringed with lengths of trailing 
 vines that touched the tops of the swamp-willows that 
 formed a dense thicket on the south side of the boggy 
 banks of the little rivulet. Across the narrow stream 
 on the north, pond-lilies grew to the very edge of the 
 abrupt and perpendicular cliff. At the head of the ra-
 
 BABY RUE. 115 
 
 vine the bluffs widened suddenly, and then joined at the 
 point where a little cascade issued from a clear, cold 
 spring in the cleft rock ; thus forming a circular setting 
 of wooded heights to a lovely little valley which the 
 spray had kept fresh and green up to this late season. 
 
 It was after sunset : the trapper had not yet returned 
 from his rounds, but, sure of his welcome, Bob un 
 saddled and tethered his horse, and, finding in the 
 Comanche-like lodge of his friend ample provision, 
 commenced the preparation of the evening meal, chuck 
 ling with quiet glee as he thought of the surprise he 
 was about to give his old comrade of the plains. The 
 meal ready, Bob waited until hunger got the better of 
 courtesy. After eating his supper, he remembered a 
 package of tobacco he had seen on an upper shelf of 
 the lodge, so he added a few logs to the fire and took a 
 burning brand of dry pine to light his search. Unfor 
 tunately, behind the tobacco was a large flat bottle or 
 whiskey. Resolutely Bob turned from the temptation, 
 but out in the growing darkness, try all he could, 
 and he did try manfully, the bottle, like Macbeth's 
 dagger, was palpable to sight. The pipe no longer 
 soothed : it only suggested a greater pleasure. One 
 habit indulged, the suppression of the -other grew 
 more difficult. The old, mad longing for alcohol came 
 upon him in his loneliness. One by one the sophisms 
 of the drunkard hushed the voice of reason of con 
 science. " He would take just one drink, only one. 
 That could do no harm. He was tired and sleepy. 
 He would onl} r take a moderate drink, and then doze 
 out there under the stars until his friend came. He 
 had been with Black Beaver on that long scout to the 
 AVashita. He needed a drink ; people always needed 
 anything they craved like this ; he had heard the doctor 
 say as much long ago, that time he had the fever in 
 Florida. Only one drink, and then he would wrap up 
 in his blanket and sleep out here by the fire. That 
 would do him good. He would then be all strength 
 ened and ready for that long ride to-morrow. He 
 could get to Castalar's to breakfast, and report at the
 
 Il6 BABY RUE. 
 
 fort in the evening. He was not ordered to be there 
 sooner." And so the fiend conquered him. 
 
 It was nearly midnight when the trapper returned, and 
 found Bob lost to consciousness in the deep, heavy 
 sleep of the drunkard. 
 
 The sun was shining brightly in the little valley when 
 Bob awoke. Sleeping in the clear, crisp air had nearly 
 sobered him. The sight of his friend and the smell of 
 the freshly made coffee brought him to his feet. 
 
 " I say, Tisson, if you had n't a-told me all about the 
 windin's of this little creek I never could a-found 3-0' 
 place up here. It 's a might}' good thing it 's so well 
 hid, for I jus' come to tell you them damned Pawnees 
 is up agin." 
 
 "I know it; I seed 'em: but hurry up now, and 
 souse yo' head in that trough thai 1 to git the kinks 
 outen it. Yer mos' finished all my meddysin fur me 
 las' night." 
 
 Looking like a school-boy who has deserved and 
 awaits punishment, Bob obe3'ed. Two or three times 
 he plunged his head in the trough of running water, 
 which seemed warm in that sharp December air, and 
 then rubbed it vigorous^ with a rough towel, that 
 hanging upon a pole above the trough made a luxurious 
 toilet equipage for a backwoodsman. 
 
 The hot coffee and venison steak in a measure re 
 paired the effects of the debauch, which had not lasted 
 long enough to get the nerves fully in the toils. Tisson 
 soon cleared away the remains of the breakfast, and, 
 producing pipes and tobacco, was ready to exchange 
 news. The trapper began : 
 
 ^' I knowed thar must be mischief up. I was down 
 thar on the San Bois yesteddy about sundown below 
 the mouth of this here branch. It jus' happened I had 
 tied my hoss about a half mile furder up in the bushes, 
 and was a lookin' along at my traps thar, when I heerd 
 somebody comin'. I thought fust about you, and then 
 I thought ma\*be it moughtn't be 3*011, and I better not 
 show thar was am' traps thar. So I stooped down in 
 the bushes and presently one o' them cussed Pawnees
 
 BABY RUE. 117 
 
 come ridin' along in his war-paint. Now, that tuck me 
 all aback. You see the imperence o' the varmint, way 
 over here outen his beat, right under the nose o' the fort 
 you may say, and I was jus' a-goin' to fetch him (I had 
 a cl'ar bead on him) when I seed the bundle he was 
 carryin' was a little young un. Now, you see, if 'twas 
 a white child he had stole I mought a hurt it, and if 
 't was a pappoose and I killed him I would n't know what 
 to do with it, cos, you see, I could n't brain it like a Injin 
 would. So I was kinder kumflabbergasted. He was a 
 powerful mean-lookin' Injin. I saw him close, fur he 
 brushed the bushes whar I was. His nose was cut bad, 
 and thar was a long scar clar across the side of his 
 face. I 'm sho' some dragoon must a done it, fur it 
 looked like a sabre-cut. Jus' when he passed me the 
 young un kicked and fit, and give a mad-like little cry, 
 and somethin' dropped right by me. It was on'}' TI 
 little moccasin, so I knowed it was a pappoose and I let 
 him go on. And it was mighty well I did, fur ten 
 minutes arter I saw a whole pack o' them red devils 
 ridin' 'long the other side the creek, all in thar war 
 paint and a drivin' a lot o' bosses and mustangs, 
 haltered together, that they mus' a stole. If it had n't 
 been fur this little moccasin, that I kep' cos 'twas so 
 purty, I 'd a-been sho that young un was a white child 
 they'd stole." 
 
 " Lemme see that moccasin," said Bob, with a face 
 so scared and white that Tisson sprang to his feet in 
 alarm as he handed the tiny thing to Bob. 
 
 " Yes, it's hers ; I brought 'em to her from up the 
 Osage country. That 's two weeks ago, and she 
 would n't war an}'thing else " ; and the poor fellow looked 
 at the little covering of a baby's foot as if his sense of 
 all else on earth had vanished. 
 
 " Who? What do you mean? Why, Bob, I believe 
 you 're drunk }"et." 
 
 " This is the wust cuss the liquor 's brought me yet. 
 It 's jus' that, and I swore to myself the day I mos' 
 killed her that I 'd quit. If I had n't been drunk when 
 3'ou come last night we mought a-got her out o' thar
 
 Il8 BABY RUE. 
 
 clutches. And now now I can't tell what devils' 
 doin's has been at Castalar's ; and I did n't know she 
 was thar ; and her mother they must a-killed her 
 mother 'fore they got her." 
 
 "Who is she, Bob? Are you drunk or crazy? " 
 
 " It 's the little capt'n's moccasin, little Miss Rue, 
 the leftenant's little babj'. They 've been gooder to me 
 than God. Her mother come straight from heaven, 
 and her father 's the best and bravest man sence Julius 
 Caesar or Jesus Christ. But we ain't got no call to stop 
 here. Tisson, you're a man, and so am I, leastways 
 when the devil of drink ain't got me. We '11 get her 
 agin, so be and all the Pawnees in hell was back in the 
 woods here between us and her. I swar by my ole 
 mother and my dead wife, and the chillen I mought a- 
 had, and her, that I '11 never put another drop of cussed 
 liquor in my mouth till I see her safe and sound with 
 her folks." 
 
 Two hours' hard riding brought them to Castalar's. 
 Tisson had persuaded Bob to go there first. The trail 
 of the marauders was eas}- to find : they were a large 
 part}', and evidently did not expect immediate pursuit. 
 Bob had listened to reason ; and, seeing the trail might 
 lead into the Indian country, knew it was the best and 
 only safe and right way to go first to Castalar's, find 
 out the extent of the misfortune, and then send or go 
 to the fort for assistance. 
 
 The first glance down the valley told the tale of 
 horror. The house was a heap of smouldering logs.
 
 BABY RUE. 119 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 HE cometh unto you with a tale which holdeth children from 
 their play and old men from the chimney-corner. SIK PHILIP 
 SIDNEY. 
 
 MARGARET bad been taken to her room in violent 
 hysterics, when Stephanie Castalar, who had 
 listened to Bob's announcement of the tragedy without 
 an outcry, suddenly dropped, like some wild thing who 
 has vainly tried to repress the pain of a death-wound. 
 Captain Moore threw open the window, and let in the 
 clear, cold air, whilst Carson chafed the girl's hands. 
 
 All this time Bob Stearns stood looking helplessly 
 about, listening to the wild cries that came through the 
 closed doors from the room where the stricken mother 
 la}- in her agony. 
 
 The stooped and relaxed pose of the soldier expressed 
 his crushed, hopeless condition. Ever}- muscle was un 
 strung. His very sorrow seemed to shrink out of sight 
 in the presence of a deeper grief. The manliest part of 
 Bob's nature came always in action rather than endur 
 ance ; and now he must wait for the decision of his 
 superiors. There was nothing more trying to him than 
 to wait. He wanted to tell the whole story, to have 
 done with the questions that would be asked. His con 
 science pressed him sore, and he had the vague hope of 
 a child who trusts to get rid of the burden of a repented 
 fault by confessing it. Even penitence with Bob ex 
 pressed itself better in action than in words. He wanted 
 to be off, following the bloody trail up the San Bois. 
 He wondered how any one could delay a moment, now
 
 120 BABY RUE. 
 
 they had heard of Rue's danger. The child was every 
 thing to him. She was his conscience. The danger he had 
 saved her from, the danger he had placed her in, led all 
 his thoughts to her. He had tried hard to keep sober 
 for her sake ; and now there was a tinge of superstition 
 mixed with his sorrow. He had only been drunk twice 
 since this Christmas eve a year ago, and both times he 
 had put Rue's life in danger ; for he could not rid him 
 self of the belief that, if he had not drunk Tisson's 
 whiskey, he would, single-handed, have followed the 
 baby and saved her. He felt now that the hour for 
 saving her had passed. It was the night before the 
 night he had lain like a log, whilst she moaned and 
 fought in the hands of her captors the recapture should 
 have been attempted. Then the Indians rested, fear 
 less of pursuit, in a county where he knew every foot 
 of the ground. Where he could have turned ever} r acci 
 dent of formation in hill and ravine into a helper, with 
 Tisson to assist, he could have brought her unscathed 
 out of the midst of the savages. But now he must wait. 
 He was no longer a man free to think, to plan, to act : 
 he was only a dragoon waiting for orders. His aimless 
 thinking had at length resolved itself into the resolution 
 to desert again, and follow her through the trackless 
 wilderness like a faithful dog, when Sara and the doctor 
 came from Margaret's room, where the cries had sunk to 
 low moans. They carried away the unconscious Ste 
 phanie, who had been so suddenly bereft of home and 
 kindred. Then, as Bob's questioning commenced, 
 Leszinksky returned. 
 
 "What did we see at the ranch? Why, 'twas a 
 sight to make a Quaker swar he 'd kill Injins the rest 
 of his life. The house had fell, and was still a-burnin'. 
 We pried up some logs, and found a lot of half-burnt 
 bodies, Madame Castalar and the little children. I 
 thought Mrs. Leszinksky was thar too till I got here. In 
 the kitchen and cabins the nigger women and children 
 was butchered. Some little ones was a-lyin' dead out 
 side, smashed well, you know how Injins kill 'em. 
 Castalar and three of the nigger men was killed and
 
 BABY RUE. 121 
 
 sculped in the corral ; two more niggers was a-lyin' dead, 
 and sculped, down by the sheep-pen. Thar 's whar 
 Stephen was killed, and thar 's whar they got our baby! " 
 Here his voice broke into pained gasps. 
 
 " How do you know? " asked Leszinksky, whose face 
 was as colorless and pained and sweet as that pictured 
 of the Sufferer in Gethsemane. 
 
 " Why, that's the on'y place any fight was made. 
 The rest on 'em up at the house was killed sooner. 
 Them two men was thar fixin' the shed for the lambs. 
 We could see whar they left thar work. Stephen had 
 the little capt'n with him. He had put a board, with a 
 piece of sheep-skin over it, in a crossed place in the 
 fence-corner whar she could see the lambs. When he 
 saw the Jnjins, he tuck her and run with her to a pile 
 of logs. I could see his steps runnin' in the soft mud 
 down thar. He drapt his hat inside the pen when he 
 reached to get her outen the little seat she was in. 
 Then he must a-seen more comin' the other way. He 
 was unsartain like ; for he put her in between the logs 
 and stopped. Thar I found this little bonnet o' hers." 
 And he took out a blood-stained little blue hood, and 
 gave her father, who put it in his breast with a groan. 
 Carson turned to hide the tears that would come ; whilst 
 Captain Ben, with a half-smothered oath, strode up to 
 the open window, where Black Beaver and Pike were 
 trying to hear the story. 
 
 " Come in here, and listen to Stearns's description. 
 You must know just where we have to look for the child. 
 Black Beaver, see if you can make out who has taken 
 her." 
 
 The giant swung himself into the room; after him, 
 with a light bound, sprang Black Beaver. 
 
 Calmly, but with a low, vibrating tone that told of 
 repressed feeling, Leszinksky said : " Do you think my 
 child was unhurt?" 
 
 " Yes, Leftenant. The blood on her little bonnet is 
 Stephen's. Thar was a pile of logs, and he put her in 
 among 'em, whar a buUet would n't strike her. He 
 must a-called to the niggers, for they come to him,
 
 122 BABY RUE. 
 
 runnin'. Thar long jumpin' tracks was eas}' to see ; and 
 they had the axes they was a-workin' with. Stephen 
 fought mighty cool for a boy. He had them derringers 
 you give him, and he waited till the niggers was by him 
 with thar axes. - I could see thar tracks all together, 
 standin' squar' and steady like. The niggers fought 
 like white men, and brave men at that. Stephen must 
 a-killed the fust Injin he shot at close by the logs, and 
 one of them niggers clove another red devil most in two 
 with his axe a few feet closer in. That 's how I know 
 Stephen waited. He knew from the fust 't was a losin' 
 fight ; but he tried his best for the baby's sake. The}- all 
 fought outside the logs 'cause of her bein' in 'em. And 
 just at the last, when the niggers was dead, and Stephen 
 was shot in the leg and settin' on the log by the baby, 
 he cut down another Injin with a axe, and then shot 
 down one that was gettin' in behind the baby with the 
 loaded derringer he had kep' for the last. He must 
 a-been mos' faintin' when he shot, for he la}- with his 
 hand restin' on the log, jus' by the baby, to shoot ; the 
 powder scorched the bark. I could see whar' he caught 
 her and pushed her down in the damp thar. I could see 
 she had been standin'. I reckon she got up to look ; she 
 ain't 'fraid o' nothin'. The little moccasin tracks was 
 plain, and then I saw whar she had been pushed over, 
 and it must a-been Stephen, for his arm was lyin' 
 close to the place, and the derringer in his hand, when 
 we found him. He was riddled with arrows, and cut 
 with a tomahawk, and sculped. A big Injin got the 
 baby. His tracks was thar, in between the logs. I 
 dunnohow it come he did n't kill her ; but he did n't, for 
 when Tisson saw her she was hollerin' mad-like, and 
 scratchin' and kickin' like a young catamount." 
 
 " Who is Tisson, and where did he see her? " asked 
 all the officers in a breath. 
 
 Then Bob told the story of his visit and his friend's 
 account of the marauding party, not shielding his fault 
 from blame, but -adding : 
 
 " It 's the hardest of all, Leftenant. I mought a-got 
 thar and warned 'em, if I had n't a-gone by Tisson's ;
 
 BABY RUE. 123 
 
 and I mought a-been arter 'em and Tisson here to tell 
 you 'bout it this rnornin', and we could a-had a better 
 chance follerin' 'em, if I had n't a-got drunk last night. 
 It 's stopped me this time. The devil 's lost his chance 
 at me, leastways till the little capt'n 's back here 
 safe." 
 
 Black Beaver gave a significant " Humph ! " and then 
 asked : " You say him big Pawnee got heap long cut off 
 his nose on um face ? " 
 
 " Yes, a sabre-cut, Tisson said." 
 
 u You see him track?" 
 
 " Yes ; whar he found the baby : then we follered it 
 to his horse. He limped on one foot." 
 
 " Humph ! How jou know?" 
 
 "One foot dragged always on the same side. You 
 have seen me trail Injins. You know I can see." 
 
 "Yes, white man got eyes heap good. Sometimes 
 see too much see tings never was. Dis time no see 
 miff no see which foot go bad." 
 
 " Yes, I did. I follered the trail going south. The 
 right foot dragged." 
 
 "Humph! Right foot go lame heap long cut on 
 nose : which side ? " 
 
 " The right side. Tisson told me that, I remember 
 now." 
 
 "Humph! Good ting heap 'member sometime." 
 Then he turned to Leszinksk}- : 
 
 " Lo-loch-to-hoo-la, Big Chief got um pappoose. 
 Wolf Pawnee on em war-path." 
 
 The doctor had returned in time to hear the question 
 ing. Leszinksky said to him : 
 
 "Doctor, I leave my wife in your care. It is hard 
 to leave her, but my first duty is to follow my little 
 daughter. We may have to go into the heart of the 
 Indian country. If it please God that I do not return, 
 you will take my wife to her friends in Memphis. I 
 rel}' upon 3~ou as I would upon a brother." 
 
 "Thank you, Leszinksk}-, for the trust. I will try to 
 deserve it. I have given Mrs. Leszinksky a composing 
 draught, and can leave her with Sara until I go to the
 
 124 BABY RUE. 
 
 fort. I must arrange for Cooliclge to go with you. A 
 surgeon may be needed in your party." 
 
 Captain Moore interrupted : 
 
 " Stay here, Leszinksky, with Stearns, Pike, and 
 Black Beaver until the doctor returns from the fort. 
 After this daring piece of deviltry we cannot risk Mrs. 
 Leszinksky here without an efficient defence. I will go 
 to the fort with the doctor and report to Colonel Kearny. 
 I shall ask for my compan}' to go with you. The doc 
 tor will return in time for you to meet us at the ford 
 of the Arkansas. We will try to be at Castalar's by 
 daylight. From there we shall follow the trail of these 
 devils. As sure as there is a God, we will get Rue out 
 of their clutches ! "
 
 BABY RUE. 12$ 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THESE let us wish away ; 
 
 And turn, sole-thoughted, to one lady there. 
 
 KEATS. 
 
 AT the quarters of the commanding officer, Colonel 
 Kearny, the Whist Club was in full force that 
 night. The best players of the 1st Dragoons were 
 pitted against an adversary, not only famous in the 
 army, that school of whist, but among the masters of 
 the game in Washington ; where he and the gallant 
 3'oung aide of the commander-in-chief won three suc 
 cessive rubbers that famous night when they played 
 the champions of the Congressional Club, a victory 
 not counted in official reports nor inscribed upon regi 
 mental banners ; but one of which every young subal 
 tern and "old mustache" in the service was justly 
 proud. After that night the newest fledged cadet from 
 West Point never touched a pack of cards in the pres 
 ence of base civilians without some knowing reference to 
 that game, " where old Ben Beall and little Phil Kearny 
 taught those ' nobs ' in Washington a few army points " ; 
 or, "You have heard, of course, of that night at the 
 Congressional when the last rubber was played at thou 
 sand-dollar points ; when the arm} 7 , from the general-in- 
 chief down, backed their players with every cent they 
 could raise. Why, they say old S. bet W. of Massa 
 chusetts a 3 T ear's salaiy in advance. C., one of the 
 Congressional champions, mortgaged his plantation the 
 next day to take up his I. O. U's. They've fought shy 
 Of the army ever since." 
 
 The first rubber was finished, and the host, in a testy
 
 126 BABY RUE. 
 
 way, that showed the loser's temper, although it did not 
 conquer his hospitalit}*, was mixing a generous bowl of 
 steaming punch, throwing occasional expletives at his 
 late partner, who persistently tried to explain. 
 
 " If 3'ou had understood my play, and forced trumps 
 once more, then my long suit at spades was good for 
 the odd." 
 
 " Damn your long suit ! Beall played after you. He 
 had a fist full of little trumps, and trumped spades every 
 time. You cut my hand like hell all through the game." 
 
 Then, relenting in temper, and anxious to make 
 amende without formal apology, he turned to their smil 
 ing opponent, the ideal cavalry-man of his time. 
 
 "I sa}', Beall, sing us one of your old Florida 
 songs while the punch is brewing. Old McKenzie at 
 Fort Snelling taught me this Scotch brew. It's the 
 secret of ' Ours.' I '11 bet you a cool hundred there 
 isn't a man in the Second, unless it's some fellow 
 transferred from the First, can compound such a bowl 
 of nectar." 
 
 " I will sing the song and take the bet. It's the only 
 way to harmonize you with that unluckj- partner of 
 yours. Why, the poor fellow is in a cold sweat with 
 the tickle of 3'our sugar}- compliments." 
 
 " Damn his sweat, and his spades!" growled the 
 colonel. " Let us have the song." And the half- 
 smothered laugh hushed as the beau subreur began. 
 
 "Wrapt in his blanket, the soldier is sleeping 
 Under the stars, and the pale crescent moon ; 
 
 Out in the hummock his brother is keeping 
 Watch, near the slumbrous and silent lagoon. 
 
 Far to the North is the home of their mother, 
 Set where the hills catch the song of the streams. 
 
 She prays for the picket ; she weeps for his brother, 
 Who laughs with his love in the Palace of Dreams. 
 
 A whir in the air ! The picket is lying 
 Prone on the moss. Is he taking his rest ? 
 
 A bird an arrow which was it came flying ? 
 Smnething is sheltered or sheathed in his breast.
 
 BABY RUE. 127 
 
 The camp-fire flashes, the red cedanvood gleams, 
 As the scarlet flame catches the glistening bark ; 
 
 The soldier still sleeps in his Palace of Dreams, 
 
 Though some one is stirring, out there in the dark. 
 
 From hummock, and swamp, and Everglade islands, 
 War-whoop and shot wake the slumbrous lagoon. 
 
 Two hearts are desolate there in the highlands, 
 Two sleepers are sleeping here 'neath the moon. 
 
 There was a pathos in the manner of the singer, a 
 thrilling quality in the round, full notes of the splendid 
 baritone, that was magical in effect. Sung as only Ben 
 Beall could sing an army ballad, the words made a pic 
 ture every shade of which was distinct and palpable to 
 these rough fighters. There was no outburst of ap 
 plause, no claque; not only no prodigalitj', but no 
 expression of compliment. The sentiment of soldiers 
 is usually best defined in action ; yet they understood 
 each other, and the musician could read the effect of his 
 song in the uneasy scrape of a heav} T cavalry-boot or the 
 sonorous blow of some arched proboscis. The colonel 
 had forgotten his brew, and sat glowering in the fire, 
 with a look on his face that told 
 
 " From the present back to the past, 
 There is only a step to be made." 
 
 A break to his reverie came in the ringing clink of 
 spurs, as steps hurried up, on, and across the porch to 
 the door, left partly open to dispel the heavy currents of 
 tobacco-smoke. The colonel looked up. 
 
 " Come in, Moore. Yon and Carson are too late for 
 the first rubber. If you had been my partner But 
 what is it, Moore ? You have brought a regular death's- 
 head to the feast. What the devil is up? Nothing, I 
 hope, with the Leszinkskys? Mrs. Leszinksky has been 
 looking ill lately. But I see here is Randall : he would 
 be there if anything was wrong. AVhy don't you speak? 
 What the hell is it that you fear to say ? " 
 
 B} r this time there was a general stir : the officers 
 clustered around the late comers, faces darkened, and 
 hands instinctively clutched for the absent sword-hilts.
 
 128 BABY RUE. 
 
 Hurriedly the story was told. Before the telling was 
 over, the colonel was beset with impetuous offers from 
 volunteers. There were prayerful entreaties, empha 
 sized by deep oaths, that he would let them go at 
 once. 
 
 All the old devotion of the regiment to the fair 
 woman who had come to them a bride ; their affection 
 for and pride in the stainless gentleman, so modestly 
 upright, so fearlessly true, who now suffered from this 
 cruel blow, were intensified and made more personal from 
 their feeling of proprietorship in the baby born in camp. 
 To the married officers she seemed one of their own ; 
 to the homeless subalterns she was the representative of 
 all the}- had left in those distant rose-gardens of Para 
 dise, now dimly seen through the mists of fraternal and 
 filial memories. 
 
 The story of her danger seemed to blot out all other 
 claim. She was their first duty. She needed them. 
 To the dullest imagination, the picture of the little 
 prisoner out there in the forest was vivid and distinct. 
 They saw the child in her pain and grief and anger. 
 Even then there came a grim smile, as they thought of 
 her passionate temper, her power of endurance, her elfin 
 imperiousness. Then there was a longing agony to be 
 off on the trail ; to take her from the blood-stained 
 hands of her captoi*s, if it cost the lives of the entire 
 regiment. Not an officer there would have held his 
 life at an instant's value, if he could have bought her 
 safety with that price. 
 
 The only question was, "Who would stay in the garri 
 son? Universal outcry settled that. All who were there 
 to hear the story must go. There were others in the 
 cantonment, " Les absens ont toujours tort" they 
 might stay. The colonel was carried in this rush of 
 feeling. Yes, they might come, the captains present, 
 with their companies. Well, yes : the .young subal 
 terns whose captains were so unlucky as to be absent 
 might come as volunteers. He himself would leave 
 Wliarton in command. Wharton was ailing, and Mason 
 would return before another week.
 
 BABY RUE. 129 
 
 To this there could be no dissenting voice. Even 
 Major Beall, the guest, who had taken the last week of 
 his leave to spend Christmas with the 1st, before rejoin 
 ing General Tajior in Texas, now insisted that his near 
 est route to his command was the path taken by the 
 marauders. 
 
 All night long there was the tramp of horses, the clank 
 of sabres, the ring of spurs, the hundred noises that 
 told of hurried preparation. The dawning light of the 
 Christmas Day saw the rear-guard of the expedition, 
 with its line of wagons and pack-mules, leave the fort. 
 The advance column of Captain Moore's company 
 escorting the colonel and his staff, with whom rode Major 
 Beall had left at midnight. Mr. and Mrs. Page had 
 gone with the doctor and the guard sent to Bouie's 
 Hill. 
 
 Margaret was sleeping when Leszinksky and his little 
 party left. The kindly drug had released her tempo 
 rarily from the bondage of sorrow. The healing of 
 sleep had come to the worn body and racked mind. 
 Nature had opportunity to renew the strength that would 
 be so sorely tried when consciousness returned. 
 
 With the earliest light of day came to Bouie's Hill the 
 wives of Leszinksky's comrades. Later, as the needs 
 of their daily life let them, one by one came the women 
 of the garrison, the veriest termagant and virago 
 among them softened into gentle speech through the 
 wide-reaching magnetism of sorrowing motherhood. 
 Women, weeping silently in the house as consciousness 
 came to the sufferer in that darkened chamber, as she 
 moaned for her child, and would not be comforted ; 
 women on the porch ; others out in the grounds, stand 
 ing in groups with children in their arms, were drawn 
 into the fold of a common sisterhood ~by their sympa 
 thy for the stricken mother. How true, how deep, 
 how sincere the sympathy, I need not try to tell. 
 Not a woman in all this land can fail to remember the 
 painful shock, the quick thrill of agony, that made the 
 grief of one family the common grief of the nation. 
 Even now, when years have come and gone without lift- 
 9
 
 130 BABY RUE. 
 
 ing the veil of that myster} T , there are mother-hearts in 
 all the length and breadth of the land that ache with the 
 burden of their helpless sympathy, whenever the thought 
 of that lost child is uncovered in the treasure-house of 
 memor}^ where it lies, only half-hidden by the daily fears 
 and hopes of life.
 
 PART V. 
 
 THE PURSUIT. 
 
 FOR one fair vision ever fled 
 
 day and night, 
 
 And still we follow'd where she led. 
 
 TENNYSOX.
 
 PART V. 
 
 THE PURSUIT. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 A STOIC of the woods, a man without a tear. 
 
 CAMPBELL. 
 
 THE sagacity of the frontiersman had read as plainly 
 as from the lines of a printed page the history of 
 the affray at Castalar's. Baby Rue was the only pris 
 oner the Indians had taken. An impulse of admiration 
 for the courage of the little child, who, with unquailing 
 look, silently struck at Lo-loch-to-hoo-la with her tiny 
 fist, as he snatched her from the sheltering logs, saved 
 her from instant death. Stephen's dauntless self-devo 
 tion was another factor in the count. The only little 
 eaglet left of such a brood was worth a warrior's keep 
 ing. Courage is first and all in the list of Indian vir 
 tues ; if we 'had time, it would be instructive to study 
 the abstract question of how many qualities it is made 
 to represent in the mind of the red man. 
 
 The blood that had come to our little heroine through 
 the centuries, instinct with the haughty resolution and 
 unyielding will of Milosch-Kabilovitsch, served her at 
 need. The finer courage of the gentle Leszinksky 
 would not have saved her. The fierce, aggressive 
 spirit of the vengeful voyvode was more easil}' under 
 stood and more highly valued by the savage. Thus it 
 happened that a chief on the war-path charged himself 
 with the burden of the brave little child, who was now 
 his own by right of capture. 
 
 The trail followed by the Indians crossed from the
 
 134 BABY RUE. 
 
 headwaters of the San Bois, leaving Tisson's camp sev 
 eral miles to the left, to the headwaters of the Kiame- 
 sha (or Kimishi) River. At the junction of its three 
 principal branches, in a secluded, rocky little valley, hid 
 by the lofty ridges that bordered the river, the party 
 made its first halt, and was speedily joined by detach 
 ments returning from equally successful raids upon the 
 outlying settlements on the hills down the Kiamesha to 
 Varner's ranch in the Red River valle}', almost within 
 sound of the guns at Fort Towson. 
 
 From the highest summit of the ridge, which was bare 
 of all growth save a fantastically trimmed tree, a 
 beacon of the Osages, the Indians sent up balloon- 
 shaped columns of smoke to warn the stragglers of the 
 part}' of their retreat. This is the red man's s}-stem of 
 telegraphy. He builds a small fire, which is not allowed 
 to blaze, then piles an armful of partial!}- green weeds 
 over the fire to smother it ; thus a dense smoke is cre 
 ated. Having established his current, the Indian oper 
 ator confines it by spreading over it his blanket ; with 
 one assistant he can cut off' or almost wholly confine the 
 smoke. Waiting until it begins to escape from the sides, 
 then suddenly withdrawing the blanket, a beautiful, bal 
 loon-shaped column puff's upward, the smoke alternately 
 interrupted and released until successive puffs ascend in 
 regular order. 
 
 This warning given, the war party was soon in motion. 
 Leaving the valley of the Kiamesha directly behind, they 
 rapidly pressed on westward to the headwaters of the 
 Bogg}', in order to cross the Washita above Wild Horse 
 Creek ; whence the trail led south of the Witchita Moun 
 tains, where they could rely upon Comanche reinforce 
 ments as well as aid from the Mexicans, who, since 
 General Taylor's occupation of Texas, had jealousl}' 
 watched the border. The Indians felt sure of one day's 
 advance of an}' pursuers who might follow. Their work 
 had been well done, none had escaped to tell the tale 
 of slaughter : so one day's advance was secure to them. 
 Afterwards, their superior knowledge of the countiy, 
 and the rapidity" of their movement, would distance a 
 hesitating enemy.
 
 THE PURSUIT. 135 
 
 We know how false would have been their hope of a 
 day's start, if Tisson's black bottle had not befriended 
 them. Bob Stearns on their trail, and Tisson at Fort 
 Gibson on the morning of the twenty-fourth, their detour 
 to the Kiamesha would have cost them dear. The bat 
 tle would have been at the crossing of the Middle Boggy, 
 the apex of a triangle of which Fort Towson and old 
 Fort Washita would have been the base. The dragoons 
 would have had them hip and thigh. Unfortunately, 
 Tisson's bottle had bridged the Middle Boggy : so that 
 promising equation was lost. 
 
 At sundown, the evening of the twenty-fourth, they 
 crossed the Middle Boggy, and after a few hours' rest 
 were again in motion, turning northward toward the 
 divide of the Canadian from the Washita. On Christ 
 mas Day they were beyond the headwaters of the Boggy, 
 and now, feeling secure from pursuit that night, turned 
 aside from their direct route to find a resting place for 
 the coming day in a broad and fertile prairie which ex 
 tends into the sand-hills of the Canadian, and where the 
 Blue River has its source. 
 
 All this time Rue had borne herself bravely. She 
 had kicked and fought, as Tisson saw, until she had 
 nearly exhausted the patience of her captor. Fortu 
 nately, she was so worn and tired that she fell asleep 
 at the critical moment, when longer dispute might have 
 been dangerous. The charm of the helpless sleeping 
 child completed the conquest her courage had begun. 
 The rude warrior rode apart from the party, half- 
 ashamed of the care he gave her; yet all the time 
 she was stealing heB way into the heart upon which 
 she rested. One thought of the white man, which had 
 heretofore been the most bitter grudge he held, the 
 remembrance of the death of his children by the fatal 
 disease brought to his wigwam that summer the traders 
 had spread the small-pox through the Indian country, 
 won the child his affection. The last one he lost was 
 her age, a fearless " chincha," always delighted and 
 happy when he returned from the hunt or the war-path. 
 S/te had died in his arms, with her head on his heart,
 
 136 BABY RUE. 
 
 just as this little one was lying. The touch of nature 
 that makes the whole world kin thrilled his pulse. In 
 the gathering gloom the strong, sinew}' arm held her 
 tenderly, changing her position from time to time with 
 wonderful thoughtfulness for so rude a nurse. 
 
 There would have been thanksgiving, not despair, at 
 Bouie's Hill could Tisson have read and told the thoughts 
 of the dusky warrior who passed him in the gloaming. 
 
 During the following day's ride the child's temper, 
 resistant as it was, yielded to the seduction of novelty. 
 There were surprise and curiosity, but as her pro 
 tector noticed with gratified pride no fear in the 
 glance with which she regarded these wild horsemen. 
 Once she laughed outright, a child's sweet, clear, 
 musical laugh, at the curvetings of a vicious pony 
 which a gayly bedecked Indian was breaking to the 
 heavy Mexican curb. From that moment Lo-loch-to- 
 hoo-la was her slave. The laugh was the rippling laugh 
 of the little " chincha." The Great Spirit had given 
 him back the darling of his wigwam. At the next halt, 
 the child, who had hitherto refused the food he offered, 
 ate heartily. After this he had no difficulty with her : 
 and so her Christmas dinner was a feast with Lo-loch- 
 to-hoo-la. Then she slept the unbroken sleep of a 
 tired, healthy child, through the long night-ride which 
 brought them near the desired camping ground. 
 
 As they crossed the last bold, billow} 7 roll that 
 screened it, the advance party saw buffalo feeding in 
 the prairie where they intended to rest. It was the 
 crowning good fortune of their daring and successful 
 raid. They had captured horses and arms and scalps 
 in great numbers ; but the Comanches, whom they 
 were on their way to join, would have driven the 
 buffalo from the country where they were to await the 
 movement of their Mexican allies. Now, at the very 
 moment of need, they could have food for the taking, 
 with ever}- circumstance in their favor. 
 
 They were leeward of the herd, no small point of 
 advantage. The prairie on the west and north was encir 
 cled by steep sand-hills, through which the only exit was
 
 THE PURSUIT. 137 
 
 up the pebbly bed of the creek in the little narrow 
 ravine where Blue River has its source. The plan of 
 attack was simple. Into the narrow gorge the buffalo 
 must be driven ; and, keeping out of sight as much as 
 possible, their best marksmen were placed in every 
 little hollow and cleft, whilst the " runners," mounted 
 on fleet ponies, and armed only with bows and arrows, 
 moved slowly and cautiously southward. When within 
 the right distance a signal was given, and they all 
 opened at once, like a pack of hounds, in a full chorus 
 of yells, dashing up to the herd, and skilfully driving 
 them to the desired point, the cows in headlong 
 panic, whilst an occasional bull would turn for an 
 instant, with a frantic rush upon his pursuers, thus 
 gallantly giving the weaker time to escape. All the 
 time, these perfect horsemen of the plains were whirl 
 ing and coursing among the frightened herd, selecting 
 with the quick judgment of the hunter the fattest and 
 j-oungest for their victims, frequently killing a cow with 
 a single arrow, yet always directing the movement of 
 the herd to the desired point, where the ambush waited. 
 There, at length, the slaughter ceased, from very weari 
 ness in killing. The run of the hunt being over, the 
 Indians proceeded to dispatch the animals they had 
 disabled ; then, cutting up the carcasses, they brought 
 loads of meat to the camp, where the choicest pieces 
 were soon roasted, and a cramming Indian feast 
 began. 
 
 In the attack upon Castalar's Valley, Lo-loch-to- 
 hoo-la had been one of the part}' at the corral when the 
 massacre began. In a fight with dragoons on the Mis 
 souri he had learned the value of an American horse ; 
 consequently, to him " Emperor " was a prize to be won. 
 It was the only one he claimed in the division of booty 
 which was made at the ranch. The gra} T stallion was 
 one of the strongest and fleetest horses on the frontier : 
 of mixed breed, he had the speed and game qualities of 
 the thoroughbred, united to the endurance and staying 
 power of the wild mustang of the plains. 
 
 Burdened with his little captive, Lo-loch-to-hoo-la
 
 138 BABY RUE. 
 
 had thought best to ride his trained war-pony until he 
 should be free to try conclusions with his newly-acquired 
 steed ; so it happened that Emperor had been haltered 
 with the drove until the last stop before turning aside to 
 seek the desired camp. At that halt it had been decided 
 by the chiefs to send on, with a party of the younger 
 warriors, their long train of captured animals and the 
 boys who were driving them, that in event of pursuit 
 they might be free to fight or retreat unencumbered. 
 The pony that had carried Lo-loch-to-hoo-la so far had 
 begun to flag. A change must be made. At his com 
 mand one of the drivers untied Emperor from the line 
 to which he was haltered, and led him to the chief. At 
 first the horse was restive and unruly, turning to eye the 
 horseman who was directing the arrangement of the 
 Comanche saddle and its trappings ; when suddenly, 
 with a snort of recognition, he gentty stooped his head, 
 as the little child in the warrior's arms held out her tiny 
 hand and gravely rubbed his face. It was a caress to 
 which he was accustomed. Stephen had often taken 
 her to ride on Emperor, and had taught her this mode 
 of salutation. The chief had no further difficult}' with 
 the stallion, which had alwa3~s been proudly obedient 
 to and gentle with the children seated upon his back, 
 although he had invariably disputed supremacy with any 
 luckless negro who chose or was ordered to mount him. 
 When the buffalo chase began the chief had declined 
 to join it, merely riding to the top of the ridge, where 
 the eager horse he rode was more amenable to restraint 
 than the excited child, who laughed and shouted with 
 delight at what she evidently regarded as a charming 
 pla}- in the valley before her. During their two da_ys' 
 journe}', Lo-loch-to-hoo-la, with the quick observation 
 of the Indian, had noticed the glances of his compan 
 ions, first at him, then at each other, as they watched 
 his gentle care of the little captive. From surprise their 
 looks had changed to scorn ; then a sullen, contemptuous 
 manner or rude laugh when, at their halts, he attended 
 to the child's comfort marked their disapproval of his 
 conduct. The leaven of discontent had spread. Even
 
 THE PURSUIT. 139 
 
 the young braves and the bo}' drivers gave him hesitat 
 ing obedience. He was now about to have a more 
 decided proof of the disapproval of the baud. 
 
 The warrior was holding Rue firmly as she stood up 
 to watch the hunt, with one hand caught in the broad 
 sash which tied the waist of the soft but now soiled 
 dress, when an arrow cut through the folds of the skirt 
 which the breeze had expanded. It had passed between 
 him and the child : it could scarcely be an accident. All 
 doubt was dispelled at the instant, for a second arrow 
 touched the topmost arch of Emperor's neck ; he had 
 slightly moved at the moment the bolt was sped, and 
 thus saved the child, who, as it was now evident, was 
 the mark aimed at. 
 
 The horse reared and plunged, for the skin was cut, 
 but the curb was pulled, and then, with a slight touch 
 of the huge Mexican spurs and a turn of the muscular 
 wrist, he was reined round and made to leap down the 
 ascent just as a dozen arrows passed harmless!}' above 
 his rider. A derisive burst of laughter, as some one 
 cried, " The old squaw must keep her pappoose out of 
 the war-path." was another evidence of the intent that 
 had speeded those arrows. 
 
 For the last twenty-four hours he had understood that 
 a demand would soon be made for her life. It had been 
 settled they should take no prisoners. He had violated 
 the compact when he spared the child. The first day 
 the thought had come that he might have to give her up 
 to death if the chiefs demanded it of him ; even then 
 he had resolved that her death should be quick and 
 painless that much at least he would do for her ; in 
 no way should she be tortured or subjected to their cruel 
 sport. The second da}', as the wild imaginings of the 
 superstitious savage identified her with the dead " chin- 
 elm," he resolved to save her at all cost, to save her, 
 even if it brought him the disgrace that is attached to a 
 chief who leaves his tribe on the war-path. 
 
 The time had come sooner than he expected, yet he 
 was not unprepared. The change of horses had given 
 him a fresh one, and its speed and endurance he felt he
 
 140 BAB Y RUE. 
 
 could trust. He had decided to leave the party that 
 night : the act was likely to be forced on him before the 
 sheltering night should come to hide the course of the 
 fugitive. It might cost him his life. Well, that was 
 nothing, he risked death daily ; but he must make sure 
 that she did not live after him. She should not fall 
 alive into the hands of enemies who would then take 
 double delight in her suffering. But he would save her 
 if he could. He would even bear the sting of this last 
 insult without resenting it, to save her. Any one who 
 knows the Indian character will know he could give no 
 costlier proof of devotion. 
 
 The only thing now was to gain time. It was mid 
 day : if he could only avoid dispute, and keep the child 
 away from the enemies who sought her life, until even 
 ing, when the hunt and the cram of the feast would be 
 felt, then he might escape with her unharmed. He had 
 revolved this thought in his mind as he stood some dis 
 tance from the camp, under the shelter of some cotton- 
 wood trees. 
 
 Rue was sitting on his blanket on the ground, eating 
 a piece of the bread he had saved from the provisions 
 they had brought from 'Castalar's. She broke off the 
 half and handed him, saying, in her imperious wa}-, 
 " Eat it ! eat it ! " with a gesture that made him 
 understand. 
 
 To gratify her he took it, but only to put it in a 
 pocket he had contrived in the flap of his saddle, where 
 he also had the forethought to place some jerked meat 
 and a piece of roasted beef (the last of Castalar's 
 slaughtered cattle) he had cooked for her, and which 
 she had evidently relished at the morning's halt. If he 
 had to leave suddenly they were provisioned for the 
 flight. He was ready. His quiver full of arrows was 
 slung on his back ; his bow read}' for use in his left 
 hand ; his shield on his arm ; his gun in a buckskin 
 cover hung at the pommel of his saddle, where a lasso 
 was coiled and two folded blankets were tied with 
 thongs. Constantly watching, as Emperor, picketed 
 near, cropped the soft, succulent buffalo-grass, he saw
 
 THE PURSUIT. 141 
 
 even" movement of the hunters as they returned to camp 
 with their loads of meat. 
 
 After a time Rue fell asleep, and he carefully rolled 
 her in the blanket on which she was tying, folding it in 
 such a manner that her head was safely covered, though 
 an opening was left through which the fair little face 
 was visible. 
 
 The rays of the setting sun came aslant the ridge that 
 divided the little hollow, in which was the camp, from 
 the hunting ground of the wide prairie. The chiefs and 
 warriors were grouped around the fires there to the south 
 about five hundred }-ards below Lo-loch-to-hoo-la, in the 
 hollow. Behind them to the east was the country they 
 had devastated. By this time their enemies were aroused : 
 the avengers were now, or soon would be, on their track. 
 Lo-loch-to-hoo-la's judgment would have opposed any 
 delay before crossing the Washita, where Senaco and his 
 band of Comanches were to join them, but his opinion 
 had not been asked. At their last halt the chiefs had 
 conferred apart from him. With the child in his arms 
 he could not claim his place in council ; and deprived of 
 his care she would not have been safe an instant. Even 
 then, he had been forced in a measure to surrender the 
 interests of his tribe to her safety. If he had spoken, 
 if he had urged the danger of pursuit, that moment the 
 child's life would have been demanded of him. So the 
 warrior's supremac}' was lost ; the chief tacitly resigned 
 his leadership. He knew that if he claimed either, he 
 must pay the price of a life he held above his own. 
 There was nothing he could do but fly with her ; and 
 the only possible path of escape was up the pebbly bed 
 of the little creek in the ravine where the hunt had 
 ended. 
 
 There was a movement in the groups down \>y the 
 fires, and at that distance the keen sight of the Indian 
 saw they were watching him. The time had come. 
 To delay them he must take the initiative. Their best 
 ponies were blown with the chase, whilst Emperor had 
 been fed at the morning's halt with corn from the pack- 
 train, and now was fresh and rested. That long after-
 
 142 BABY RUE. 
 
 noon's grazing would tell when he came to measure the 
 miles with flying feet. 
 
 The chief lifted Rue carefully, then vaulting upon 
 Emperor's back laid her on the folded blankets he had 
 tied to the pommel. Under and around the blankets 
 and her, he coiled the lasso of twisted horsehair until it 
 made a network that held her firmly and securely across 
 the saddle. 
 
 The groups by the fires separated, and the warriors 
 scattered in parties of two and three. Did they suspect 
 his intent? 
 
 He rode slowly up the ascent which overlooked the 
 prairie, turning his horse in the direction of the camp, 
 and then stopping as if to look at the scene of the hunt. 
 Thus, without seeming to watch, he could see every 
 movement at the camp and in the prairie to the south, 
 where the ponies were grazing by the creek. Two or 
 three of the scattered parties were coming up the hol 
 low, others sauntered on the ridge and down toward the 
 creek. That was enough. There was no doubt now 
 that the demand was to be made and enforced. What 
 else but a thirst for blood could draw those convives from 
 the feast that was preparing? Slowly he turned to the 
 creek : his last look over the ridge as he crossed showed 
 the warriors who had started up the hollow rapidly 
 climbing the ascent behind him, whilst below them was 
 a quick movement of the others out on the prairie 
 southward. At the creek he paused to let Emperor 
 drink. Again the warriors behind him stopped, while 
 the movement to the south was hastened. Yes ; the} 7 
 suspected his intended flight ; but they supposed it would 
 be across the Washita to Senaco's camp, or still farther, 
 to the Comanche village. The} 7 had never thought of 
 that bold venture into the Canadian Hills, and then north 
 ward through the country of their foes, the Osages, to 
 the trackless wilderness of the salt plains, where winter 
 had commenced in earnest. He was quick to take ad 
 vantage of their error : he turned again toward the ridge. 
 The few warriors who were on it disappeared down the 
 hollow.
 
 THE PURSUIT. 143 
 
 The path to the ravine was clear. This time Emperor 
 was turned northward at a more rapid pace. The war 
 riors near the ponies hesitated. Ever}' instant was gain 
 to Lo-loch-to-hoo-la. A lew moments and he would be 
 in the ravine with even' advantage of the start. But 
 the path was to be disputed. Two of the Indians had 
 gone entirely up the hollow to watch his movements 
 from a ledge in the hills near the entrance to the ravine. 
 They climbed this ledge just as Lo-loch-to-hoo-la turned 
 his head to see if he was pursued. He saw the Indians 
 in the prairie running and mounting in hot haste, and 
 then turning to pursue his course, there, not twenty feet 
 from him, on the ledge to the right, were La-doo-ke-a 
 and Non-je-ning-go, two chiefs of the allied bands of 
 Ottoes who had most openly shown their contempt and 
 disapproval of his conduct. In fact, it was Non-je- 
 ning-go who had called after him so insultingly that 
 morning, and now, to emphasize the insult, repeated it, 
 with an imperious wave of his tomahawk, and an order 
 to " go back to the camp and at once give up the white 
 man's medicine child, who had conjured a chief into an 
 old woman." 
 
 This last insult put an end to Lo-loch-to-hoo-la's pa 
 tience. Snatching his tomahawk from where it hung at 
 his belt, he sent it whizzing through the air at the very 
 moment that of Non-je-ning-go was thrown. The wea 
 pons met mid-way, and, by one of those strange chances 
 in which bystanders get a share in a conflict, one shat 
 tered the foot of Non-je-ning-go, whilst the handle of 
 the other in its rebound laid La-doo-ke-a senseless. In 
 the very act of throwing his tomahawk, Lo-loch-to-hoo-la 
 had covered the sleeping child with his shield. Except 
 for this self-devotion of the chief, here the history of our 
 heroine would have ended ; for at the very moment of 
 his duelling exchange with Non-je-ning-go, a warrior on 
 the ridge aimed at the child across the saddle in front 
 of the chief, hoping thus to end the dissension without 
 the loss of a renowned warrior, whose prowess had been 
 proved in numberless fights with the "Long-knives." 
 The arrow glanced from the tough buffalo-hide, the in-
 
 144 BABY RUE. 
 
 terposition of which had saved the sleeper, but cut the 
 arm of the chief who held the shield. At this point 
 Emperor took it upon himself to end the unequal com 
 bat : a plunging leap took him past the turn of the hill, 
 into the ravine. Following the track made by the buffalo 
 that had escaped up the bed of the now nearly dry 
 creek, Emperor so completely distanced his pursuers 
 that at the end of an hour's ride thej r returned sullenly 
 to camp.
 
 THE PURSUIT. 145 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 ATTEMPT the end, and never stand to doubt: 
 Nothing 's so hard but search will tind it out. 
 
 HERRICK. 
 
 LESZINKSKY overtook the advance party with Colonel 
 Kearny at the ford of the Arkansas. The warm grasp 
 of each comrade's hand as they met him in the star 
 light, spoke their sympathies. Colonel Kearny briefly 
 introduced Major Beall. 
 
 " Leszinksky , here is Beall of the 2d. You know him, 
 if you have not met before." 
 
 " Yes, and I know how valuable an addition he is to 
 our expedition. Major, I do not need to thank you for 
 your kindness in coming with us. I knew you were at 
 the fort, and when the news of this outbreak and my loss 
 reached me, I knew }*ou would come." 
 
 "Thank yon, Lieutenant, for 3*our kindly judgment. 
 I am only too glad to be one of the party of recapture, 
 for I am sure we shall find your little daughter alive. 
 The very fact that she alone was spared out of that mas 
 sacre proves that for some reason she is safe with her 
 captors. Moore tells me he has with him the best 
 trailers and scouts on the frontier : that is all important. 
 Every hour gained now is worth more than we can es 
 timate." 
 
 ' ' We have with the scouts two soldiers of your old 
 Florida command." 
 
 "Who are they?" 
 
 " A giant they call ' Pike,' and Bob Stearns." 
 
 "Yes, I recollect them well. The giant is the most 
 stolidly brave soldier I ever knew. Stearns was only
 
 146 BAB Y RUE. 
 
 a boj- then, but plucky and bright. I should think he 
 would have made an excellent scout." 
 
 " He is one of the best on the frontier. He would have 
 been chief of scouts long ago, but for his one fault. I 
 trust he will overcome that. He is devotedl} 7 attached 
 to my little daughter, whose life he once saved. He 
 brought us the news of the attack at Castalar's." 
 
 " 1 should like to see and question him." 
 
 " If you will ride forward with me, Major. He is 
 there in front." 
 
 "An instant. Colonel, may I serve with the scouts? 
 I can possibly be useful with them : some of my old 
 Florida men are in the corps." 
 
 " Certainly ; where you choose. Say, Beall, suppose 
 you take command of a squadron when our troops come 
 up? I will give 3'ou Moore's company, the scouts, and 
 our Osage allies. You understand Indians, and Moore 
 will show you, if we overtake those scoundrels, how the 
 1st Dragoons can fight." 
 
 "No, give Moore the squadron; but if you like I 
 will be glad to take command of the scouts of his 
 party." 
 
 " Very well, if you prefer that" ; and the colonel rode 
 with Captain Moore, whilst Beall and Leszinksky passed 
 on rapidly to the head of the column. 
 
 Some distance in front were our soldiers and Black 
 Beaver ; with them was Oscar, whose tearful entreaties 
 to come, his master could not resist. The last argu 
 ment had been, " She was sony fur me that time, an' 
 she 'sail I've got lef." Bob's cheeriness and bright 
 spirits had vanished. He was almost as silent as the 
 taciturn Pike. An occasional question from Oscar and 
 answer from Black Beaver made the sole conversation of 
 the party. As the two officers rode up Leszinksky 
 said : 
 
 " Stearns, here is your old Captain of the 2d, 
 Major Beall. He has accepted the command of the 
 scouts and my detachment for this expedition " ; and 
 Leszinksky rode on, questioning Black Beaver, whilst 
 Bob saluted his old captain.
 
 THE PURSUIT. 147 
 
 " I 'm mighty glad 3'ou 're with us, sir ; Ieastwa3's I 
 would be, so be and I could be glad of anything onct 
 more. You see, Capt'n, beg pardon, sir, Major I 
 oughter a-said this accident to the leftenant's little 
 one is part my fault, and if anybody can holp us get her 
 outen the hands of them cussed redskins, I know it's 
 you, sir. I ain't forgot that scout after Waxehadjo ; 
 and how, whenever we went with you after the Semi- 
 nolies, down thar in the Big Cypress, we always got 
 'em. But, Major, these Pawnees is wuss 'an the Semi- 
 nolies." 
 
 " How is that, Stearns?" 
 
 " They ain't so gentlemanlike. Now, Osceola was a 
 gentleman, the real quality, and so is Coacoochee. 
 I saw him last week. But these Pawnees has larnt the 
 wust parts of a white man from them low-down, white- 
 livered traders as. is sent amongst 'em, besides bein' 
 the meanest kind o' Injins. The most of thar fightin' 
 is killin' settlers and stealin' bosses. They goes in for 
 plunder. Now, the Seminolies is genume warriors. 
 You remember, sir, when we found the bodies of the 
 dead after the}' whipped Major Bade, thar wah n't a ring 
 or a watch or a purse even took from 'em. They fit 
 like gentlemen. I must say our dragoons themselves 
 would n't a-done as well by the killed. We 're most apt 
 to fall 'ar to all the property that 's left." 
 
 ' ' You say you saw Coacoochee last week ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; I was over thar at the Seminolie village 
 with Capt'n Moore, and he sent me and Black Beaver 
 to the Washita to investegate the doin's of a party of 
 young Seminolie braves and them nigger Injins who fit 
 agin us in Florida. The people in the village stuck to 
 it they was out on a hunt down by the Washita ; but 
 Black Beaver and me follered thar trail nigh a week, 
 and if it wah n't a war party I 'm a blamed poor judge o' 
 Injins." 
 
 k ' Do you think these marauders are on the way to 
 join them ? " 
 
 ' ' Yes, sir ; it 'pears to me most like that, though 
 they 've never been friends with the Serninolies before.
 
 148 BABY RUE. 
 
 But this here fuss that 's a comin' with Mexico will show 
 before it 's done what kind o' neighbors we 've got out 
 here on the plains. These border Injins '11 quit tightin' 
 one another any time to lift a 'Meriean scalp. You 
 see, sir, they 're mad 'cause the Government keeps a 
 movin' them. So be and I was a Injin, I would n't 
 like it nuther. 'Pears like them treaties was all 
 travellin' contracts." 
 
 " How did Coacoochee look? " 
 
 " Not much like that time I seen him in San Augus- 
 tine. That time he rode through the place with on'y 
 five warriors, jest at sundown, and the garrison was so 
 stunned like that they never moved till he was out in 
 the Pines. I s'pose it was his way to tell ole King 
 Philip to take heart and be a man. You must remem 
 ber it, sir." 
 
 " Yes ; I was one of the stunned garrison," laughed 
 the major. 
 
 " Well, you must say, sir, he did it grand like." 
 
 " Yes, like a knight-errant. Next to Osceola he was 
 the most splendid warrior I ever saw." 
 
 Then the major cross-questioned Bob as to the affair 
 at Castalar's, getting minute details of what seemed 
 unimportant facts, which, before this exhaustive exam 
 ination, had been apparently of little value to the 
 sagacious frontiersman, but which, when reckoned up 
 by his old commander, gave new light to this sinister 
 tragedy. 
 
 The major's brief was not }*et made out when 
 Leszinksky rode back to" meet them, with a new arrival, 
 Tisson. He had cautiously followed the trail from 
 Castalar Valley to the Kiamesha, where the}' had been 
 joined by detached bands ; and from there until he was 
 sure their flight was directed across the headwaters of 
 the Boggy to the Washita, and so by the Comanche 
 trail to the fastnesses of the Witchita Mountains. 
 Having determined their course, Tisson hastened by 
 the most direct route to meet the party he knew would 
 come from Fort Gibson, his hardy little pony having 
 made quite one hundred miles in fifteen hours.
 
 THE PURSUIT. 149 
 
 The command now halted, Colonel Kearny sending 
 back to hasten the march of the troops immediately 
 following, and leaving orders for the rear-guard, with 
 the supply train, to cross the North and South Canadian 
 just above their junction, and then go up the hills on 
 the south branch to the mouth of Little River, where 
 they were to encamp and await orders. Express riders 
 were also sent to Forts Towson and Washita to direct 
 the movement of the military and the volunteers whom 
 the hue and cry of the massacre would already have 
 brought together. 
 
 In two hours two more companies of the 1st, to 
 gether with a party of about fifty Osage Indians, who 
 had arrived at the fort the da}' previous with game and 
 other articles of barter, and who had gladly volunteered 
 to fight Pawnees, halted at the temporary camp. It 
 was now daj'light, and after a hurried breakfast the 
 troops were again in motion, Colonel Kearn}- and the 
 last arrivals going almost directly southward until they 
 should strike the trail of the Pawnees where Tisson had 
 left it; while Captain Moore's company and " BealPs 
 Scouts " as they were already christened were to 
 strike across to the Seminole village on the South 
 Canadian, and then join the main bod}* at the head 
 waters of the Boggv, at a point known as the Willow 
 Cove. 
 
 The movement of Colonel Kearny's command, until 
 their arrival at the given rendezvous, was somewhat 
 dela}-ed by the broken trail, which had separated at 
 several points, the usual Indian stratagem to delay 
 pursuit, and then resumed again, to break and 
 disperse after short halts. The colonel reached Willow 
 Cove before sundown on the twenty-sixth, and found 
 Captain Moore, who had arrived an hour before, arrang 
 ing his camp with the prudence of an officer who knows 
 he is in the enemy's vicinage. Major Beall and the 
 scouts had just started over to the headwaters of the 
 Blue River to examine the indications and see if any of 
 the band of Pawnees had come so far northward. This 
 Captain Moore told the colonel, and also of their stop
 
 ISO BABY RUE. 
 
 at the village of Coacoochee, who, as he said, had 
 received them in a cool, haughty manner. 
 
 "Did you offer any reward for information?" the 
 colonel asked. 
 
 " Yes ; Leszinksky insisted I should, and Beall 
 also advised that I should make a personal appeal to 
 the chief, who, he said, was always a generous, mag 
 nanimous fellow. He preferred I should do. this, as 
 Coacoochee might not listen to any appeal from him. 
 It seems the widow of Waxehadjo is living in Coacoo- 
 chee's lodge. She is his sister, and is insane from the 
 shock of her loss. The dragoons killed two of her 
 children at the time of Waxehadjo's capture, and the 
 two others died on their wa c y from Florida. Then, 
 too, the chief has married the daughter of Osceola. So 
 the family influence would not have been favorable to 
 an entreaty from Beall. I thought Leszinkskj^ would 
 not be sufficiently cool in manner when speaking of his 
 child's danger, so Beall kept him apart while I talked to 
 the chief. He could or would promise nothing. Said 
 his young men were ' off on a hunt.' and that if the 
 Pawnees were on the war-path he knew nothing of it ; 
 that they were enemies of the Seminoles. If they 
 crossed into his country he should repel them ; in that 
 event, if he recaptured the child, he would return her 
 without ransom. He neither warred against nor sold 
 children. This was said with a disdainful look toward 
 Beall, whom it was evident he recognized, for he went 
 into his lodge, and, although he gave us the supplies we 
 asked, he declined payment or gifts. If we have a 
 brush with the Mexicans I should not be surprised if 
 the Seminoles all go on a hunt the other side of the 
 Witchita Mountains." 
 
 "Damn them, let them go! They had better be 
 there than near the settlements, itching to take scalps 
 enough to avenge old scores. The Government had 
 better have finished the ' exterminating ' it commenced 
 in Florida than have forced their removal. It will be 
 the same cry until they are driven into the Pacific. 
 There is n't a gentleman in the army who is n't ashamed
 
 THE PURSUIT. 151 
 
 of the whole damned business. I 'm willing enough to 
 fight them when my blood's up with some such outrage 
 as this last, but I am tired of being a frontier police 
 man, alwaj's yelling ' Move on ! ' to some red rascal. 
 Why, what the devil is up now? Here come Beall and 
 Leszinksky, riding as though ' all hell had broke 
 loose.' " 1 
 
 1 Paradise Lost, Book IV., Hue 918.
 
 152 BABY RUE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 IN worst extremes, and on the perilous edge 
 Of battle. 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 AT the head of the little ravine the ascent was easy 
 to a broad, gravelled plateau which divided the 
 sand-hills, making a wide and firm highway that curved 
 through and then around the base of the ridge, suddenly 
 ending in a grove of cottonwood that bordered the South 
 Canadian. The entrance into the little ravine from the 
 prairie at the head of the Blue River, and the exit of this 
 natural turnpike into the secluded wood, made a secret 
 pass known onry to a few Indian hunters and two white 
 men. Fortunately for Lo-loch-to-hoo-la, it was un 
 known to the Pawnees and the Ottoes who were with 
 them on the war-path. They had given up the pursuit 
 more willingly because they believed he would be 
 hemmed in among the sand-hills, where he would fi 
 nally be forced to sacrifice his captive to the exigencies 
 of the situation. The distance from the camp of the 
 Pawnees to the head of the ravine was about six miles, 
 the road on" the plateau to the cottonwood-grove possi 
 bly two more. Emperor had made it in less than half 
 an hour. 
 
 Rue had wakened with the plunging leap that took 
 them into the ravine. For the moment she struggled 
 with her bonds, but the network around the blankets 
 held firmly. The regular motion of Emperor's grand 
 stride again lulled her to sleep. Lo-loch-to-hoo-la was 
 left free to watch his pursuers and his wound. 
 
 The jaded ponies soon lagged- in the rear, and a mile
 
 THE PURSUIT. 153 
 
 from the head of the ravine the last of the Pawnees 
 turned back. The chief's wound bled profusely ; but 
 during the race he had managed to wrap it closely with 
 a strip hastily cut from his blanket. Two hours more, 
 and darkness would overtake him. He must at least 
 put the Canadian between himself and the party he had 
 left. But then this pass that he had so fortunately 
 stumbled upon might be known to the white men he 
 knew were following them. He was in danger of meet 
 ing enemies at every step. This blind trail through 
 the cottonwood-grove led eastward : from this direction 
 the " Long-knives " would come. He rode slowly to the 
 edge of the wood, keeping beneath the shelter of the 
 trees. There the buffalo which had escaped from 
 the chase were resting in the grassy slope that swept 
 eastward ; he had passed stragglers and wounded ani 
 mals constantly since leaving the ravine. The herd in 
 front out there seemed uneasy, yet they did not look in 
 his direction. No, they too were looking eastward. 
 There ! down there in the coming twilight there was a 
 line creeping onward, every instant growing more dis 
 tinct. Yes ! they were soldiers. The red reflection from 
 the western sky glinted along the burnished guns and 
 sabres. Doubt was not possible : they knew the pass. 
 His people would be taken in the toils, attacked on all 
 sides for the warrior instinctively read the tactics of 
 his enemies without warning. Feasting in fancied 
 security-, his people would be an easy pre} r . He must 
 go back. The splendid stallion he rode had not yet 
 been put to the top of his speed. There was time. 
 But then the sleeping chincha. At that very moment 
 the little rosy hand touched his own. She stirred un 
 easily in her sleep ; a long, deep sigh told the prisoner's 
 dream. He would not take her to those who were 
 thirsting for her life. Yet he could not desert his tribe 
 when the foe was about to strike. He had no time now 
 to take her to the shelter he had intended to seek. He 
 would hide her in the wood down by the river-side, and 
 return after he had warned his people. If he should 
 not return if he should be killed ! The stern warrior
 
 154 BABY RUE. 
 
 shuddered as he thought of that, of the child alone, 
 starving in the wood. 
 
 Only half decided, he turned Emperor, and rode 
 rapidly into the dense thicket b}' the river, the horse's 
 hoofs sinking silently into the moss. Suddenly he 
 came into an opening where three Indians sat upon a 
 fallen log. The}' sprang to their feet and drew their 
 weapons, when one of them recognized him. Fear 
 lessly he advanced, and asked in the Comanche lan 
 guage, " Are the chiefs with Senaco friends of the 
 Indians, or slaves of the Long-knives?" And he 
 looked inquiringly at the two Seminoles, whose totem 
 he had instantly recognized. 
 
 The younger of the Seminoles, whose eye and color 
 betrayed the anger the query had excited, looked in 
 stinctively to the elder for permission to reply. The 
 wily Comanche, anxious to prevent any difficulty be 
 tween his Pawnee ally and his late interlocutors, 
 said : 
 
 " My brother has heard of the deeds of the great 
 chief of the Seminoles. The warriors of the pale-faces 
 were gathered in Florida as ten to one, when Coacoo- 
 chee fought them in the Everglades. Lo-loch-to-hoo-la 
 has seen the chiefs of his own people bury the hatchet 
 when their wounded warriors were prisoners, and their 
 women and children were surrounded by angry enemies 
 whose brothers' scalps hung from the lodge-poles of the 
 Pawnees." 
 
 Lo-loch-to-hoo-la, since the first brief glance of recog 
 nition, had never once turned to the Comanche ; but 
 whilst listening to the speaker had looked fixedly in the 
 C3'es of the Seminole chief, as if to read not only the 
 answer to his spoken question, but to the thought in 
 his heart. He dismounted, carelessly holding the bridle 
 over his arm. 
 
 Face to face were two of the most marked and dis 
 tinct types of the North American Indian, the war 
 like chief of a powerful tribesvho had once roamed at 
 will over the trackless " plains from the Mississippi to 
 the Rocky Mountains, and the gentler and more chi- 
 valric warrior of the Florida savannas.
 
 THE PURSUIT. 155 
 
 Lo-loch-to-hoo-la was dressed in the full panoply of 
 a Pawnee warrior. His head was shaved after the 
 fashion of his tribe, leaving only the scalp-lock, orna 
 mented with a beautiful crest of deer's hair. His moc 
 casins and leggings were of tanned skins, gartered with 
 broad bands of wampum. Over his shoulders a heavy 
 silver clasp held together one of the exquisitely made 
 blankets of the Navajos, so highly prized by the In 
 dians of the plains, to which a sinister effect was given 
 by a fringe of scalps. Around his brawny throat was 
 a necklace of grizzly bears' claws, whilst his wrists 
 were ornamented with a number of silver and wampum 
 bracelets. The dress and bearing of the chief agreed 
 in their savage grandeur. Even the scar that gashed 
 the cheek and nose added to his martial appearance, 
 as did also the vermilion tint that lit the dark bronze 
 visage. 
 
 Coacoochee was about forty years of age, a little 
 above the medium height. Eyes dark, full, and ex 
 pressive gave a singular charm to the sad but mourn 
 fully sweet countenance. His perfectly S3-mmetrical 
 figure was clad in a simple hunting-dress of tanned 
 deer-skins ; its sole ornaments a broad belt, embroi 
 dered with the pearls once so common a possession of 
 the Florida Indians, and a curiously wrought breast- 
 piece that hung from a wampum band around his 
 throat. The only weapons carried by the Seminole 
 chief were a rifle and a simple hunting-knife in its sil 
 ver scabbard, thrust carelessly in the girdle about his 
 waist. Yet with all this simplicity there was a natural 
 grandeur, a magnificence in the presence of the man, 
 that instantly impressed the beholder with the idea of 
 his kingly rank. To these natural advantages of per 
 son add the magnetic quality of a voice clear and soft 
 as the low notes of a silver flute. When with fluent 
 speech and graceful, rapid gesture he urged an argu 
 ment, or deigned to persuade, the effect upon the peo 
 ple of his race, always so sensitive to the peerless 
 charm of oratory, seemed magical. 
 
 The Seminole chief advanced a few steps ; and then,
 
 156 BABY RUE. 
 
 folding his arms across his breast, repeated the name he 
 had heard from the Comanche, emphasizing it with a 
 soft note of inquiry, " Lo-loeh-to-hoo-la ? " 
 
 The barbaric Pawnee thrilled from head to foot at the 
 mere sound of his name ; then, instinctive!}' tutored to 
 the etiquette of royal presence, gave a mute gesture of 
 assent. 
 
 Coacoochee continued: "Five summers ago the 
 daughter of Osceola was a prisoner in a village far to 
 the northwest. Coacoochee had been called to a coun 
 cil of his people in Mexico ; and the cry of the last 
 child of the great chief who had fought with him on the 
 savannas could not be heard across the Sierras. The 
 medicine-men of the Pawnees doomed her to die. They 
 were on the war-path against the white man, and the 
 heart of a virgin must be offered to the Spirit of Battle. 
 The fagots were piled in the middle" of the wide prairie, 
 where all the Pawnees were assembled. 1 The young 
 maiden of the Seminoles was bound to the stake, a 
 torch was lit to fire the fagots, when a gallant war- 
 chief rushed forward to the pile, leading two horses, 
 the swiftest in the tribe. He cut the bands that con 
 fined the prisoner, lifted her to one of the horses, 
 mounted the other, and before his surprised people 
 knew release was attempted, they had cleared the ring 
 and were in the path of safety. Two days he rode 
 with her southward. Osceola himself could not have 
 cared for his daughter more tenderly. Then he left 
 her on the trail of her people with provisions for her 
 journey. Unstained and pure she was decreed to the 
 fire of sacrifice : unstained and pure she was restored 
 to her tribe. She is in the lodge of Coacoochee, the 
 wife of his bosom, the delight of his eyes. The pre 
 server of the child of Osceola, the chief with the big 
 heart and the strong arm, is the brother of Osceola's 
 friend. The Seminoles and the Pawnees are enemies, 
 but the life of Coacoochee is ready to answer any need 
 of Lo-loch-to-hoo-la." 
 
 1 This story of a Pawnee chief is told in Thatcher's " History 
 of the North American Indians."
 
 THE PURSUIT. 157 
 
 The listening Pawnee flushed with gratified pride 
 until his face glowed like flame-lit bronze. He trembled 
 at praise as he had never trembled at danger. For a 
 moment he was silent. Then a short, imperious cry 
 from the child, who had wakened and was again strug 
 gling with the resistant net-work, recalled him to recol 
 lection of her, and also of the danger of his tribe. With 
 a harsh, guttural tone that feeling had deepened, he said, 
 " Lo-loch-to-hoo-la's heart is glad. The words of the 
 great chief are sweet to his ear as the sound of running 
 water in the forest. But the path of his people is even 
 now beset with danger. From the edge of the wood he 
 has seen the soldiers of the pale-faced chief. They 
 know the pass through the hills to the camp of the Paw 
 nees, there, where my people are resting, not thinking 
 that the Long-knives have so soon found and followed 
 their trail. Lo-loch-to-hoo-la must go to his warriors ; 
 but he has here a little captive he saved from the toma 
 hawks of his people. The}' have asked of him her life. 
 But the prisoner of Lo-loch-to-hoo-la is his own. The 
 deadly plague of the white man has made his lodge 
 desolate. There is not a child of his blood alive. The 
 Great Spirit has opened his heart to the brave little 
 eaglet he found upon the war-path. See ! she is the 
 color of the pale-face, but her spirit is that of the red 
 man." 
 
 Hastily releasing the child from her blankets, he held 
 her toward the Seminole chief, saying, " Coacoochee 
 cannot lie ; his tongue is not forked. My brother will 
 take this little child to the daughter of Osceola. He 
 will say to her, ' Lo-loch-to-hoo-la gives you the child 
 of his heart while he is upon the war-path with his peo 
 ple. If he falls in the coming battle, his spirit will not 
 go to the happ}- hunting ground until it passes the lodge 
 of Coacoochee. The sight of Ning-ah-shaw-na-quit-a l 
 in the arms of the wife of the Seminole chief will make 
 him glad as he crosses the dark water before reaching 
 the land of the Great Spirit.' " 
 
 He took from his shoulders the magnificent Navajo 
 
 Ning-ah-shaw-na-qui-ta, Brave Little Heart.
 
 158 BABY RUE. 
 
 blanket, and, doubling it about the child, fastened it 
 with the heavy clasp. Even then he remembered that 
 it had seemed to please her. Coacoochee held out his 
 arms for the child : she turned away from him to Lo- 
 loch-to-hoo-la, with the pretty, nestling movement of a 
 young bird. The Pawnee's heart grew heavy with the 
 pang of parting. A moment he hesitated, then reso 
 lutely gave her to the Seminole chief. Her lips quivered ; 
 a little, moaning, tired sob seemed to come from a break 
 ing heart ; but she caught the sound of Coacoochee's 
 voice as he talked with the three Indians, and its charm 
 held her. When the sound ceased and she looked for 
 Lo-loch-to-hoo-la he was gone.
 
 THE PURSUIT. 159 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 HE is come to ope 
 The purple testament of bleeding war. 
 
 SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 MAJOR BEALL'S report to Colonel Kearny was 
 soon made. He had discovered the camp of the 
 Pawnees, who were so unconscious of the nearness of 
 their pursuers that they had neglected their usual pre 
 caution of outlying guards. They had all collected at 
 the camp-fires, the smoke from which could easily be 
 seen, forming a hazy curtain against the red light of the 
 setting sun. He had left Stearns and Black Beaver 
 with the Osages to watch and instantly report any 
 movement to Colonel Kearny. There was a pass 
 through a little ravine at the head of the Pawnee's 
 camp, known to Stearns and Pike ; so he had brought 
 Pike and the rest of his little part}' to venture the attack 
 through this pass in the rear of the Pawnees, should 
 Colonel Kearny conclude to attack at once. 
 
 At the council of officers nearly all were for immediate 
 attack ; but there was one puzzling objection. If the 
 Indians were surprised, or "so worsted in an encounter 
 that their escape seemed doubtful, the fate of the little 
 prisoner would be instant death. Another point : was 
 the force large enough to surround the enemy success 
 fully ? A weak line could be easil}' broken, and separate 
 detachments overpowered in detail. But there was a 
 chance of complete surprise : then the odds would be 
 certainly on the side of the dragoons. At this moment 
 an express rider came with news of a strong detachment 
 on the way to join them that night. Every man in the
 
 160 BABY RUE. 
 
 Red River settlement who could bear arms was out with 
 - the military from Fort Washita, to avenge the murder of" 
 their neighbors ; more troops were coming to-morrow 
 from Fort Towson. The question of numbers was set 
 tled. The little prisoner was the vulnerable spot in their 
 arrangements. Leszinksky, who until now had quietly 
 kept his place with the junior officers, approached the 
 colonel. 
 
 ' ' Well, Leszinksky, say what you would suggest. I 
 shall be glad if you can assist us here. I tell you frankly 
 that this is one of the most trying questions I have ever 
 been called to decide. From Beall's report, we can 
 catch these rascals at such a disadvantage that a sting 
 ing punishment can be inflicted; but then the baby? 
 A victory over these skulking Pawnees would never 
 repay her loss. Major Beall's plan, to surround them 
 to-night and parle} T with them in the morning, will pos 
 sibly be best. But then there is a chance they may slip 
 through our fingers. In that case the} r get off scot 
 free, after all these horrible butcheries through the 
 country ; and we shall not even regain the captive, for 
 whose release we shall have sacrificed almost the certainty 
 of their complete discomfiture. I favor whipping them 
 first and parleying afterwards ; but if A'ou can suggest 
 anything you would like, it will have great weight with 
 us all." 
 
 "I have only one thing to say, Colonel. If the 
 chances seem to you equal, that they will murder my 
 little daughter in event of defeat, or escape with her to 
 the Comanche country if we fail to attack them, then 
 I beg of }"ou, sir, to order an instant advance. Only 
 give Major Beall an hour's start through the pass, and 
 let me and those of my comrades who came here as 
 volunteers, go with him. I shall beg of them to shoot 
 at any Indian who is seen trying to escape with my 
 child, if the bullet goes straight to her heart. I had 
 rather she was safe in heaven than given over to the 
 tender mercies of the marauders who have committed 
 the outrages just reported to you." 
 
 There was a steady light in the clear eyes, and a ring in
 
 THE PURSUIT. l6l 
 
 the voice of the speaker, that went straight to the hearts 
 of the brave men who surrounded him. There was no 
 longer hesitation or doubt. Instant preparation for at 
 tack was ordered. The party to the pass to go at once ; 
 and to Major Beall's scouts, and the young officers who 
 had volunteered, was added Captain Moore's company, 
 which could be spared from the command, now that the 
 reinforcing party was only ten miles distant ; and the 
 news of the coming fight would bring them in time to 
 count for something in the battle. 
 
 An hour's start was given to Beall to get through the 
 bills to the bank of the South Canadian. From there, 
 their route was direct and uninterrupted to the head of 
 the ravine. Pike led the vmy. Bob Stearns or Black 
 Beaver, in his place, would have found some indication 
 of the traveller who had so lately come and gone through 
 the cotton wood, but Pike stolidly went on to the pass. 
 He had no orders to look for trails ; and without orders 
 the giant never worried his slow-working faculties. 
 Beall, who rode just behind Pike, was talking to Moore, 
 Leszinksky, and Carson ; so neither of them observed 
 the print of Emperor's shoes in the mossy bank at the 
 edge of the wood. To the men who followed, a horse 
 shoe more or less was nothing, though the track of an 
 unshod pony would have caught their attention. 
 
 As the dragoons passed through the wood skirting 
 south, there to the north, where the jutting bank of the 
 river made a tiny ba}', surrounded by bending trees, 
 where from bough to bough vines had intertwined and 
 crossed until a close screen hid it securely from an\' 
 chance passers, the two Seminoles and the Comanche 
 resumed the conference Lo-loch-to-hoo-la had inter 
 rupted. 
 
 A canoe was fastened to the shore. In it sat Babj* 
 Rue, securely muffled in the chiefs blanket, gravely 
 eating the last of Lo-loch-to-hoo-la's luncheon, whilst 
 her eyes wandered from the Indians on the bank to the 
 broad silver clasp that the slipping folds of the blanket 
 had shifted from its place on her breast to her lap. 
 Suddenly the measured tramp of the dragoons' horses, 
 
 11
 
 1 62 BABY RUE. 
 
 as they struck the rocky highway that led round the 
 base of the hills, was heard ; there was the clank of 
 scabbards as the column closed. The little child dropped 
 the bright ornament that had pleased her, and a cry of 
 " Papa ! Papa ! " rang over the river. Her struggle 
 swayed the light canoe, and as it swung round sideways 
 to the shore, the breeze from the south lifted the tangled 
 curtain of vines, and through the arches of the slender 
 trees the troop could be seen clearly, out in the open 
 by the hills. Again she called, "Papa! Papa!" half 
 frantic with delight at the sight of the familiar figures of 
 mounted dragoons. But the breeze that had given them 
 to view carried the cry of the child down the river, wHei^ 
 it was heard only by the water-fowl as they gathered 
 their young to their nests in the cane. 
 
 The dragoons had closed up at a fast trot, and were 
 soon over the two miles to the head of the ravine. As 
 they crossed the last ridge before their descent from the 
 line of the sand-hills, Lo-loch-to-hoo-la reached the point 
 where a sudden turn of the creek formed the angular 
 opening into the hills. Hidden by the darkness that 
 was gathering in the hollows, he could see against the 
 sky-line the troop crossing the ridge. A moment more 
 and he had turned the point of the hills and entered the 
 open prairie. In the lingering twilight he saw the 
 ponies grazing by the little stream. He rode up the 
 ridge, so lately the scene of his passage at arms with 
 Non-je-ning-go, and plainly in view were the camp- 
 fires, where all were assembled for the feast. He crossed 
 the hollows, and, dismounting, climbed the next ridge, 
 cautiously crawling when near the top. 
 
 Yes, there were the advance scouts of the pale-faces. 
 Not twenty yards below him an Osage was lying on the 
 ground, watching the scene at the fire. He had been 
 so intently interested there that he had not seen the 
 chief ride into the hollow. On the rolling ridge still 
 further eastward, there was a little group gathered, 
 and towards them a man was running rapidly, in a 
 stooped position. The chief could tell it was a scout,
 
 THE PURSUIT. 163 
 
 possibly one who had been nearest the unconscious 
 revellers. He was safe from the group over there ; but 
 what to do with the watcher so near him, who could see 
 him pass to the fires, and who would at once suspect he 
 carried news of the coming foe? That problem was 
 quickly solved. He waited until the man across on the 
 far ridge had reached his comrades, and then, knowing 
 they would be for a moment absorbed by the story being 
 told, he drew his bow and carefull}' adjusted the arrow. 
 There must be no need of another, no intimation 
 given to those far-away watchers that their comrade had 
 gone to another questioning than theirs. The left arm 
 of the chief was stiff and painful from his wound, but 
 the stoicism of the Indian was regardless of pain. 
 Though the tingling and tortured nerves quivered for 
 an instant, the bow was clasped steadily and the arrow 
 sent home, home to the citadel of a life. It entered 
 the brain of the Osage just behind the ear. Not a cr3", 
 not a movement, told that death had come in the flight 
 of an arrow. But Lo-loch-to-hoo-la knew. He could 
 now go to his tribe unseen. The hunters were about 
 them : they must be instantly ready or they would be 
 taken in the toils.
 
 164 BABY RUE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 A STILL, small voice comes through the wild, 
 Like a father consoling his fretful child, 
 Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear, 
 Saying, " Man is distant, but God is near ! " 
 
 AN hour after the departure of Moore's squadron 
 the officers and men of Colonel Kearny's com 
 mand were in the saddle and moving cautiously toward 
 the Indian camp. Twice they were met by messengers. 
 The first reported the Indians' preparation for the feast 
 and their apparent unconsciousness of danger ; the 
 second brought better news. Stearns and two of the 
 Osages had captured the only guard between the com 
 mand and the Indian camp. He was perched on the 
 summit of a sand-hill, eagerly watching some fracas in 
 the valley, when the crust gave way, and he slid into 
 the midst of the little party, who had just decided that, 
 as they could not capture, the} 1 must in some noiseless 
 way dispatch him. The}' had him gagged and tied be 
 fore he had recovered from the astonishment of his slide 
 into their hands. 
 
 When within two miles of the camp, Colonel Kearny 
 halted, and sent forward an Osage scout, who soon 
 returned, with Bob Stearns. His report was : 
 
 " Well, Colonel, I don't see how we can holp cleanin' 
 'em out this time. The} T are sarcumvented and signed 
 over, and 'bout as good as delivered up, though I must 
 say it ain't so much the dragoons as will a-done it as 
 themselves. Thar's somethin' that ain't nateral 'bout 
 it somewhar. I 've been a-fightin' Injins from Florida
 
 THE PURSUIT. 165 
 
 to here, and it 's the fust time I 've saw 'em play such 
 cards as these. Why, it 's a plumb leadin' of a jack up 
 to a ace, a-stoppin' thar to hunt buff'aler without 
 mindin' one bit who 's a-huntin' them. It 's been a- 
 botherin' me mightily. Thar must be somethin' the 
 matter with the chiefs. Black Beaver says Lo-loch-to- 
 hoo-la 's a tip-top warrior ; but he 's got a high and 
 might}' sort of a way that wins Injins to hate him. It's 
 jus' that ; and I 'm powerful 'fraid it 's 'bout the little 
 capt'n they've quarrelled. You see, Colonel, from all 
 the repo'tes we 've got, they ain't took nary another 
 prisoner, they jus' went in for scalps ; an' that aryuys 
 that they ain't a-goin' back to the villages, but down 
 thar with the Comanches in Mexico, and they don't want 
 to be bothered with no prisoners. You see this, 'bout 
 who 's got the baby in charge, is a puzzler. It 's a 
 cur'us thing for a chief to do on the war-path ; yet I 
 ain't never knowed Tisson wrong when he was tellin' 
 jus' what he seen himself. Now, if so be and Lo-loch- 
 to-hoo-la has took a notion she sha' n't be killed, 
 which is jus' the on'}* idee I can come at, then it's 
 purty apt to raise a rumpus with the other chiefs ; and, 
 if they 've got the warriors thar way o' thiukin' then the 
 big chief '11 have to take a back seat at the council. 
 That 's the on'y way I can 'count for thar lettin' us get 
 the bulge on them like this." 
 
 " How many Indians do } T ou think are in the 
 party?" 
 
 " Nigh onto three hundred, sir." 
 
 "There must be more than three hundred. Why, 
 they struck nearly every settler from Castalar's to the 
 Red River. The Chickasaws will not be troubled to 
 send in any more notices to quit." 
 
 "No, sir; and, whatever they pretend, they ain't 
 a-goin' to be sorry much. But it's a new move for the 
 Pawnees to do thar constable work. You are mighty 
 right 'bout thar havin' been more Pawnees than these 
 over on the Kiamesha ; but thar 's some of t 'em gone 
 on with the horses they stole." 
 
 W hat ! the horses are not here with them? "
 
 1 66 BAB Y RUE. 
 
 " No, sir ; on'y the ones they 're riclin' ; and they 've 
 tired them out with the hunt to-day." 
 
 ' ' Could you get anything out of that fellow }'ou 
 caught?" 
 
 " Nothin' but grunts, sir. I didn't dar' loose his 
 tongue till I got him most over here, and then he was 
 sullen like, and would n't talk." 
 
 " I think Beall told me it was prairie south of their 
 camp. Will it be possible to send a detachment to 
 head off their escape in that direction ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, if they goes 'bout a mile south of here fust. 
 Then they can cross the little creek that runs through 
 the prairie down thar, as it cuts through the big hollow 
 they 've camped in, and you '11 have them sarcumnavi- 
 gated. If they knows of the pass up thar, which I 
 don't much think they do, they '11 jus' run direckly 
 into Major Beall's weepons. Them as don't like bein' 
 shot '11 have a mighty good chance of bein' finished with 
 the dragoons' sabres. Then, too, the wind 's on our 
 side, and that's 'bout the best a% we could a-had. 
 A Injin's hearin' 's good as a dog's or a mule's. If the 
 wind 's a-blowin' thar way, you can't count on gettin' 
 mighty close up before they know it." 
 
 " How is the road through the pass? Can the dra 
 goons ride rapidl}* ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir; it's main good; the creek's low, and 
 the sand}- ridges is most hard-baked with this clar, 
 breez}' weather. You mought ride all the way through 
 to that cotton wood-grove on a gallop. The dragoons 
 '11 be out on the prairie in a half hour more, I 'm thinkin', 
 sir." 
 
 ' ' Send me the most reliable guide you have for Cap 
 tain Allen's detachment. He must cross the creek 
 down there at once. As soon as they are at the creek 
 I will advance. Go back to your men, and do not fail 
 to watch if the Indians discover this movement of Allen. 
 If they give the least sign of fright, let me know at 
 once." 
 
 Stearns saluted, and was gone. The command halted 
 some ten minutes longer ; then the order was given to
 
 THE PURSUIT. 167 
 
 advance quickly. The}' were within two hundred yards 
 of the ridge beyond which the scouts were, when 
 Stearns came running to the head of the column. 
 
 " Colonel, thar has been some movement down thar 
 at the camp whilst I was over yonder with you. I can't 
 jus' make out what yet ; but thar's a scout up thar on 
 the ridge a-watchin', and I've sent Black Beaver to 
 him. Here 's Black Beaver now." 
 
 The Indian came close, and then said in a low tone, 
 " Osage scout no good. Pawnee got urn scalp. May 
 be so Pawnee all gone." 
 
 " Could you see the camp?" asked the colonel hur 
 riedly. 
 
 " Fire down thar all by heself." 
 
 " Then how do you know they are gone? If they are 
 warned of the presence of the enemy, they will not stay 
 near the fire. That would be to seek death." 
 
 "Injun he don't know nothing. Injun big fool; 
 white man might}' smart, he know heap. Maybe' so 
 he take one little walk, he see he no see Pawnee." 
 
 To cover the impertinence of his sarcastic red friend, 
 Bob said hastily, " If they 've killed the scout, they 
 must a-been warned. Some on 'em has chased the 
 bnffaler up thar and seen the dragoons. If them 
 Injins has lit out through the prairie, the}' '11 make it 
 might}' hot for Capt'n Allen. Major Beall must be 
 purty close here by now." 
 
 The colonel ordered an instant advance. At the top 
 of the ridge the " Charge " was sounded. In a moment 
 it was re-echoed from the head of the prairie, and down 
 from the south by the creek. Beall and Allen were 
 ready. With cheers and yells of triumph, the dragoons 
 fired, and then rode thunderingly at the dark spots on 
 the prairie that, unmoved i>y the shot or the tramp of 
 the squadrons, still waited. A few moments, and horses 
 were snorting and men swearing, as they stumbled 
 over the carcasses of the buffalo left from the day's 
 hunt. 
 
 It was plain the Indians had escaped. Not a moving 
 object upon the star-lit plain gave hope of the capture
 
 1 68 BABY RUE. 
 
 of a solitary straggler. Pawnees and ponies had dis 
 appeared like the " phantasms of a dream." 
 
 The colonel, Beall, and Allen drew rein at the camp- 
 fire. Coming from opposite points, they gazed at each 
 other in blank surprise, until the imp of farce that lies 
 hid beneath the robe of tragedy stamped each broaden 
 ing visage with such a strange commingling of amaze 
 ment, anger, and mirth that the dumb silence was at 
 length broken by peals of laughter. Beall's hearty, 
 loud bass and Allen's nervously hysterical falsetto were 
 doubled and redoubled in volume, as the colonel rolled 
 out a volley of oaths, with a running accompaniment of 
 cackles and snorts that would have made the fortune of 
 an opera boiiffe actor. 
 
 How the Indians had discovered the presence of their 
 pursuers, and then contrived to elude them, was a 
 mystery that puzzled even Beall and Bob Stearns. 
 The latter was as completely miserable as possible for 
 so sanguine a temperament. To his grief and remorse 
 at the loss of the child was added the crestfallen feeling 
 of a baffled official. Installed by Beall as chief of scouts, 
 he had made a most promising beginning of the affair in 
 hand. He had told of the pass known only to himself 
 and Pike ; he had the entire directing of the guides ; and 
 he and his lieutenant, Black Beaver, had been near 
 enough to the camp of the enemy to be sure that un 
 til the unfortunate hour they had, in the blindness of 
 confident success, trusted the watch to that ill-starred 
 Osage there was not a movement of the savages that 
 betrayed the slightest alarm or uneasiness. Anxious to 
 repair his blunder and save his tottering reputation, 
 Stearns called Black Beaver, who, confident in the opin 
 ion he had given the colonel, had disdained any move 
 ment toward the prairie, and getting torches the}- went 
 to where the dead Osage was lying, on the crest of the 
 ledge to the east. 
 
 Just below in the hollow was the little clump of cotton- 
 wood under which Lo-loch-to-hoo-la and his captive 
 had spent the entire afternoon before the flight up the 
 ravine. Their search soon determined several important
 
 THE PURSUIT. 169 
 
 facts. Rue was alive and in the care of the " Big Chief," 
 who had evidently rested there for some time with the 
 child. After the most careful and minute examination 
 of ever}' foot of ground under and around the cotton- 
 wood, they sought the temporary headquarters of the 
 officers, who were straggling in from their useless gallop 
 in the darkness of a cloudy and moonless night. 
 
 Carson and Leszinksk}' were the last to return. 
 There was a quick movement in the group of officers, 
 to make place for the late comers. For the first time 
 since the night when the story of his child's capture was 
 told him, Leszinksk}' seemed hopeless and despondent. 
 The clear eyes had lost their light ; his face had a hag 
 gard, anguished expression ; there were lines in it that 
 told of a quick transition from youth to age. His step 
 dragged, his movements were uncertain, all elasticity 
 was gone. The blaze of sullen anger in Carson's face 
 was far less painful. It was apparent that he suffered ; 
 but then, too, it was apparent that there was capacity 
 to take punishment. One might have been the Sorrow 
 ful Knight whom affection brought to the lists of Tem- 
 plestowe ; the other was a boxer, sturdily set in the ring 
 to give and take heavy blows. 
 
 The colonel was of right the host at that modest 
 spread. He made place instantly, and called, "Come 
 here by me, Leszinksky. You must try our rude fare, 
 and then get what sleep 3*011 can before our early start. 
 We will be off as soon as it is light enough to get the 
 bearings and the trail. The}' will not slip through our 
 fingers again. Crowd in, there, Carson ; you must be 
 hungry after the long ride." 
 
 Leszinksky took his cup of black coffee and drank it, 
 without apparent knowledge of what he did. He had 
 fallen into absent thought, his wife, his child, the 
 little broken home, when a hand touched him on the 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Marse Stan, thar's good news, sir. Black Beaver 
 and Marse Bob Stearns is out heah a-waitin' fur you 
 nil to get yo' supper; but I would come to let you 
 know, sir, they 's foun' little Miss Rue's tracks, sir, up
 
 1 70 BABY RUE. 
 
 heah in the holler, an' they 's sho she 's alive an' well, 
 sir." 
 
 For an instant the } r oung officer trembled all over. 
 He was ghastly pale. Moore, who sat beside him on the 
 ground, took out his ever-ready flask, and insisted on his 
 taking it instantly. There was a general uprising, and 
 the colonel's voice rang out sharpby. 
 
 "Stearns, come here at once! "What have 3*011 
 found?" 
 
 The soldier's voice, as he answered, had in it vibrat 
 ing, joyful tones of triumph that carried conviction and 
 hope with every word. 
 
 " I went up thar on the ridge, sir, with Black Bea 
 ver to whar the Osage was killed to see, if so be and I 
 could, how the}' come to find him. Thar was a arrer 
 shot clean through his head, and fastened in his hand 
 whar his face was a-leanin' on it. It 's a oncommon 
 long, heavy arrer, and Black Beaver says it 's the Big 
 Chief shot it. That, sir, made me more careful like not 
 to spile any tracks or Injin signs that raought be round 
 thar. We commenced at the dead Osage, and struck out 
 the way the arrer come, holdin' onr torches close to the 
 ground. Furder up the ridge, close to the sand-hills 
 whar the hollow ends, we found whar the Injin that 
 shot the Osage had crep'. He must of alread}* knowed 
 we was most onto 'em, for he had crawled up outen the 
 slant at the top o' the hollow mighty cautious. He 
 rested thar a spell, watchin' us. It was easj- to see 
 whar his elbows dug in the sand thar. Then he seen 
 the Osage, who was a-lookin' down at the camp-fires. 
 The Big Chief for I know it was him crawled down 
 over a gulley till he got behind some bushes of prickly 
 pars : here he tried his arrers. He threw away this one, 
 sir ; you see the head 's loose." (And the arrow was 
 passed round the circle.) " Then he found one to please 
 him, and he shot. It couldn't a-been blind dark, so I 
 know it must a-been 'bout the time Black Beaver come 
 back from lower down the ridge, jus' before I met you, 
 sir. So 3-011 see they had purty nigh a hour's start on 
 us. Arter he shot the Osage, the Big 'Chief crep'
 
 THE PURSUIT. I/I 
 
 down the hollow agin till he got jus' below the ridge 
 whar the Osage was a-lyin', and then he went up for his 
 scalp. Trackin' him, we come to a little clump of scrubby 
 cottonwood, up thar by a damp place, a sort o' blind 
 spring, and thar the track was plain. On the edge 
 of the cottonwood, a horse had been tied, a shod 
 horse, with small, thoroughbred feet, but it wah n't no 
 Injin pony. We went back to see whar the horse-tracks 
 come from ; and we follered them in the sand over the 
 ridge and the prairie, goin' toward the pass, and thar 
 we lost the trail in the marks of dragoons' horses. So 
 we come back agin to the cottonwood, and commenced 
 to look under the bushes, whar I found them little tracks 
 in the edge of the damp place." 
 
 Here he turned to Black Beaver, who held carefully 
 on his folded blanket, for the officers to examine, 
 about a foot square of damp, sand}- earth, in which was 
 the distinct mould of one little stockinged foot and one 
 wee moccasin. As Leszinksky stooped and kissed the 
 print of his child's foot in the sand, mist came to eyes 
 unused to tears. Around back of the officers, men 
 were grouped, looking and listening. He spoke to 
 them : 
 
 " If there is a soldier here who will walk back to Fort 
 Gibson, and carry carefully and unbroken this token of 
 my child to her mother, I will give him a hundred dol 
 lars. It is a small sum for such a service, but you 
 know that I am not rich enough to make it larger." 
 
 " And I will give another," said Carson eagerly. 
 
 " And I," "And I," the chorus was swelling when 
 the colonel called, 
 
 " And if any of you undertakes the job, and fails to 
 deliver it in the perfect condition it's in now, I will give 
 him nine-and-thirty lashes, and the guard-house for a 
 week." 
 
 A beardless, handsome boy came from the ranks. 
 " I will go without an}- reward, and take your punish 
 ment, Colonel, if I fail. It is little to do for an officer 
 who saved me in a hand-to-hand fight with two Indians, 
 in that scrimmage we had on the Arkansas, when my
 
 BAB Y RUE. 
 
 horse was shot and my arm broken. I ain't forgot, 
 Lieutenant, how you lifted me up right from under the 
 tomahawk and brought me out. And I never can for 
 get that Mrs. Leszinksky took me herself in the ambu 
 lance out to Bouie's Hill, when I had the fever, and the 
 doctor said I'd die in the hospital, and had me tended 
 as kindly as she could one of her own. I '11 be only too 
 glad to go. You'll let me, won't you, Colonel? " 
 
 " Yes, and give you all I promised if you fail," 
 growled the colonel, as he blew his nose like a trumpet 
 and turned to Bob Stearns. " Well, what else? I see 
 you have not told all your story yet." 
 
 "No, Colonel, not all. I found this little piece of 
 the baby's dress on a prickly-par' bush that was close 
 by whar the chief had put her on his blanket." 
 
 " How do you know he did that?" asked Leszinksky. 
 
 " Why, sir, to a Injin trailer it was plain as writin'. 
 Thar was the mark o' the blanket, and the baby on it, 
 on the little patch of runnin' vines that grew in that 
 sandy, light kind o' ground ; and I found a piece o' 
 bread and a beef-bone thar ; and over nigh by the blan 
 ket the chief had been settin', leanin' agin a little rise 
 in the ground ; he was turned toward the camp-fire, 
 watch in', I reckon. His horse was a-grazin' in the 
 young bushes and the few tufts o' buffaler-grass that 's 
 that. So you see, for some reason, he wah n't sociable 
 like with the chiefs and warriors. Thar wah n't another 
 track close up thar, though thar was some a-goin' up 
 and down the hollow not fur off." 
 
 " Then you think the child is not only alive and well, 
 but well cared for ? " 
 
 " I 'no sho' of it, Leftenant. For some reason, sir, 
 that's what I can't make out, the Big Chief's took to 
 her for good. Thar was some bright leaves and holly- 
 berries and little pebbles all shook together, whar the 
 blanket was picked up, that he must a-givc her to pla} T 
 with. So you see it 's for kindness to her, and not for 
 spite, he 's saved her life. I 'm sho' of it, and so 's 
 Black Beaver. Ask him." 
 
 The general attention was turned to the Indian.
 
 THE PURSUIT. 173 
 
 " Pappoose all good safe. May be so Lo-loch-to- 
 hoo-la take um home to em wife. Ma}' be so that woman 
 he no got any. May be so he lose um, he cry all ee 
 time. See heap womans that a way. Maybe so Lo- 
 loch-to-hoo-la got nodcler one wife that one wife he 
 got plenty pappoose. He make that noclder one woman 
 got no pappoose heap mad. He tell Lo-loch-to-hoo-la 
 ketch um one. Now chief ketch um one no 'fraid Injun 
 no 'fraid nowhere. Chief heap glad much like this 
 a one. Won't let Pawnee kill um, won't let nodder one 
 hurt um." 
 
 All the officers now walked up to the cotton wood 
 clump, Stearns, Black Beaver, and Oscar in front with 
 torches, and many of the men bringing up the rear with 
 a fresh supply ready to light ; Beall and Lesziuksky 
 next to the torch-bearers. The second examination 
 confirmed belief in the scout's theoiy of the protection 
 and care given the child. The mark of the spread blan 
 ket, the food, the gathered playthings, the remoteness 
 from the crowd at the" fire, told of a care that was kindly 
 and watchful. Emperor's tracks were recognized by a 
 man in Captain Moore's company who had shod him. 
 Everj'bod}' began to be hopeful of the child's rescue. 
 
 At a council of the officers that night, Leszinkskj- 
 made a request that was strongly supported by Major 
 Beall, that the command should camp where they 
 now were, and await the reinforcements and supply 
 train, which could be ordered on at once, while Les- 
 zinksky and a small party should push on rapidly to the 
 Washita with a flag of truce, and, if possible, see the 
 chief who had his child and arrange, for her ransom. 
 
 After some discussion the colonel consented, only 
 insisting the escort should be strong enough to inspire 
 the Indians with respect.
 
 1/4 BABY RUE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 YEA, truth faileth ; and he that departeth from evil maketh 
 himself a prey. ISAIAH. 
 
 WITH the first gray glimmer of dawn Captain 
 Moore's company, Lieutenant Carson with 
 twenty picked men from Allen's, and " Beall's Scouts," 
 started for the crossing of the Washita. In advance of 
 the squadron a white flag was carried ; and the tele 
 graphic smoke, rising from the highest points ahead, 
 told plainly their movements were being observed and 
 signalled. 
 
 About noon, a large party of horsemen showed them 
 selves several miles distant. From the glistening of 
 the lances, which blazed as the}' turned them in the sun, 
 the first conclusion of the officer was that they were 
 Mexican cavahy, who had been apprised of the approach 
 of the Americans, and had advanced to contest it. An 
 examination with field-glasses at nearer quarters proved 
 them to be a war-part}' of Comanches. Suddenly they 
 disappeared over the hill, and soon reappeared on an 
 other summit farther off and slightly different in direc 
 tion. The squadron again advanced toward them with 
 like result. The command was halted. 
 
 Major Beall and Leszinksky, with Carson as flag- 
 bearer, rode forward and signalled the Indians to 
 approach ; when one of the warriors, carrying a white 
 buffalo-skin on the point of his lance, came dashing 
 across the prairie until he met Carson, who was slightly 
 in advance with the flag. The Comanche rode a small 
 but powerful silver-gray horse ; the prominent eyes,
 
 THE PURSUIT. 175 
 
 sharp nose, high nostrils, small feet, and delicate legs 
 proving him a wild horse of the plains, sprung from 
 the mixed Arab and Andalusian stock introduced by the 
 Spaniards at the time of the invasion of Mexico. The 
 rider looked Carson steadily in the face, then, leaning 
 his lance against the flag, whirled his horse in a wonder 
 fully executed series of demi-vaults, reining and spur 
 ring the spirited steed as he came prancing and leaping 
 along, tacking to right and left like a ship beating against 
 the breeze, to where Beall and Leszinksky waited. He 
 held out his hand, which Beall instantly grasped. See 
 ing his friendly reception, the rest of the party advanced 
 under "full whip." After a general hand-shake, all 
 dismounted, and the pipe was lit and passed around. 
 
 Major Beall and a Comanche who could speak Span 
 ish being the interpreters, the object of the expedition 
 was fully explained, "to ransom the little daughter 
 of an officer there present." Then the major, in a florid 
 address, sketched skilfully what would be the material 
 gratitude of the officer and his comrades to any brave 
 chief of the Comanches who would see the captor of the 
 child, known to be now in their county, and arrange 
 the terms of ransom. 
 
 For a short time after the interpreter had finished the 
 translation, the Comanches were silent. Then the war 
 rior, who had first advanced to meet the flag, addressed 
 the Indians in a few short, emphasized sentences, to 
 which they gave read}' assent. He now turned to Beall, 
 and, to the surprise of that officer, addressed him in 
 excellent Spanish. He said : 
 
 " We have listened to the words of the chief of the 
 Long-knives. They are good words : the hearts of 
 the Comanches are touched with the pain of the chief 
 who has lost from his lodge the child whose pres 
 ence made pleasant the faces of his friends. They 
 will do what they can to make his heart glad, to 
 turn this trouble away from his people. But the Co 
 manches have not been upon the war-path ; they did 
 not cross the Washita until their young men told of the 
 coming of a great war-party of the pale-faces. Over
 
 1 76 BABY RUE. 
 
 there " and he pointed in the direction of Colonel 
 Kearny's encampment " the Great Chief is gathering 
 his warriors. If he only seeks a little child who has been 
 stolen by the Pawnees, why are the Long-knives from 
 the forts on the Arkansas and the Red River all turning 
 into the trail that leads to the Comanche villages ? " 
 
 It needed all the major's aplomb to answer this natu 
 rally and without the hesitation that would have been 
 seen instantly by the wily Comanche. Long experience 
 and a little native impudence served him at need. He 
 explained that straggling parties of Pawnees had been 
 reported as scattered from the Washita to the Kiame- 
 sha, raiding through the country of the Chickasaws, 
 the allies of the Great Father, murdering the white 
 settlers who were not immediately under the protection 
 of the guns of the fort, and driving off all their cattle. 
 For this the garrisons had all been at once alert and out 
 in pursuit. Here came the best touch of the major's 
 diplomacy, reserved as the concluding and convincing 
 phrase : ' ' The Great Chief had hastened on to the 
 headwaters of the Blue River to intercept the Pawnees 
 at the pass, and after the failure to capture them there, 
 sent out runners to arrest the advance of all other par 
 ties to the Comanche country, until the bearers of the 
 flag of truce should make the request which the Great 
 Chief was there to enforce, if need be. That although 
 he desired above all things to preserve a friendly rela 
 tionship with the Comanches, he would be compelled to 
 cross the Washita and search the entire countiy, if the 
 little prisoner was not at once forthcoming." 
 
 This speech told on his audience : first the promise of 
 reward and ransom, then the threat to come to the vil 
 lages. They were not read}' for such visitors. Later, 
 when their Mexican allies, who were now some distance 
 south of the Red River watching Taylor's forces, should 
 not be far off; when the league with all the disaffected 
 border-tribes should be perfected ; when Senaco, that 
 shrewd diplomatist, should have won the great war- 
 chief of the Seminoles to new effort against the foe he 
 had fought so long, then the soldiers of the pale-faces
 
 THE PURSUIT. 177 
 
 might come. For then their villages would be deserted ; 
 their women and children safe the other side of the 
 AVitchita Mountains, beyond the salt plains, in the fer 
 tile valleys of the Pecos, where winter brings no hard 
 ship or suffering. For the present, they must temporize ; 
 must}ield to the necessities of the time, and make what 
 the}- could out of the advantages offered. The major's 
 interlocutor, His-oo-san-ches, began : 
 
 " The chief has spoken like a brave man. He is not 
 afraid of the truth. The Comanches will talk with 
 Lo-loch-to-hoo-la. To-morrow, when the sun rises, 
 His-oo : san-ches will be here with the answer of the Big 
 Chief of the Pawnees. The Great Chief and the war 
 riors must come no farther. The Pawnees have eyes 
 they would see the war party far off. They would then 
 go to the north of the Comanche country, and the little 
 prisoner would be lost to her people." 
 
 The arrangement was soon perfected. Captain Moore 
 encamped on a little hill with a creek hard by, where 
 they could have the advantage of water, grazing, and 
 wood ; yet sufficiently elevated to watch the plain across 
 which the Indians must come. Dispatches were sent to 
 Colonel Kearny, begging him not to advance until 
 after the coming conference. 
 
 At the rising of the sun, His-oo-san-ches and his 
 party were seen coming across the prairie. There was 
 the greatest possible excitement in the command when 
 Black Beaver, looking at the Indians, who were now 
 close at hand, exclaimed, in a startled manner unusual 
 to his race, " See Lo-loch-to-hoo-la ! " 
 
 " Where? where? " asked a dozen voices. 
 
 "There that a one heap big. Got Mexican 
 blanket Mexican sombrero. No show Pawnee shaved 
 head no ride 'Merican horse. Think white man heap 
 fool no got somebody here tell um. " 
 
 Carson and Stearns, with the same impulse, hastily 
 examined and re-capped their pistols. There was a 
 general movement as if to have weapons in readiness, 
 a touch of sabre-hilts, an uncovering of holsters. Even 
 Beall and Moore gave quick glances at each other as 
 
 12
 
 1/8 BABY RUE. 
 
 they shook themselves in their saddles, with the cavalry 
 instinct that sounds the perfectness of trappings. 
 There was an instantaneous resolve in every mind that, 
 come what would, the child-stealer should be their pris 
 oner, at least until his captive was given up. Captain 
 Moore only uttered the thought in every mind when the 
 order was quietly spoken, " Look out there, all of you : 
 we may have a fight here any moment. Buford, take 
 ten picked men and watch every movement of that 
 damned Pawnee. He is not to go back, no matter how 
 this conference ends. We '11 have a prisoner to add to 
 tlie ransom offered for the child. If the Comanches 
 resist, seize the chiefs ; we will hold them as hostages 
 until she is given up. " 
 
 Leszinksky, who had ridden a little to one side, and 
 then down the hill toward the Comanches, had not ob 
 served the preparation or heard the order. A soldier, 
 he detested diplomacy; a gentleman, he abhorred deceit 
 and chicanery. He was distrustful of the shifts of 
 Beall's strategy, and tired of circumlocution. He had 
 thus far held his peace in the conference where his 
 dearest interests were being discussed. Not only his 
 child, but his wife's life hung in the balance. Longer 
 delay, the agony of suspense and apprehension, added 
 to the already delicate state of Margaret's health, would 
 almost of a certaint}' result fatall}". He thought of the 
 doctor's look of warning that evening before the news 
 came of his child's capture, and then of the mothers 
 wild cries of anguish the last sounds he had heard 
 from the voice that made the heart-music of his home. 
 He was still the lover of his wife. The beauty, the 
 delicacy, the womanliness of her character, so gilded 
 her daily life that the halo of romance was preserved. 
 She was as sovereignly the queen of his thoughts and 
 fancies as Margaret Cartaret had been. To this ador 
 ing, respectful worship was the added quality of ten- 
 derest affection, of a perfectly reciprocal confidence and 
 trust. This lover had not merely plucked a sweet 
 flower, to toss it carelessly aside when faded : he had 
 transplanted an immortal blossom into the garden of
 
 THE PURSUIT. 179 
 
 his life. Even- unfolding leaf had been the revelation 
 of a new beauty. There were no littlenesses in the 
 character of the woman he loved, no conceits of pride, 
 no petty jealousies. She assumed her place in his life 
 and his home, as part of himself. His friends were her 
 friends ; his comrades were always sure of her welcome, 
 a welcome so cordial, } T et so simple in manner, that it 
 left them free from any artificiality of compliment. Her 
 rare and perfect tact accomplished something more diffi 
 cult : it left her husband free with his friends. She 
 did what is so hard to the ordinary woman, she kept 
 out of the wa}' ; yet her presence was always desired, 
 because it was never obtruded. The house had the 
 insouciant charm of bachelor's quarters, with the added 
 attraction of the near presence of a graceful, accom 
 plished woman. What wonder that men, smarting from 
 the petty tyrannies of the sex that rules through weak 
 ness and complaint, canonized her ! 
 
 Thinking of this peerless wife, grieving with her grief 
 even more than his own, Leszinkslty determined to try 
 the heart of the savage who had spared his child. There 
 must be love in it, for she had entered at that portal. 
 There must be a brave, unreckoning generosity, for it 
 was evident his protecting care had cost him the su 
 premacy so dear to a chief. How thankful he felt that 
 the imperious habit of stud} T , the enthusiasm of the 
 student of philology, had led him to examine closely the 
 different Indian dialects, and that the providence mor 
 tals call chance had given him a competent teacher of 
 the Pawnee language the winter they were in Laramie, 
 the winter his child was born, when, evening after 
 evening, a cheery, helpful, companionable French priest 
 taught him the harsh gutturals that Margaret's voice 
 softened to melody, and that must now be used to win 
 the freedom of her child. 
 
 These thoughts had made him totally unobservant of 
 Moore's arrangement to capture the chief. He only 
 watched for the first glance of the man who held in his 
 hands the liberty of Baby Ruchcil. the life of Margaret. 
 The Comanches halted as he reached the party.
 
 180 BABY RUE. 
 
 From the officers on the hill came a warning ' ' Gardez 
 TOUS ! " in Beall's voice. His-oo-san-ches commenced 
 the customary hand-shaking. Leszinksky made the 
 custom serve his need. He shook hands down the line 
 until he reached the Pawnee, and then, turning his horse 
 without care of who followed, rode beside the chief, who 
 from the first regarded him with watchful curiosity. 
 There were quick glances of surprise from Coraanche 
 to Comanche as Leszinksky addressed the chief in the 
 Pawnee tongue, which not a Comanche present under 
 stood. 
 
 " From the kindness Lo-loch-to-hoo-la has shown my 
 daughter, I know he has the heart of a father. He will 
 let his heart speak. I will only ask him one question, 
 a question I would answer instantly were I the guardian 
 of the chiefs child, as he is of mine. Is she well?" 
 
 For an instant the Pawnee started as Leszinksky re 
 peated his name, then he only grew more impassive. 
 The white man should not think it was through fear he 
 had sought disguise. At the last words there was a 
 quick look at the speaker. The fier} r black eyes sought 
 to penetrate the very depths of the clear gray orbs that 
 met his gaze so fearlessly. They were the eyes of the 
 little chincha ; the lights were not so bright and change 
 ful in expression, but more steady and constant. " If 
 I were the guardian of the chief's child, as he is of 
 mine " : the words pierced the defences of pride, or, 
 rather, they wakened a grander pride, the pride that 
 finds reward in the confidence it compels, the trust it 
 brings. He must answer. All the more because it was 
 a difficult thing to do, he must answer truly. Again the 
 thought of the little chincha who died on his breast 
 came, this time to claim his sympathy for the father 
 who suffered, as it had claimed his sympathy for the 
 child in the extremity of peril. He would answer. But 
 here the mind of the savage passed through a new 
 change, a phase that lifted him from the last plane of 
 barbai'ism. He hesitated to answer, because the answer 
 must give pain. He was no longer a savage, but a gentle 
 man who had studied wt the humanities " in the school of
 
 THE PURSUIT. l8l 
 
 Nature. The teaching of the great Mother had begun 
 when the uplifted tomahawk had fallen harmlessly before 
 the fearless glance of a little child. The next lesson 
 was an indefinable sense of the beauty of helplessness, 
 caught glimmeringly from the sheen of golden curls and 
 the rosy tips of baby fingers. His first degree had been 
 taken when the life of his captive was laid in the balance, 
 and it outweighed the traditions of race, the supremacy 
 of chieftainship. The teaching was finished in this 
 crowning lesson, the sum and end of human ethics, the 
 pain in giving pain, the sorrow that is sorrowful through 
 the sorrow of another. 
 
 " Ning-ah-shaw-na-quit-a is in the lodge of the friend 
 of Lo-loch-to-hoo-la. The Indian women watch that 
 the fever spirit, who touched her by the river, does not 
 enter. After the going down and rising of another sun 
 the child will be safe." 
 
 For a moment both were silent. They had reined 
 up at a little distance from the group of officers and 
 chiefs, who were soon smoking the pipe of peace around 
 a council-fire at the foot of the little eminence. The 
 band of Indian braves was some fifty yards distant, in 
 the direction whence they had come, sitting and lying at 
 ease, holding the lariats of their own and the chiefs' 
 horses. Some of the soldiers were dismounted and in 
 small parties on the side of the hillock, behind and not 
 far from the council-fire ; others, mounted, were drawn 
 up in a line on the summit. A small party was riding 
 slowly down the slope away from the fire, but in the 
 direction of the chief and Leszinksky. The chief was 
 watching the approaching horsemen, when Leszinksky 
 spoke : 
 
 " My little daughter is suffering from the separation 
 from her family, from the hardship of the long jour 
 ney and the change from the life to which she is accus 
 tomed. I know the heart of Lo-loch-to-hoo-la has 
 warmed to her. I know the Indian women are kind ; 
 but her mother is grieving as for the dead. She is the 
 only child the Great Spirit has given us. The chief has 
 learned to love her in the few days she has been in his
 
 1 82 BABY RUE. 
 
 care : he can tell what silence there is in the home 
 where she dwelt, what sorrow in the hearts that had 
 only her. He has heard from His-oo-san-ches what 
 ransom is offered. If there is aught else I can give, it 
 will be given freely to the warrior who saved in}- child. 
 For the love he has given her, for the kindly care he has 
 taken, no reward would be too great." 
 
 Leszinksky had blundered. His anxiety for the suf 
 fering child made him think only of her illness and the 
 discomforts to which she was subjected. He had not 
 trusted his first judgment of the brave, generous heart 
 of the savage. He had gone back to the dicta of the 
 frontier, to the logic of the Indian trader. He had struck 
 the right key with the first question ; but he lost the true 
 sound that answered him, and the harmony was broken. 
 The mistake was fatal. Had he stopped with the pic 
 ture of the empty home and the sorrowing mother, there 
 would have been hope. Even then the savage would 
 have found it hard to break the oath he had sworn to 
 himself, the oath to keep the child, come what might. 
 Now, when her father made her recover}' a question of 
 payment, he could refuse. The pale-faces were all 
 traders, and in their bartering the red man always lost. 
 Step by step they had come upon him ; acre by acre 
 they had taken his land. Treaties were written as they 
 willed, with specious clauses by which the_y held the 
 Indians bound so the Great Father might divide their 
 hunting-grounds at his pleasure. They had been de 
 coyed with invitations to councils, and then held as 
 prisoners. Coacoochee was truthful and brave. Only 
 at the setting of yesterday's sun, in the new lodge the 
 Seminole had built beyond the Washita, they talked of 
 the history of the red race ; of the treachery of the white 
 man ; of the death of Osceola in the prison where the 
 brave spirit could only break its bonds by bursting from 
 the clinging hold of the body that bore the blood}' im 
 press of fetters. Tecumseh was right. The onh' hope 
 of the Indian, who was vanishing before the white man 
 like snow before the sun, was a confederation of all the 
 tribes. He himself had talked with the brother of the
 
 THE PURSUIT. 183 
 
 great warrior, the prophet of the Shawanos, when he 
 was journeying from nation to nation among the Indians 
 of the Northwest trying to unite them against the com 
 mon destroyer. He remembered how his heart burned 
 at the story of the wrongs endured by the Shawanos, 
 who had been driven foot by foot from the great ocean 
 where the sun rises to the base of the Rocky Mountains. 
 Tecumseh was dead ; but Ooacoochee was left to unite 
 the tribes, to lead them to battle, if the Seminole 
 would only rouse himself from the burden of his 
 griefs. 
 
 True, the Comanches were crawling snakes that the 
 warriors of the Pawnees had despised ; but then they 
 could sting the enemy. Here he thought of his distrust 
 of His-oo-san-ches, and, looking toward the council-fire, 
 he saw the Comanche in close talk with the white men ; 
 whilst there why were those horsemen there ? Why 
 had they stopped near by? Coacoochee was right in 
 this also. It was a rash and foolish thing in him to 
 come with the Comanches. They had always hated the 
 Pawnees ; and he himself even now carried Comanche 
 scalps at his girdle. He had come through love for the 
 child. He would keep her ; but he had thought to learn 
 the heart of her father by watching him unseen whilst 
 His-oo-san-ches spoke of his child. His own heart had 
 opened to the chief with the truthful tongue and the 
 honest eyes. He had felt the pain he must give, and 
 almost no, he would not have broken his oath. Now, 
 his way was plain. He could speak, not through the 
 lying Comanche, but man to man with the chief who 
 had thought to buy this new delight that had come to 
 his life. 
 
 These were some of the thoughts of the chief, as he 
 sat silently in his saddle for several minutes after Les- 
 zinksky had spoken. Then, suddenly reining his horse 
 around to confront his listener, he said : 
 
 " Lo-loch-to-hoo-la has not come to take ransom for 
 the little chincha who has nestled in his breast, but to 
 hear the words His-oo-san-ches was to say to the chief 
 of the Long-knives. The Comanche is a crawling snake ;
 
 1 84 BABY RUE. 
 
 his tongue is forked. Lo-loch-to-hoo-la feared he would 
 take the gifts of the chiefs, and not say that Lo-loch-to- 
 hoo-la would not sell the child who has made his heart 
 glad. She is brave and fearless ; she has eaten the 
 bread of the Indian, and slept by his fire. All the 
 treasure of the Great Father of the white men cannot 
 buy Ning-ah-shaw-na-qui-ta." l 
 
 Too late ! Leszinksky elt he had lost his oppor- 
 tunit}'. He must content himself with hope for some 
 new occasion to persuade the warrior before this con 
 ference ended. He would try to win the chiefs trust, 
 his friendship. He would urge nothing. He would be 
 honest and frank, and trust the better feeling of the man 
 he had not understood. He had always believed an 
 Indian could be truthful and just ; now he began to see 
 he could have the finer instincts of a gentleman. Dis 
 mounting, he held out his hand: the chief also dis 
 mounted. 
 
 " Will not Lo-loch-to-hoo-la be the friend of Leszink 
 sky?" 
 
 The Pawnee grasped the extended hand. The two 
 men regarded each other intently. The chief, still 
 holding Leszinksky's hand, said in a low tone : 
 
 "Lo-loch-to-hoo-la believes that Leszinksky," he 
 made an effort to get the name. " the father of Ning- 
 ah-shaw-na-qui-ta, is a brave warrior ; that his tongue 
 speaks the words in his heart. But his people are creep 
 ing panthers ; and their flag of peace is a lie. Even 
 now their horsemen are coming to close the path of the 
 Pawnee. The Comanches have sold Lo-loch-to-hoo-la 
 at the council-fire while he was here talking to his 
 friend." 
 
 The accent of these deep-toned sentences was a 
 master-piece of wild oratory. It taught and convinced. 
 The young officer knew, before he turned to look, that 
 the charge was true, that an act of treachery was about 
 to be attempted. For the first time in all Stanislaus 
 Leszinksky's life the spirit of the imperious voyvode 
 possessed him. 
 
 1 Brave little heart.
 
 THE PURSUIT. 185 
 
 " Stand back, men! Halt there! Buford, why are 
 you coming here ? " 
 
 The answer was given rapidly, that the Indian might 
 not catch the meaning : 
 
 " It was the captain's order. "We're to arrest the 
 chief at all hazards." 
 
 They still approached, riding slowly and cautiously, 
 not to scare their prey. 
 
 "Halt, I say!" 
 
 The clear voice rang out imperiously. Buford hesi 
 tated. The men obeyed the senior officer, and halted. 
 
 " Buford, this is a mistake ; you have misunderstood. 
 What ! arrest a brave enemy who has come under the 
 invitation of that flag of truce ? " and he pointed to the 
 fluttering folds that waved at the summit of the hill. 
 
 "I am not to blame, Lieutenant. It was the cap 
 tain's order, given as you rode forward to meet the 
 chief." 
 
 Carson came galloping down the hill. Leszinksky 
 turned quickly to Lo-loch-to-hoo-la, who stood apparently 
 unaffected by the excitement about him, though cer 
 tainly conscious of his danger. 
 
 " Will Lo-loch-to-hoo-la trust his friend?" 
 
 A quick grasp of the extended hand and a confi 
 dent flash in the dark e}-es was all the answer. 
 
 "Then mount my horse. It is the fleetest on the 
 plains. Leszinksky wishes to exchange with Lo-loch- 
 to-hoo-la." 
 
 The chief vaulted into the saddle, and waited as care 
 lessly- as if they were alone there on the prairie. As 
 Leszinksky mounted the pony, Carson called out : 
 
 " Look out, Stan ! Buford is going to capture the 
 damned red-skin. We will have the chiefs as soon as 
 he is surrounded. Why the hell did you let him mount 
 Sultan? We will have to kill him now to take him, and 
 we wanted all the prisoners we could get." 
 
 Again the men advanced, at a motion from Buford. 
 Leszinksk}' looked to the hill. There was no mistaking 
 the waiting attitude of the officers. There was the flash 
 of a sabre in the sunlight, and again the imperious 
 call:
 
 186 BABY RUE. 
 
 "Halt! 63- the God that made me, j'ou shall not 
 stain me with this dishonor. The chief who spared the 
 life of my child is here as an envoj'. That tiag is his 
 protection and my justification in killing the first man 
 who advances." 
 
 A voice at his side said : ' ' Lo-loch-to-hoo-la has seen 
 the heart of Leszinksky ; he will not forget ! " 
 
 There was the rush of a flying steed ; then the click 
 of muskets. Leszinksky threw himself between Buford's 
 squad and the fugitive. There were shots from the hill, 
 and a struggle about the Comanche chiefs ; but out there 
 on the rolling prairie Lo-loch-ta-hoo-la rode unharmed 
 away from his pursuers.
 
 PART VI. 
 
 THE CONFLICT. 
 
 THE necessity of war, which among human actions is the most 
 lawless, hath some kind of affinity with the necessity of law. 
 
 SIR W. RALEIGH.
 
 PART VI. 
 
 THE CONFLICT. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 "WE looked for peace, but no good came : and for a time of health, 
 and behold, trouble ! JEREMIAH. 
 
 THAT evening Colonel Kearny, with three com 
 panies of the 1st Dragoons, reinforced by a 
 detachment of the 2d, two companies of infantry from 
 the forts on the Red River, and a mounted company of 
 volunteers, arrived at Captain Moore's encampment. 
 Whatever may have been thought by the senior officers 
 of the justice or right of the arrest of the chiefs who 
 had trusted to the* sacred character of the flag of truce, 
 the expedience of their arrest was not questioned. The 
 only regret expressed was that Lo-loch-to-hoo-la had 
 escaped ; and but for the fact that Leszinksky was the 
 person most interested in his capture, that young officer 
 would have been severely reprimanded for his inter 
 ference with the execution of an order. 
 
 The few Indians who had been captured with the 
 chiefs (the larger body, having been some distance from 
 the council, had escaped) were released at nightfall, 
 their arms and horses returned, and messages sent to 
 the Comanches and Kiowas to the effect that the in 
 vasion of their country was only made to capture the 
 band of Pawnees. That in case they were given up, 
 and their prisoner returned uninjured, the Comanche 
 chiefs would be released immediately, and valuable gifts 
 added to the ransom originally offered for the child. 
 If, however, the Pawnees, who were known to be in
 
 BABY RUE. 
 
 their camp, were suffered to escape and cany with them 
 the little prisoner, then the chiefs would be held in close 
 confinement at the fort until their punishment should be 
 decided by the Great Father at Washington. More 
 over, their villages should be destroyed and their 
 .country laid waste, if they did not at once, and without 
 subterfuge or delay, assist in bringing to justice the 
 perpetrators of the murders on the Kiamesha. 
 
 That night, at the council of officers, it was decided 
 to leave the supply train at this point, as it was admir 
 ably adapted for a temporary station. The position of 
 the little knoll, which commanded an extended view of 
 the prairie, and which could be easily defended with 
 hastily constructed earthworks ; the creek, with its 
 patches of cottonwood ; the buffalo-grass in the prairie, 
 all contributed to the security and convenience of the 
 hastily improvised fort. 
 
 In pursuance of this plan, all the wagons, except 
 those absolutely needed to accompany the command, 
 were parked at the foot of the hill, near the creek, and 
 the little howitzer, which it was decided to leave, was 
 put in position on the eminence. All being arranged, a 
 detachment of fifty men (thirty dismounted dragoons, 
 whose horses had given out, and twenty from one of 
 the infantry companies) besides the teamsters, who 
 were frontiersmen, and could be relied on as a fighting 
 force in an emergency, were left under the command of 
 Leszinksky. 
 
 It was the only mark of disapprobation given to his 
 resistance to orders, but one he felt more as a personal 
 misfortune than a reproof. He, not having heard the 
 strong terms in which Captain Moore had denounced his 
 blank blanked Quixotism, nor the equally pious manner 
 in which the bold dragoon begged he might not be 
 permitted to come to another council where he would 
 have occasion or opportunity to repeat such blank 
 blanked foil}', could not altogether understand why the 
 empty honor of this command was given him, whilst 
 his comrades passed on in the pursuit, the success or 
 failure of which was to re-create or wreck his happiness.
 
 THE CONFLICT. 191 
 
 The reader has not seen my hero as I have desired to 
 paint him, if he does not already understand that the 
 governing characteristic of Stanislaus Leszinksky was a 
 single-thoughted sense of duty, which ruled every act 
 of his life, and to which the strongest affections of his 
 life were subjected. 
 
 To such a character any conflict of duties is painful. 
 To the conscientious 3'oung officer even the appearance 
 of insubordination was a thing to be regretted, but 
 not avoided, if obedience was made to mean violation 
 of the rights of another. Acquitted to his conscience 
 of any wrong-doing in his resistance to wrong, the sol 
 dier now yielded prompt and uncomplaining obedience 
 to an order that gave exquisite pain to the heart of the 
 father. There was a longing look in his eyes, as he 
 watched the line of horsemen wind around the hazy 
 slopes and vanish in the distance, that gave " trouble 
 in his mind " to the usually unobservant Pike, who had 
 been left with the reserve through the accident of a 
 lame horse. It was seldom the taciturn giant broke his 
 Trappist-like silence, but now, moved by the spirit, he 
 said : 
 
 "It ar' a pitt}^, Lootinent, we couldn't a-gone. I 
 don't know nothin' much but Injuns and thar pints, and 
 a man orter foller the bizness he knows. It 's purty 
 apt to be one thing or t' other with the Teg'ment this lick. 
 I Ye trouble in my mind." 
 
 " You think they will have a fight with the Co- 
 manches ? " 
 
 " I ain't nary doubt o' that. What's a-troublin' me 
 is who 's a gwine to do the runnin'. It won't be the 
 Comnnches, I 'm a thinkin' : and if it 's the reg'ment 
 thar won't half on 'em git back this side the Washitaw. 
 Thar best holt 's fitin'. It don't do to turn tail to a 
 Injun or a grizzly. You 're sho* to git clawed if }-ou do." 
 
 " We must do what we can here, Pike, to make this 
 camp secure and strong, and then watch the river 
 vigilantlv. It is the only way we can assist our friends. 
 Do j'ou think the teamsters can be relied on if all our 
 force is needed ? "
 
 192 BABY RUE. 
 
 "Yes. most on 'em: they ar' a sprightly lot, and 
 won't dodge fl'tin', though they '11 be main hard to rein 
 and might3 r apt to kick in the traces if they ar' let to 
 feel thar oats. If yon '11 'low me to say, sir, the best 
 thing is to set 'em at work ; and thar 's some a-doin' 
 hyar that mought be better. I 've trouble in my mind." 
 
 The giant shook his head in a doubting manner, and 
 then, as if to stir the reluctant brain to action, took off 
 the wide-brimmed hat worn by the scouts, and rubbed 
 his forehead until it glowed in crimson streaks beneath 
 the tangle of his curling yellow hair. 
 
 " What's the trouble about the work, Pike?" 
 
 " Why, 3'ou see, Lootinent, that ar* young infantry 
 officer who 's a buildin' them arthworks up thar " and 
 he pointed to the summit, where the soldiers were at 
 work "ain't got no idee o' Injuns and thar durned 
 deceivin' ways. ,He '11 do better when he gits the West 
 Pint kinks out from under his scalp-lock, that is, if 
 he 's got any scalp left at that time, but now he do n't 
 know hide or taller o' Injuns. Not as he 's to blame : 
 sometimes it 's a gift, but most wa3 7 s it 's larnt from the 
 fool's schule the Bible tells on. Now, Lootinent, I jus' 
 put it to you, who has seen some Injuns and larnt some 
 schulin' on the plains : Whar ar' 3'ou gwine to put the 
 bosses, and how 3 r ou gwine to git water if the Co- 
 manches think o' cuttin in hyar and grabbin' up all the 
 pervishuns and ammunishun? That prairie is good 
 grazin', and that creek 's got water anuff to run a mill, 
 but it don't run up into them arthworks." 
 
 Leszinksk3 r had listened, first with half amusement and 
 then surprise at the newly-blown orator, whose zeal had 
 so warmed him that the perspiration was rolling in streams 
 down his face, and dripping from his tawny beard. 
 
 " Wh3', Pike, 3 T ou seem to think there are Comanches 
 enough around us to eat up the colonel's force and 
 swallow us for a dessert." 
 
 "When Black Beaver and Starns and me was a- 
 dodgin' through hya,r last 3'ear, sir, we laid b3" close to 
 thar villages thar in the Whitchiter Mountains, when 
 they was bavin' thar games and hoss-races. Thar was
 
 THE CONFLICT. 1 93 
 
 more 'an four thousand warriors, of Comanches and 
 Kiowas, and sence they've made peace with the Pawnee- 
 Picts and Wacos and they all ar' the splendidest 
 Injuns on the plains. I saw a Kiowa, nigh onto seven 
 feet high, run down a buffaler and kill it with his knife. 
 And them Comanches is the finest riders in the world 
 they might a-been bawn on hossback, so to speak. 
 Why, they hang like, by thar toe-nails, right under thar 
 hosses' bellies, and shoot thar arrers like a Kaintuck 
 hunter, takin' his ease a standin', would his rifle. And 
 all them Seminolies, and niggers, and runegade Creeks 
 ain't out a-huntin' fur nothin'. T' other day, at the 
 Seminolie town, I tole Starns they was a gittin' read}' to 
 move. I could feel it, sir, when I saw Coacoochee look 
 round quick like, all the time the cap'n was a-talkin' to 
 him. I would n't be tuck back a bit, sir, in my 'pin- 
 yun, if thar was more 'an three thousand Injuns of all 
 them nations over thar in the timber t'other side the 
 Washitaw." 
 
 ' ' Why did } r ou not tell Major Beall what j'ou thought 
 of the Seminole chief? " 
 
 "Cos, sir, I allus lets Starns do the talkin'. He 
 likes it and I don't. I would n't a-said so much now, 
 sir, but fur the trouble in my mind ; and I saw you 
 wah n't peart like, yourself." 
 
 ' ' Stearns said nothing of any preparation at Coacoo- 
 chee's village, neither did Black Beaver. I wish you 
 had spoken, then, to me or the major." 
 
 " I could n't a-done it, and Starns thar. I'm used to 
 have him do the talkin'. He and Black Beaver nuther 
 saw nothin' themselves. The}* could on'y a-tole you I 
 felt it. You see, sir, they 've larnt thar schulin' and I 
 ain't. I was allus so slow like, I never could a-got this 
 Injun bizness into my head, if it had n't been thar. It 's 
 a gift from the Lord. He gives it to all the dumb things, 
 and the creeturs o' the woods and the plains. It's bawn 
 in 'em. The wolf-cub hides from the hunter, and the 
 fawn can tell whar he comes. I allus knowed the- 
 woods and its folks. The trees and the vines and the 
 grass, even the little posies, hidin' under the leaves, 
 
 13
 
 194 BABY RUE, 
 
 tells me who 's been about. I could n't a-larnt it. It 's 
 a gift." And he looked reverently up to the sky, then 
 far out over the prairie, and fell into his usual silent, 
 waiting manner. 
 
 It was the first time Leszinksk}- had ever heard him 
 talk except in monosyllables, so the effect was greater : 
 it was as if one of the dumb animals to whom he likened 
 himself had spoken. It did the j'oung officer good, in 
 that it roused him out of himself. He left the musing 
 giant and sprang up the little hillock. The soldiers, 
 who were digging in the earth, looked up with merry, 
 twinkling eyes, as they saw his astonished glance turn 
 from angle to angle of the miniature bastions, and finally 
 rest upon the ros}' face of the handsome stripling who 
 was superintending the work, and who now stepped up to 
 his senior with such evident consciousness of meritorious 
 desert in his expectant face that Leszinksky had much 
 ado to keep back the smile -that would have gone direct 
 to the heart of the boy who was bashfully waiting for 
 praise. 
 
 " I see, Hancock, }-ou have not forgotten the teaching 
 of Mahan ; but if we fight at all here, we have to fight 
 an enemy whose tactics have taught us that with them 
 the simplest defence is the best. A\ r e may be ordered 
 away from here at any moment, and this elaborate work 
 would be lost. It will be better if you merely order the 
 men to throw up a breastwork. You will not need to 
 stay to superintend : leave your sergeant to do that, and 
 come with me, please, to the wagons, where Buford is 
 waiting. I wish to consult with 3~ou." 
 
 The last sentence saved the wounded feelings it was 
 meant to spare, and the boy, hastily giving the order, 
 followed his new commander to the wagons. 
 
 Pike was called, and in a very few moments the really 
 bright j'oung subaltern was learning a lesson that as 
 sisted in forming the base of a reputation which in after 
 days rung through the world when gallant deeds were 
 being chronicled. 
 
 Before night their defences were complete. From the 
 slope of the hill to the creek, a distance of about fifteen
 
 THE CONFLICT. 1 95 
 
 yards, the wagons were parked in two lines, inclosing 
 sufficient space to corral the horses at night ; and at the 
 outer edge of this space the wheels of the wagons were 
 bedded in slight earthworks. Below the wagon-beds, 
 and protected by those little mounds, the riflemen could 
 be at ease. Here were the quarters of the detachment 
 of dragoons, and the teamsters, who were organized into 
 a corps of sharp-shooters, with officers elected from 
 their ranks. By acclamation the dismounted scout was 
 chosen captain, which honor the giant accepted without 
 a speech of thanks ; but the gravel}' earnest manner in 
 which he went about his duty proved he thought this 
 was not likely to be child's play. 
 
 Whilst this was going on in the camp the}* had left, 
 Colonel Kearny's command had crossed the Washita 
 just above the mouth of Wild Horse Creek, going due 
 west to the Witchita group. From the Washita River 
 to the Witchita Mountains the country is an inimitably 
 beautiful rolling prairie, broken into occasional knolls 
 and billowy ridges, with here and there clusters of tim 
 ber and shrubs that give a lovely effect to the land 
 scape, which ends in a magnificent background of conical 
 peaks, rising abruptly from the level surface, on which 
 huge blocks of granite exhibit brilliant and varied shades 
 of crimson, yellow, purple, and green. From the foot 
 of almost every cone issues a limpid stream, pure and 
 cool as a fair} r well. The woods are vocal with the 
 songs of the thrush and mocking-bird ; even in winter, 
 which is full of warm, bright, sunshinj* da,ys, the air is 
 laden with the odour of wild sweet-violets, whilst athwart 
 the deep blue of the sky drift light, fleecy clouds that 
 etherealize and soften the tints they catch and reflect 
 from the glittering masses of colored granite. 
 
 This special twenty-ninth of December was one of the 
 brightest of the beautiful days of that enchanting cli 
 mate. The troops were in high feather from the easy 
 capture of the five chiefs, 'who rode sullenly in the cen 
 tre of their escort, turning, from time to time, watchful 
 e} - es to the distant ridges from which the envoys who 
 were to bring them release must come. The 1st Dra-
 
 196 BABY RUE. 
 
 goons were marching in beautiful order, forming, with 
 the .mounted volunteers and the two companies of 
 infantry who brought up the rear with about a dozen 
 arnry-wagons, a train nearlj- a mile in length. There 
 were occasional stops to cut a passage for the wagons 
 through the closely interlocked plum-trees that spread 
 over hundreds of acres, sometimes so successfully dis 
 puting the path that the train would be forced to go 
 round long distances. In and through these orchards 
 were patches of wild currant and raspberry bushes, and 
 in sandy spots the brilliant leaves of the prickly-pear 
 caught in a network the late-blossoming running rose- 
 vines that half hid the dangerous coil of some huge 
 snake that had not yet sought its winter quarters. 
 
 Colonel Kearny had instructed the Indians released 
 after the arrest of the chiefs to send a deputation to the 
 eastern point of the Witchita Mountains with the answer 
 of the Comanches and Kiowas. The train had made a 
 leisurely march to give the time needed. The belief 
 was general among the officers that the Pawnees would 
 either be given up or sent instantly out of the country ; 
 but in the latter case no one doubted that the little 
 daughter of Leszinksky would be detained b}* the Co 
 manches, and exchanged for the captive chiefs. The 
 only malcontents with that belief were the mounted vol 
 unteers, whose families or neighbors had been among 
 the victims of the late massacre, and who could illy be 
 propitiated, by the release of one prisoner, into willing 
 ness to let the perpetrators of outrages they were in 
 arms to avenge go free. Their voice was still for 
 war. 
 
 At sundown, two days after crossing the Washita, 
 Colonel Kearny arrived at the given rendezvous, but as 
 yet not an Indian had the}' seen, though the very silence 
 and solitariness of the far-stretching plains which at this 
 season were usually the grazing grounds of hundreds of 
 herds of buffalo and wild horses, were the most indubi 
 table proof of their recent presence. The command 
 camped for the night, still trusting to the coming of the 
 envoys the following day. The pickets were carefully
 
 THE CONFLICT. 197 
 
 posted, a cordon of sentries surrounded the camp, and 
 a guard was placed about the captive chiefs. Just be 
 fore dawn an alarm shot from the outpost, and the start 
 ling cry of "Indians!" quickly brought the command 
 under arms. The fusillade which opened immediately 
 and the defiant ring of the wild war-whoop were the an 
 swer of the Comanches to Colonel Kearny's demand for 
 the marauders and their prisoner. The reports from 
 the outposts were, "Indians by the hundred advancing 
 to surround the camp." 
 
 The first shot had wakened every sleeper, and, in 
 less time than the telling takes, brought them into line, 
 armed and equipped for battle. At the first onset the 
 Americans suffered a heavy loss. The horses of two 
 companies, and the mules belonging to the wagons, were 
 stampeded. Trusting to security from attack given by 
 the presence of the chiefs held as hostages, the horses 
 had been looseby hobbled, and left to graze at the foot 
 of the peak near a little stream. The teamsters and 
 herders hastened to secure them, but it was too late : 
 the Comanches were among them, driving them to the 
 open plain, while effectually screening themselves from 
 sight by lying at length along their horses' sides ; 
 whence an occasional arrow, sped by a strong, sinewy 
 arm, struck and stung to death some hapless herder as he 
 gazed in astonishment at the strange spectacle of his 
 own horses driven by riderless steeds that swept by him 
 in the dim light. 
 
 Captain Moore's depleted little company had picketed 
 their horses near b}^ those of Beall's Scouts. Almost at 
 the sound of that first ringing shot from the outpost, the 
 two " fighting Bens" were afoot. They mounted in hot 
 haste and reported to the colonel, who sent Moore to 
 the outposts and Beall to increase the guard around the 
 chiefs. 
 
 The lean sabreur was one of the few who had antici 
 pated evil, and so was ready when the warning shot 
 wakened him. 
 
 Apprehensions never weighed a feather with Moore 
 when a superior officer was about, to take the responsi-
 
 1 98 BABY RUE. 
 
 bility from his broad shoulders ; so he was sleeping the 
 sleep that comes with carelessness of care : but with the 
 instinct of a soldier he grasped his weapons and sprang 
 to the horse that was being saddled near by. Bare 
 headed, coatless, with his naked feet thrust in his stir 
 rups, he led his men to meet the ftying picket-guard. 
 Thej' were none too soon : the pursuers were pressing 
 at their heels. The attack was being made from every 
 quarter of the compass. Indians were swarming on the 
 dimly-lit plain. A party of about two hundred splen- 
 didty-mounted warriors had taken advantage of a little 
 ravine, to pass a sentr}- who was watching the masses 
 in the distance, moving like shadows in that indistinct 
 light. At the stumbling of a horse he turned quickly, 
 and was tomahawked as he fired his musket. Moore 
 heard the sentry's last warning, and came up with his 
 little band of dragoons. From the ravine there was a 
 rush of dusky horsemen, then a quick trampling of iron 
 hoofs, a sharp rattle of musketry, a whizzing of arrows 
 and rifle-balls, exultant war-whoop and defiant cheers, 
 a clash of sabres leaving their scabbards, and then a 
 hand-to-hand conflict, with a frightful chorus of groans 
 and j-ells and oaths, and, to increase the din, the almost 
 human cries of horses in the frenzy of pain or the agony 
 of death. 
 
 Outnumbered and hard pressed, the little squadron 
 gave wa}' ; step by step they were forced backward, 
 but their faces were to the foe. Never had the mettle 
 of the men been so tried, never had it rung so true. 
 The indomitable courage, the obstinate pluck, of the 
 Anglo-Saxon was opposed to a savage foe, who fought 
 bravely and well. 
 
 Moore, who had led the advance, was in the very 
 thick of the fight. Thus far they had saved their 
 wounded ; the dead they were compelled to leave. A 
 junior officer, fighting by his leader, fell from his saddle, 
 mortally wounded, but living. With fiendish yells the 
 Indians pressed forward. He looked imploringly to 
 Moore, who, reckless of himself, stooped to lift him 
 to his horse.
 
 THE CONFLICT. 199 
 
 " No, Captain; I am dying. Only, for God's sake, 
 shoot me, so I shall not fall into their hands alive." 
 
 Moore looked up, as a soldier, who had given his life 
 to protect his officer for this one moment, fell dead. 
 There was no hope. Behind them, the infernal noise of 
 battle proved that none could come to their aid. He 
 himself was bleeding from a dozen wounds. With one 
 desperate effort he cleaved the head of the Indian who 
 was swinging his tomahawk for its flight ; and then the 
 last load in his pistol went straight through the brain of 
 the young officer, who smiled his thanks as the muzzle 
 touched his temple. Half-blinded by the blood that 
 streamed from a cut on his head, Moore fought on : it 
 was all he could do, for now his only thought was a con 
 stant echo of that pitiful praj'er, "not to fall into the 
 enemy's hands alive." 
 
 On the opposite side of the camp the rifles of the 
 volunteers were doing deadly work. The splendid 
 marksmen of the frontier were glutting their vengeance 
 with lives. An empty saddle or a horse motionless on 
 the plain counted for every bullet fed to those murder 
 ous weapons. 
 
 Three times the Indians charged within ten feet of 
 where the volunteers lay, slightly protected by a little 
 swell the waters had washed there ages ago. Three times 
 they had been driven back by those cool fighters, who 
 had waited until every shot was a certainty. Yet here 
 and there bloody gaps in the line of defence told of the 
 wounded, of the sufferers carried hastily behind the 
 wagons, where the surgeon and his assistants those 
 premeditated sarcasms .of war awaited the work 
 wrought for them out of healthful human bodies. There 
 was no slack now : from where the infantry fought, from 
 Colonel Kearny's dismounted dragoons, from every quar 
 ter of the camp, men came bearing burdens, burdens 
 dripping a deadly dew of crimson life-drops. 
 
 The gray dawn paled and faded into misty whiteness, 
 dying of sorrow and shame for the story of suffering and 
 sin it must carry to the Great Unseen. The new day 
 blushed at ifs birth that it must bear the burden of this
 
 200 BABY RUE. 
 
 barbarity, the blame of this blasphemy against the bond 
 of human brotherhood. The chirping of the birds ere 
 they left their nests, the twittering prelude of their 
 thankful chorus, was hushed ; their songs were silenced, 
 as they swept swift- winged from the sounds and sights 
 of slaughter. 
 
 From a bath of blood uprose a flaming sun ; and as 
 if he had lit anew the torch of battle, the struggle raged 
 afresh. The spirit of Cain was a-field. Anger, Hate, 
 Murder the fabled Furies had crept, not from the 
 nether world, but from the covered recesses of human 
 hearts, and cried, " Kill! " 
 
 The broadening light clearly revealed to Colonel 
 Kearny the perilous position of Captain Moore and his 
 handful of men. He instantly ordered to their relief a 
 detachment from Eustis's, under Carson, together with 
 Burgwin's company, whose horses had not been lost by 
 the stampede. It was time. A sergeant and eleven 
 men were all that were left of the detachment that had 
 ridden to the outposts ; and these were fighting with the 
 stubbornness of despair around the bold dragoon, who 
 was lying crushed and helpless where he had fallen from 
 the horse that was shot under him, not twem"y paces 
 distant from the young officer, whose mutilated and 
 trampled corpse was an almost unrecognizable thing of 
 horror. Moore was alive and conscious, though the life- 
 blood was running in crimson streams from a dozen 
 gaping wounds. 
 
 Reckless of the approaching reinforcement, the In 
 dians pressed closer around the little circle, apparently 
 determined to finish their work at any cost. Burgwin's 
 greatest disadvantage was having to risk the lives of the 
 beleaguered party if he fired at their antagonists. Speed 
 and their sabres were the only trust of the rescuers ; so 
 
 " Into the jaws of Death, 
 Into the mouth of Hell," 
 
 rode the dragoons. 
 
 Hate could not have done so well as the unselfish 
 friendship that led the way inside of that doomed cir-
 
 THE CONFLICT. 2OI 
 
 cle, where brave men despaired of life until the clash of 
 their comrades' steel rang out the story of soldierly 
 devotion. 
 
 At the same instant Burgwin and Carson dismounted 
 beside the fallen officer. He was lifted as tenderly as 
 might be to a horse in front of a trooper ; and with one 
 bold charge through circling foes, they reached the camp. 
 
 In obedience to Colonel Kearny's command, Major 
 Beall had hastened to the infantry quarters at the base 
 of the peak where the captive Comanches were guarded. 
 He was too late ; the chiefs had escaped. Warned by 
 some signal of the intended attack, they had managed to 
 cut their bonds, though constantly watched by the guard 
 around the camp-fire. 
 
 At the moment the first shot was fired at the outpost, 
 there came from the apparently inaccessible side of the 
 mountain-peak a shower of arrows. Before the dazed 
 infantrymen recovered from the confusion into which they 
 were thrown, a body of horsemen swept past their fire, 
 rescuing the captive chiefs, and leaving in their trail a line 
 of mangled and scalped corpses, yet quivering and warm 
 when Captain Alexander found them. The guard, a lieu 
 tenant and twenty men, belonged to his company. Only 
 two soldiers had escaped the slaughter : they had gone for 
 fuel, and were returning as the Indians charged. One 
 ran to the captain's tent, and then to the scouts' near by, 
 to give the alarm ; the other barely escaped the toma 
 hawk of the chief who led the attacking part}', and who 
 had reined in his horse a powerful gray stallion to 
 defend their retreat while the late captives were being 
 mounted. Captain Alexander was questioning this sol 
 dier when Beall arrived. The description of the chief 
 convinced Beall it was Lo-loch-to-hoo-la. 
 
 It was no longer possible to doubt the existence of an 
 offensive and defensive alliance of the Indians of the 
 plains, when such apparently irreconcilable enemies as 
 the Comanches and the Pawnees were on the war-path 
 together. Had Major Beall still doubted, the prisoners 
 a Comanchc, two Pawnees, and a Witchita Indian 
 soon brought in would have dispelled the doubt.
 
 202 BABY RUE. 
 
 The scouts had reached the fire in time to give the 
 Indian horsemen a parting volley, and then, without 
 waiting for orders, climbed the abrupt and rugged side 
 of the conical peak at the base of which the command 
 was encamped. Over and around huge masses of 
 coarse, soft, flesh-colored granite that stood out in 
 broken and jagged crags ; up the acclivities to where 
 stunted cedars grew on stony ledges ; behind rough 
 edges and broken points of lofty cliffs, they chased 
 the flying archers, whose weapons at close quarters were 
 useless. 
 
 Through the din of rattling musketry and whizzing 
 rifle-balls in the camp, of Indian war-whoops, and hoarse 
 cries of command from the circled dragoons on the 
 plains, Beall and Alexander could hear the sharp crack 
 of the revolvers and the shouts of triumph from the dizzy 
 heights where those unequalled mountaineers and marks 
 men pursued the routed enemy. Their work was short, 
 bloody, and decisive. They returned, bringing one 
 dead and two wounded scouts, and four prisoners. 
 
 They had other trophies besides the captured sav 
 ages, horrible, barbaric trophies of their mountain- 
 chase ; gory scalp-locks, wild offerings of stern grief, 
 funereal flowers of black and crimson, the mourning 
 of vengeance, gathered by hands hastily unclinched 
 from the grasp of stained weapons to lay at the 
 feet of the dead infantrymen. Civilization had stifled 
 . her creeds on the altar of Barbarism. War, the Impera- 
 tor, who checks the growth of the godlike, whose 
 mailed hand arrests and whose triumphs brutalize ages 
 and peoples, had again trampled under foot the pitying, 
 peace-loving tenets of the gentle Nazarene.
 
 THE CONFLICT. 203 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 HE is as full of valor as of kindness ; 
 Princely in both. 
 
 SHAKSPEAEE. 
 
 THE evening Colonel Kearny's command crossed 
 the Washita, Leszinksky's preparations for defence 
 were complete. Everybody had worked with a will. 
 At sundown the horses and mules were corralled in the 
 space between the wagons, at the base of the little knoll. 
 Supper was over. The two }'oung subalterns were 
 pitching quoits, and around them was gathered a group 
 of lookers-on. Others of the soldiers, including Pike's 
 newly-organized volunteers, were sitting around the 
 dying embers, where a young negro was picking a 
 banjo he had contrived to hide in one of the wagons, 
 despite the vigilance of the train-master. 
 
 Leszinksky was sitting alone on the gun-carriage 
 when Pike came up the little hillock with some buffalo- 
 rugs which, with much solemn shaking and grave de 
 liberation that involved repeated change, he finally 
 settled to his satisfaction in a pallet near the slight 
 earthworks. Then the cause of all this care was made 
 manifest. 
 
 " You better lay down hyah, Lootinent, and git a nap, 
 sir. I hearn 3-011 put them young gentlemen on the fust 
 watch, and so I knowed you was a gwine to take the 
 last half, the Injun time, j'o'self, sir. Oscar ain't hyar 
 to take care on 3-011, so I jus' made free to git these 
 things o* yourn and bring 'em up hyar. You ain't slep' 
 much sence we left Bouie's Hill. Now that's weakenin', 
 and a mighty poor way to do if thar 's gwine to be fi'tin'
 
 204 BABY RUE. 
 
 hyar. You see, sir, it 's most apt to be slow work they '11 
 give us. We ar' too well fixed to be scooped and swal- 
 lered in thar fust rush, so we may have a long spell of 
 it." 
 
 " You seem sure they will attack us," said the young 
 officer as he smiled his thanks and took possession of 
 the pallet, while the giant, with his usual slow separa 
 tion of action and word, took the vacated seat on the 
 gun-carriage before answering. 
 
 " I ain't nary doubt of it, sir. You see them smokes 
 over thar behind that ridge to the northeast?" 
 " Yes ; I have been watching them." 
 " Well, they mean bizness. They ar' nigh onto right 
 behind us. And out }*onder beyont the Washitaw is a 
 little thin line that sometimes breaks into balloon swells. 
 You 've got to look close, sir, or you mought n't notice. 
 It hardly shows agin the haz}- sunset ; but it'll tell them 
 Injuns behind us that thar 's. Injuns betwixt us and the 
 reg'ment. And now off thar to the south whar the little 
 creek turns back to git to the Washitaw, thar 's another 
 lot o' broken puffs just a gwine up. Thar won't be no 
 lack o' Injuns hyar 'fore to-morrow, sir." 
 
 "I think you are right, Pike: they will probably 
 attack us in the earl}* dawn. Well, we are ready." 
 
 "Yes, Lootinent, we couldn't a-got fixed no better 
 'an we ar'. Every empty place in them wagons and 
 betwixt 'em is packed with the grass the bo}'s has cut. 
 It '11 stop bullets and arrers from the hosses, and feed 
 'em too. And we 've burnt all the grass near by the 
 camp, so they can't burn us out. We 've a plenty of 
 pervishuns and ammunishun and water, and a set o' 
 fellers that I don't think '11 flinch ; and this time we 've 
 got, nigher 'an usual, right on our side." 
 
 "Then you do not think, Pike, we always have the 
 right on our side ? " 
 
 "Not allus, Lootinent. We've been a fi'tin' Injuns 
 most ever sence I jined the army. We 've been allus a- 
 tellin 'em to go from somewhar, and a-pushin' 'em to 
 make 'em go. I did n't see it so much at fust, cos I 
 wah n't a-lookin' at it that way. In the Black Hawk
 
 THE CONFLICT. 205 
 
 War I on'y seen what they done to us. They was a- 
 killin' settlers and a-burniu' houses, and we did n't stop 
 to ask whose land it was ; nor how Injuns had been 
 killed and cheated. The army was sent thar fur ven 
 geance and we tuck it. They did n't call it that, but 
 that's what it was. I sometimes think, sir, the ven 
 geance t' other way '11 come yit. In the Seminolie War, 
 the day I was one o' the guard of honor that was 
 what they miscalled it, sir when our general asked 
 'em all into a council, and then had us seize 'em and 
 tie 'em, I larnt thar was two sides mought be looked 
 at. And the side the Injuns saw that day wah n't one 
 I 'd like to be anserable fur up thar." 
 
 Pike bared his head as he looked up to the blue sky. 
 Leszinksky moved uneasily. The blunt soldier had 
 roughly touched a hurt. Leszinksky had begun to see 
 as through a glass darkly that the savage was not wholly 
 responsible for the savagery of the border. In the last 
 few days the young officer had found two sides to the ques 
 tion. This ward of the nation had been taught by the 
 example of the nation to break faith. It was in Les- 
 zinksky's blood to value courage, to believe that in its 
 higher expression it could only coexist with truth. 
 Coacoochee and Lo-loch-to-hoo-la were new illustra 
 tions in his Indian study. Major Beall's histories of 
 the fights in the Everglades were given with the color 
 ing of the partisan, but even that coloring brought noble 
 figures from the background of swamp and hummock. 
 In the major's chronicles, Coacoochee was a patriot 
 and Osccola a hero. No way of telling their story 
 could mar that noble epic, the unwritten Iliad of the 
 Seminoles and Mickasuckies, To this Leszinksky was 
 adding his own late experience. The savage who had 
 captured his child, had, to save her, risked life and 
 relinquished chieftainship. There was a hot flush of 
 shame, a bitter scorn for his own lack of judgment, 
 when he thought of his offer of payment to the man he 
 had misunderstood and insulted, because he belonged 
 to the contemned tribe of a wronged race. He was 
 glad when Pike broke the course of his thought.
 
 206 BABY RUE. 
 
 "Lootinent, will this gun" and he touched the 
 howitzer " fling a shell as fur as that clump o' trees 
 over yonder whar the creek turns round and runs into 
 that deep gulley to the Washitaw ? " 
 
 " Yes, easily." 
 
 " Then I wish you 'd aim it exact, sir, fur thar 'fore it 
 gits dark. I 'm a thinkin' it 's right thar the Injuns '11 
 crawl up. It's the nighest they can git to us without 
 bein' seen, and it's most like whar they'll crowd." 
 
 The gun was soon sighted and ready to carry its sa 
 lute. Buford had called to know if aivything was wrong, 
 but being negatived had gone on with his game. The 
 soldiers had stopped their stories and the banjo was 
 hushed. Leszinksky was sitting on his buffalo-rugs, 
 but his anxious look over the prairie told of wandering 
 thought, when the banjo, touched by a more skilful 
 hand, rung out the jolly chorus of a drinking song. 
 For a little while Pike unconsciously whistled the re 
 frain ; then, stopping suddenly, asked, 
 
 "Lootinent, what's the reason the devil's got all 
 the best tunes ? " 
 
 " I do not think he has, Pike." 
 
 " Did 3'ou hear that last, sir? Why 'twas just full o' 
 laughs and hot blood-spurts that sets }*our fingers ting- 
 lin' fur a bottle, and makes jour throat hot and dry like. 
 I would n't a-liked Starns to hearn it if thar was a 
 sutler or a trader in miles of him. That 's the devil's 
 music, sir : it jus' puts all the good to sleep and sets 
 every sin on watch for a chance. You can't get shet 
 of it nuther, it rings like into }'our veins. I 'm fond 
 o' tunes, and they allus seem to stay in my ears whether 
 I will or no." 
 
 An order from Buford sent the men to the creek to 
 fill the water-barrels, and the banjo was again hushed. 
 Pike, who was sitting on the ground, his arms on the 
 little rise, and his bearded face in his great brown 
 hands, seemed possessed by the melody, softly hum 
 ming it and then breaking into a whistling trill of its 
 catches, when suddenl}' the evening air was filled with 
 the noble measure of that grand old hymn, " How firm 
 a foundation, ye saints of the Lord."
 
 THE CONFLICT. 2O/ 
 
 Leszinksk}' sung the hymn to the close. The men 
 below had finished their evening work and were silently 
 listening, as also were the young subalterns who were 
 sitting at the foot of the little hillock. For a few mo 
 ments after the singer ceased, all were silent ; then there 
 was a murmur of voices below them, and in the gloam 
 ing Pike raised a tear-stained face to Leszinksky. 
 
 "Thar's averse or two, Lootinent, I'd like to lam 
 so be and I can. If you 'd just say 'em to me a time 
 or two tell I git the words like. I ain't willin' to let 'em 
 go. I don't think I could let 'em go, but I want to be 
 clar that I 've got 'em right. I hearn im- mamm}' sing 
 that a long time ago. She died when I was on'y a little 
 chap, and I had forgot. But now most like I can git 
 some of it. If you'll just commence "Fear not" 
 that 's whar I 'd like to begin." 
 
 He asked with the confidence of a little child. 
 (Surely, of such is the kingdom of heaven.) Leszink 
 sky repeated slowly and distinct!}' these verses : 
 
 " Fear not, I am with thee, oh, be not dismayed ! 
 I, I am thy God, and will still give thee aid ; 
 I '11 strengthen thee, help thee, and cause thee to stand, 
 Upheld by my righteous, omnipotent hand. 
 
 " When through the deep waters I call thee to go 
 The rivers of woe shall not thee overflow ; 
 For I will be with thee, thy troubles to bless, 
 And sanctify to thee thy deepest distress. 
 
 " When through fiery trials thy pathway shall lie, 
 My grace all-sufficient shall be thy supply ; 
 The flame shall not hurt thee : I only design 
 Thy dross to consume, and thy gold to refine." 
 
 Pike had interrupted only to turn his teacher back 
 when he thought the lesson sufficiently long. He slowly 
 repeated the verses with Leszinkskj- ; then the repeti 
 tion was aided by the setting of the words in the tune, 
 again and again repeated until memory was caught and 
 tied by the magic of melody. The musical gift of the 
 pupil was so true it reproduced even the enunciation 
 and intonation of the tutor ; and Leszinksky fell asleep
 
 208 BABY RUE. 
 
 to the low diapason of a matchless bass, singing in a sort 
 of awe-stricken undertone of wondering reverence : 
 / 
 
 " Fear not, I am with thee, oh, be not dismayed ! 
 I, I am thy God, and will still give thee aid." 
 
 Contrary to their expectation, the morning dawned 
 peacefull}'. The little camp wakened merry and hope 
 ful. The talk was of the regiment, of how long it 
 would take Colonel Kearny to reach the proposed coun 
 cil-ground, and what were likely to be the terms of the 
 child's ransom. Even Leszinksky was hopeful ; he 
 could not help trusting to the promise he felt was im 
 plied in those last words of Lo-loch-to-hoo-la. Pike 
 alone seemed not to share the general cheeriness. He 
 had relapsed into his usual silent manner ; only in place 
 of the far-away, dreamy look in the blue eyes, there 
 was evident and constant watchfulness. The men were 
 about to hobble the horses and turn them out on the 
 prairie, when their recently elected chief spoke a few 
 words to his second in command, and the method was 
 changed : the animals were picketed near the creek. 
 
 Seeing the change, Leszinksk}' called from the top of 
 the knoll, " I see, Pike, you are yet distrustful of our 
 neighbors." 
 
 The giant came slowly up the little eminence, look 
 ing backward occasionally. When he reached the young 
 officer he touched his shoulder, and, with a sweep of 
 his great arm, describing a circle, he said, "Yes, Loo- 
 tinent, I am. Look around thar. At da3'light this 
 mornin' thar signals was a gwine from every side on 
 us. I thought, sir, you must a-seen 'em." 
 
 " May it not be a notification of the council? " 
 
 " Now I put" it to 3'our own sense o' Injuns, Loo- 
 tinent, fur you has larnt somethin' on the plains, to 
 your own sense. AVho is thar about hyar to notify? 
 This land belongs leastwise till the Government 
 takes it agin to the Chickasaws and Choctaws, and 
 they don't dar' live on it fur fear o' the wild tribes. So 
 it stands to reason them smokes ain't thar fur them.
 
 THE CONFLICT. 2OQ 
 
 Now I put it to 3'ou ain't they Comanche signals? 
 Mebb}' the}^ ar' tellin' the Pawnees to go, but I don't 
 think that 's it. To me it 'pears most like it 's to show 
 each other how many on 'em's about hyar and when to 
 hit us." 
 
 Without waiting further question, Pike, suddenly 
 roused from his constitutional slowness, hastened down 
 the hillside to the creek ; and, after a moment's in 
 spection of the bank, called in stentor tones to his men 
 to bring spades and axes. Then he shouted this ex 
 planation to Leszinksk} 7 : 
 
 " Keep a good lookout up thar, Lootinent, you and 
 them young gentlemen : watch every side, sir, and let 
 us have all the men down hyar, sir. They 're all wanted. 
 We've got to dam this creek mighty quick or we won't 
 have no water hyar long : the Injuns has dammed it up 
 thar whar it cuts through the ridge, or else turned it. 
 Mebby they larnt some o' our young lootinent's in- 
 gineerin'." And a quiet smile that sparkled in the clear 
 63-68 showed that when the giant was roused out of his 
 heaviness by the pressure of danger, there was a grain 
 of humor somewhere stirred in the slow-moving brain. 
 
 In a few hours the dam was finished, and to econo 
 mize the water in the holes below it, they steeped in 
 them dry grasses newly cut from the prairie, and then 
 packed the wet mass over that in and around the wag 
 ons : thus burning arrows shot by the savages, and 
 animals that might have to do for some time without 
 water, were provided for. The rippling stream, now 
 quietly widening into a silent pond above the camp, 
 was soon an empty bed, with here and there a few small, 
 still pools. Leszinksky and the two young subalterns 
 had kept a close watch from the top of the knoll. There 
 was an indistinct movement beneath the clump of trees 
 that Pike had distrusted, and a powerful field-glass re 
 vealed the presence of Indians, who were evidently 
 watching the camp. Pike was called to the council on 
 the hillock. Leszinksky gave him the glass, asking, 
 
 " Who are they, and what are they doing there?" 
 
 After several trials, the giant, getting the focus, looked 
 14
 
 210 BABY RUE. 
 
 long and steadily, then, handing the glass back in his 
 usual deliberate way, said, 
 
 "They ar' Comanches mostly, but there ar' some 
 Pawnees. They ar' all in thar war-paint, and the} 7 ar' 
 waitin' to begin thar deviltry. They must count by 
 hundreds round us, Lootinent, or they would n't a-risked 
 our seein' em, or a-tuck daylight fur the damming of 
 the creek up thar." 
 
 " Do you think they will attack us at once? " 
 
 " No, sir : the} 7 think most like that they 've got the 
 game in thar hands and kin wait ; and then I can't jus' 
 make out what the} 7 ar' a-waitin' fur, unless its some 
 chief that ain't thar yet. It can't be fur the veg'ment to 
 git furder away : if 't was that, they would n't a-showed 
 themselves." 
 
 " What do you think would be the effect if we sent a 
 flag of truce, to propose a ' talk ' ? " 
 
 " In my 'pinyun it would be the very wust thing you 
 could do, sir. They purty much don't believe in them 
 kind o' flags. It's like a znvite to a council: it's the 
 spider a-axin' the fly. That flag up thar, sir," pointing 
 to the national flag that waved over the earthworks, 
 " is the best thing fur now. They know what it says, 
 that if they begin a fight when it's thar we ain't a gwine 
 to let it come down till we 've done all men could do to 
 holp it. But look, sir ! They ain't a gwine to wait fur 
 no wvite. You see them lines a-movin' over the ridges? 
 We'll have all we can do in less 'an no time." 
 
 Pike hurried back to the teamsters, and in a few mo 
 ments the horses were within the inclosure, and the wag 
 ons that made the gateway pulled into place. The infan 
 trymen and the dismounted dragoons were behind the 
 earthworks on the little knoll where Leszinksky and 
 his aids watched the advancing horsemen. From be 
 tween the wagons the clouded barrels of Mississippi 
 rifles were held by marksmen who had learned the one 
 great economy of the frontier, never to waste a shot. 
 For nearly an hour, a distant and uninterested spectator 
 would have thought the wide prairie the practice-ground 
 of the Comanche cavalry, as the long line of horsemen
 
 THE CONFLICT. 211 
 
 debouched upon the plain, and formed into files that 
 commenced slowly to surround the camp. But each 
 revolution of the circle narrowed the diameter and in 
 creased the speed, until the Indian line was whirling in 
 a furious gallop within easy rifle-shot of the encircled 
 knoll. 
 
 Then the waiting, patient temper of the young com 
 mander of the post was shown. He gave low-spoken 
 directions to the subalterns beside him, and called, 
 
 " Pike ! Do not let your men fire a shot until I give 
 the order, unless the Indians should suddenly charge 
 then resist to the death. We will not begin this fight, 
 neither will we lose it. We know now that the regi 
 ment over there across the Washita is surrounded by 
 enemies. The camp and its supplies must be held at 
 any and all cost. The lives of our comrades may de 
 pend on our holding it. I trust }*ou, Pike, and I trust 
 the men to obey the order." 
 
 "You can do it, Lootinent. We'll wait and we'll 
 hold our groun'. I'm eas}' in my mind 'bout the right 
 this time, sir. Thar ain't no doubt 'bout what we '11 do 
 it, sir. They ar' a fitin' over thar most like, but it 's 
 fur the life of a little child ; and we '11 hold a place of 
 Tofiige fur 'em hyar, so be and they 're wusted. We ar' 
 clar in the right this time, and we '11 hold it, won't we, 
 boys ? " 
 
 The answer came in a shout, 
 
 "Yes, by God!" and that answer lost its apparent 
 irreverence when the young leader called out, 
 
 " You have sworn an oath to the Lord. Let us look 
 to him for strength to keep it." And the rapt face that 
 looked heaA'enward had a confident, appealing look that 
 was reflected in the faces of the men around him. 
 
 Two cycles had passed since the prayer of the Pala 
 tine was the inspiration that led his vengeful cohorts 
 to the destruction of the Janissaries two cycles, 
 and another Leszinksky in silent speech thus appealed 
 to the God of battles : 
 
 " Father, aid us, that we ma}* stand fast and quit us 
 like men ; that we may be constant and prudent and
 
 212 BAB Y RUE. 
 
 merciful, looking always to thee who alone can give us 
 the victory." 
 
 The amen to this prayer was the ringing war-whoop 
 of the savages as their circle swept nearer, sending 
 arrows and rifle-shot over the knoll and through the 
 wagons. 
 
 The cry of a horse in the death-agony was the first 
 note in the overture of battle ; then Buford's dragoons 
 and the infantrymen added volley after voile}*, a full 
 crescendo, through which the trilling whiz of the rifles 
 could be heard. Hard by the little howitzer stood Les- 
 zinksky, watching the field, yet turning from time to 
 time a quick glance to the young infantry officer, who, 
 calmly as if on parade at "the Point," was sending 
 shell after shell to the clump of trees where the waver 
 ing rush of the scattered Indians proved there were 
 wounded and dead to be carried off. 
 
 All day long the smoke and sound of battle filled the 
 air. Man} 7 a volley was wasted as the soldiers on the 
 knoll fired at the galloping line, where, from under their 
 horses' necks, the Comanches sent arrows that struck 
 above the earthworks and whistled through the canvas 
 covering of the wagons ; rarely a shot was lost that sped 
 from the rifles of the men below. 
 
 Blackened with smoke and grimed with powder, all 
 day long the boy officer stood by his gun ; jacket off and 
 hat thrown aside, the fair, full throat and round arms 
 bared, the damp brown hair brushed hastily back by a 
 hand that left powder-stains, and eyes ablaze with the 
 fire of battle. At noon Leszinksky had offered to relieve 
 him. 
 
 "0, no ! Please, Lieutenant, let me stay, sir. This 
 is a splendid little gun, and I like the work. Am I 
 firing too fast?" 
 
 "There is no fault, Hancock. It is not that. You 
 have been as steady and cool as a veteran ; but you need 
 rest and food." 
 
 " O, no, sir ; I could not eat. It's my first trial, sir, 
 my vigil of battle : I must win my spurs fasting. The 
 breath of powder kills hunger, except the hunger for
 
 THE CONFLICT. 213 
 
 honor. But, Lieutenant, it is a horror to think of the 
 lives that go out with the flash of my gun." 
 
 "Ah, my dear 3'ouug comrade, 3'ou think of that? 
 Keep the thought, let it be a fear in your heart ; it is 
 the only fear a brave man may keep, the fear for his 
 enem}-, regret for the blood he must spill. That fear, 
 side by side with obedience to duty, and the Christian 
 may be a soldier." 
 
 As the bo} T looked up at his 3 r oung commander a soft 
 light came into the clear eyes ; he held out his hand. 
 
 " Thank you, Lieutenant. I understand now what a 
 soldier may be. All day I have tried not to think of 
 my mother. She is a Christian, and I feared to think 
 of her. You see, my blood was hot at first and I was 
 glad when a shot told ; then as I cooled I saw the re 
 sults, lives were ended : and the thought of my mother 
 was a pain. I see now, sir, that duty need not banish 
 pity. I thank } - ou for that ; and I thank }-ou for calling 
 me comrade. It is so much to me to have you say 
 that ! I have felt so alone out here in this new wa}- of liv 
 ing, I have so missed home people. You see, at ' the 
 Point,' my classmates were like brothers." 
 
 " I will always call you comrade. With me, comrade 
 means brother : I have no other." 
 
 The extended hand was clasped in a close grasp while 
 they yet talked, and at the close the pledge of brother 
 hood was spoken with a look and a silent pressure of 
 the hand. Then Leszinksky turned to watch the enemy, 
 and the work of the boy went on. The shells sped 
 swiftly and surely to ever}' point where for a moment 
 the enemy gathered ; but the j'oung face had now a 
 quiet, sweet expression that told of a new and deep 
 experience. The instinct of feeling was being submitted 
 to the judgment of reason. 
 
 Twice the Indians charged up the side of the knoll 
 opposite, and out of range of the rifles they had learned 
 to dread ; they charged in force, though the thinning 
 circle still swept threateningly around the camp. Twice 
 Buford drove them back with heavy loss : at close quar 
 ters the musketry volleys counted. At the second charge
 
 214 BABY RUE. 
 
 the howitzer was trained down the slope, and a raking 
 fire of grape forced back the attacking party, who for 
 the first time left their dead where they fell, a disaster 
 that to the Indian is defeat. They made no effort to 
 charge again, but suddenly drew back. At sundown 
 there was no longer an Indian to be seen, except the 
 corpses near the knoll ; before the twilight closed, these 
 were buried. 
 
 Of Leszinksky's command, only three were slightly 
 wounded ; they had not lost a man. Surely the God of 
 battles had listened to that pi^er. At nightfall, when 
 all was hushed, a clear, fresh tenor joined the baritone 
 of Leszinksky and the bass of Pike, 
 
 " Fear not, I am with thee, oh, be not dismayed ! "
 
 THE CONFLICT. 21$ 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 HER angel's face 
 
 As the great eye of heaven shyned bright, 
 And made a sunshine in the shady place. 
 
 SPENSER. 
 
 WHEN Burgwin and Carson reached the camp, 
 Moore was dead ; yet there was a thrill of bitter 
 sweet in each brave heart as the}' looked upon the bloody 
 corpse of the bold dragoon. He had died a soldier's 
 death, died in the arms of the comrades who had 
 perilled life to come to his aid, and at every step back 
 ward had faced death to save his lifeless body from 
 outrage. 
 
 At the council where Colonel Kearny gathered his 
 officers, some few fiery advisers urged the advance 
 of the command to the Indian villages. This course 
 the prudent thought of the majority overruled. The 
 escape of the Comanche chiefs in that desperately bold 
 rush of Lo-loch-to-hoo-la lost Colonel Kearny his advan 
 tage in the matter of the child's ransom. In her inter 
 est, further advance must be postponed. A truce must 
 now be proposed that would include the Pawnee chief 
 as one of the contracting powers. It was evident that 
 any demand for his surrender would be useless. Never 
 in the history of Comanche warfare had the tribes been 
 so successfully led, so admirably handled. It was the 
 unanimous opinion of the officers present, all old Indian 
 fighters, that in the entire history of the border they 
 had never before had opposed to them such masterly 
 generalship. Every scout and frontiersman was ques 
 tioned. The questioning was rich in reward : here a
 
 2l6 BABY RUE. 
 
 bold stroke, there a bit of color, with faint shaclings 
 taken from Osage chroniclers ; and as the romance of the 
 great Pawnee was pictured, general acclaim named him 
 the leader of the Indians, the Tecumseh of the South 
 west. Only Beall dissented : the story of the Pawnee 
 warrior, and the Seminole girl saved from the burning 
 stake, suggested to the astute major the idea of an alli 
 ance to which the Pawnee brought indomitable courage 
 and ability to execute, but which courage and ability 
 were subordinate to warlike genius of a higher order 
 than any that had been schooled on the plains. Where 
 all said " Lo-loch-to-hoo-la," as the picture of the past 
 was rapidly sketched, Beall saw behind the chief the dim 
 outline of Coacoochee. Trusting to Beall's judgment, 
 it was now an object of the greatest importance to Colo 
 nel Kearn}' to have positive knowledge of the position 
 and designs of the Seminoles now in the Comanche 
 country. Thus far not a Seminole had been seen in the 
 ranks of the allied Indians. 
 
 The necessity to know what to expect from the Semi 
 noles that were between the command and Fort Gibson, 
 together with the losses he had sustained' and the press 
 ing need to provide for his numerous wounded, decided 
 Colonel Kearny to force his way back to the camp east 
 of the Washita, where he would be in a better condition 
 to think of reprisal or offer peace. 
 
 Surrounded by the circling lines of at least two thou 
 sand enemies, the dangerous retreat began. The two 
 companies whose horses had not been lost in the stam 
 pede were dismounted, and the animals harnessed to 
 the wagons (now filled with a sinister load of wounded 
 and dead) , which were formed in a double line in the 
 centre of the marching column. Between the wagons, 
 on the few spare horses, were mounted the slightly 
 wounded. In front of the column a twelve-pound gun, 
 from time to time, swept their pathway with grape, 
 while the little howitzer in the rear sent flying shells at 
 every gathering group of Indians that ventured within 
 range. Outside the wagons marched Cady and Alex 
 ander's companies of the 6th Infantry, and the four
 
 THE CONFLICT. 
 
 companies of dismounted dragoons under Johnston, 
 Allen, Eustis, and Burgwin ; to the last was added the 
 little remnant that had escaped death when Moore fell. 
 
 The scouts and mounted volunteers were engaged in 
 almost constant skirmish along the line, which the enemy 
 was continually trying to break. 
 
 The slow movement of the environed command across 
 the succession of rolling prairies so delayed their retreat 
 that it was three days before they reached the Cross 
 Timbers. Colonel Kearny had decided to wait there for 
 reinforcements, before attempting with his crippled and. 
 depleted force the dangerous road through the thick 
 undergrowth, which would afford such perfect conceal 
 ment to an ambuscade. 
 
 From the camp the first evening after the retreat be 
 gan, under shelter of the closing twilight, Tisson and 
 Black Beaver had crept through the circle of surround 
 ing foes with dispatches to Forts Washita and Towson. 
 At Beall's suggestion Colonel Kearny had left Bob 
 Stearns, Oscar, and the captured "VVitchita, who, in ex 
 change for his liberty and a large promised reward, was 
 to guide the scout to a Seminole encampment which he 
 knew to be concealed in the mountains, where he said 
 Coacoochee and Lo-loch-to-hoo-la had gone the day be 
 fore the attack. 
 
 Bob and his little party were to hide in the rocky 
 shelter of the peak where the Witchita had been cap 
 tured, until after the departure of the command and its 
 accompanying foes. Their after-movements were to be 
 determined by their success in finding the Seminole 
 camp. 
 
 At the second night's halt, about one o'clock in the 
 morning, the Indians charged in force, making an effort 
 to stampede the few remaining animals, now of such 
 vital importance in the transportation of the wounded 
 and the two field-pieces. Beall, Burgwin, and Carson 
 were in the colonel's tent, where Carson was receiving 
 his instructions, he having volunteered to go through to 
 Fort Gibson for reinforcements, when the din of the 
 party who were trying to frighten the corralled horses,
 
 2l8 BABY RUE. 
 
 rang through the camp. Lieutenant Anderson of the 
 artillery, who had charge of the twelve-pounder and the 
 little howitzer, was on watch. He had kept slow-matches 
 burning in the linstocks, and the answer to the war- 
 whoop was the harsh, bitter whistle of hurtling grape- 
 shot that went tearing through the dense growth of 
 diminutive shin-oak, from which the acorns rattled like 
 pattering hail as the little stems were mown down in 
 clean swaths on the low, rugged range of sand-ridges 
 across the creek where the command was .encamped. 
 The flash of the guns brought into momentary but start 
 ling distinctness the moving masses on the ridges and 
 the plain. Again the twelve-pounder raked the sand- 
 ridges, while the howitzer sent shell after shell into every 
 group revealed by the flash of the cannon. By the time 
 the officers were out the camp was fully aroused ; every 
 soldier alert and ready, every volunteer waiting to sight 
 the enenry. Not a moment too soon ! The Indians 
 charged to within fifty } - ards of the cannon, when An 
 derson sent its murderous contents into their rushing 
 advance, causing such havoc and confusion that when 
 the little howitzer followed suit with its bursting balls 
 of fire, Mike O'Dowd, who was with the squad serving 
 the guns, called out, 
 
 " Arrah, but it's yourself is me darlint, me little 
 jewel of a how-its-sure ! Divil a need of a fiddler when 
 3~ou 're about to tache thim red divils the dandy stheps 
 of a jig. Kape it up, mavourneen! Let's see how 
 they '11 stand another slap of your hot little fist ! " 
 
 There was a shout of laughter, a new prelude to the 
 hoarse note of the cannon, but its mirth had better effect 
 than answering cheer of battle. The startled savages, 
 thinking it the presage of some new, some terrible wea 
 pon of destruction, fled in confusion. Carson, ready 
 for his dangerous venture, was standing with the group 
 of officers near the guns. Again Colonel Kearny re 
 peated his instructions, and then, turning to the young 
 artillerist : 
 
 "Anderson, shell that sink in the ridge there to the 
 north, where the growth of dwarf-oak is thickest. Drive
 
 THE CONFLICT. 2IQ 
 
 the Indians out ; then cease firing until Carson has had 
 time to cross the sand-ridges. After that he must take 
 his chance." 
 
 His parting advice to Carson was : 
 
 "Make directly for the Cross Timbers. The Osage 
 will soon strike a trail that will lead to the Washita. 
 Keep in the Timbers until you reach the Canadian. 
 Light no fires, and do not risk a shot unless it 's an ab 
 solute question of life. Remember you will be in the 
 route of wandering Semmoles near the Canadian, and it 
 is just possible they are allies of the hostiles. Stop at 
 the pass at the head of Blue River and send the Osage 
 with these dispatches to Leszinksky. Wait twelve hours 
 for his return ; an Indian runner can easily make the 
 distance in that time. If he fails to return you will 
 know that Leszinksky is surrounded. The more need 
 for you to push on to the fort. Be prudent and wary, 
 and I hope you will get back safe. Now be off as soon 
 as Anderson sends another shot." 
 
 A general farewell, and Beall put in Carson's hand a 
 pair of derringers, saying, " Don't fall into those devils' 
 hands alive. Keep to the woods when 3 T ou can, and do 
 not trust any Seminole you may meet on the way. 
 Good-by!" 
 
 Carson and the Osage were over the creek as the last 
 shell burst, and soon gained the ridges, which they 
 crossed rapidly. In the last little hollow they crawled 
 through the dwarf-oak, between parties of Indians they 
 could hear talking on either side, and came out in a 
 thicket of post-oak and black-jack that bordered the 
 heavy timber up the dividing ridge between Wild Horse 
 and Rush Creeks. 
 
 Mindful of Colonel Kearny's advice, Carson and his 
 guide followed the divide due east to the Cross Timbers, 
 where the}- soon found an apparently unfrequented trail 
 leading directly north. By noon the}- had reached Rush 
 Creek. After an hour's rest they crossed the divide 
 between Rush Creek and the Washita, which for some 
 distance ran in almost parallel lines. Arrived- at the 
 Washita, they had proof of the late presence of passers
 
 22O BABY RUE. 
 
 that way, in a freshly-cut tree that bridged the deep, 
 muddy river, where its miry banks were highest. The 
 Osage carefully examined the footprints upon the 
 bank, and, motioning Carson to wait, he crossed lightly 
 over the felled tree. Not a leaf or broken twig escaped 
 his scrutin}'. After a short inspection of the opposite 
 bank he returned, and again examined the footprints 
 that led westward along the south bank of the river. 
 Carson followed until they came to a broad trail coming 
 up the bank, where horse-tracks were easity seen. 
 
 After going down to the water, the Osage returned to 
 where Carson waited, and, holding up both hands, 
 rapidly opening and shutting the fingers to denote 
 twent}', said " Seminoles." And then, with the index 
 finger upheld, " Pawnee Big Chief bring little pale-face 
 pappoose this away," pointing to the tree-bridge and 
 then up the trail westward. " See him track other side. 
 Pawnee walk over tree way." Then holding out five 
 fingers, " Seminoles walk over. Other Seminoles swim 
 horse here. No let little pappoose get wet." 
 
 Carson turned, and rapidly followed the Indian, who 
 again crossed the slight bridge. On the north side he 
 pointed to the print of the child's feet going to a droop 
 ing holly, the red berries of which had evidently been 
 the attraction. The broken leaves and scattered berries 
 on the ground were also carefully lifted by the Indian, 
 and when Carson asked, " Can you tell when they 
 crossed here?" he readily answered, holding up seven 
 fingers, " So many day. Horse all go that away," 
 pointing up the river. " Big Chief carry little pappoose 
 this away." 
 
 " How do you know it was the Big Chief ? " 
 
 Without a word the Indian pointed to the unequal 
 steps of long, slender moccasined feet in the sandy soil 
 of the shelving ridge above the north bank, and then 
 limped to show Carson the gait of the walker. 
 
 Convinced that the Big Chief had passed with Rue, 
 the next thing of importance was to learn at what time 
 the}- had passed. To this question the replies of the 
 Indian were again minute and exact, although given in
 
 THE CONFLICT. 221 
 
 disjointed words, illustrated b}* such slight things as 
 broken leaves, bent twigs, and trampled blades of grass. 
 It was made evident to Carson that the tree had been 
 felled and the party had crossed seven days before, 
 which was the morning after the first heavy frost of this 
 late season. 
 
 They followed the trail in the opposite direction from 
 that which the Seminoles had come until dark, and then, 
 sheltered under the close undergrowth, awaited the com 
 ing morning to pursue their route, which was in the 
 direction they were to take, and which Carson was 
 anxious to follow that he might gain all possible knowl 
 edge of Rue and her present custodians. The next 
 morning they pushed on rapidly until the} T reached a 
 sheltered little woodland glade on the north slope of the 
 divide of the Washita and the Canadian, where they 
 found a few deserted lodges, which had evidently been 
 the recent habitation of a small party of Seminoles. 
 There had been women here with the child. In one of 
 the lodges they found a torn little moccasin that Carson 
 instantly recognized as the mate of the one Tisson had 
 picked up in the wood near Castalar's. From the lodges 
 the path led to the Canadian, and a less experienced 
 trailer than the Osage could easiby have told that from 
 there the women had gone back to the Seminole villages 
 north of the river. At the river more indubitable proof 
 was found in a canoe pulled out on the sand, and the 
 print of two others that had here pushed out from the 
 bank. Mindful of his instructions, Carson pursued his 
 route on the south bank, keeping when possible the 
 trailers' path near the sand-hills, until near sunset they 
 reached the cottonwood grove, at the outlet of the pass 
 from the head of Blue River. Alter an hour's rest the 
 Osage started through the pass with the dispatches to 
 Leszinksky and a hastily written note from Carson, 
 telling of the discoveries at the crossing of the Washita 
 and in the deserted lodges. 
 
 Carson watched the Osage climb the^ ridge until he 
 disappeared in the entrance to the pass. Then he 
 entered the grove at the southwest, where nine days
 
 222 BABY RUE. 
 
 before he had come through with Beall, Moore, and 
 Leszinksky. Thinking of the bold dragoon, of his 
 death, of the comrade over in the little camp on the 
 prairie, who might even now be fighting with his hand 
 ful of men as heavy odds as the regiment had faced in 
 that morning battle which cost so dear, and in the re 
 treat, where step b}- step their path had been disputed 
 by a countless horde of stalwart savages, Carson had 
 unconscious!}* left the trail made by the dragoons, and 
 turned into a narrow opening that wound through the 
 trees to the river. 
 
 Here he was startingly brought from the past to the 
 present. In the little cove before described, a canoe 
 was fastened to the root of a tree by long slender stems 
 of willow, so hastily twisted together that the leaves had 
 not been stripped from the pliant cord. A look told 
 Carson that the boughs were freshly broken. Already 
 learned in the woodcraft of the trailer, he saw where 
 light steps of small moccasined feet had left a faint im 
 press upon the moss about the tree, and its slowly 
 uprising tendrils told how recent had been the pressure 
 which had bent them downward. Full}' aroused, he 
 cautiously and noislessl}' followed the footprints, which 
 led to the left of the opening that had brought them to 
 the river. A few minutes' walk and he stopped behind 
 the thick curtain of a tangled grape-vine just at the 
 edge of the little glade where Lo-loch-to-hoo-la had in 
 terrupted the conference of Senaco and the Seminole 
 chief. 
 
 Hearing voices, Carson left the path and carefully 
 crept upon a fallen tree which the vine had caught in 
 its meshes, until, in the close boughs of the tree and the 
 drooping runners of the interlacing creeper, he reached 
 a leafy balcony which sheltered him from sight, while 
 giving him a point of observation that commanded the 
 glade. Not ten paces from his hiding-place, seated 
 upon a log, was an Indian woman, whose skeleton figure, 
 parchment-looking skin of lustreless brown, and fantas 
 tic dress gave a weird, witch-like effect, increased by 
 the wandering glance of small, fiery eyes, and the con-
 
 THE CONFLICT. 22$ 
 
 stant motion of long, bony fingers, that kept twisting 
 and untwisting over and through each other the }'el- 
 lowish-white hair that hung in scant, thready locks to 
 her waist. The log upon which she was seated was the 
 broken segment of a trunk that had been cast there, 
 torn and splintered by some fierce storm. The bare and 
 matted roots were twisted into a curving elbow, upon 
 which the woman leaned, resting there one scrawny arm 
 as she still threaded the thin tresses through the twitch 
 ing fingers that never for an instant ceased their tremu 
 lous movements. 
 
 The log lay at an angle that turned slightly outward 
 from Carson's right, thus giving only a suggestive 
 profile of the woman seated on the outer side of the log, 
 whose body, from the waist down, was entirely con 
 cealed by the matted curving roots next to Carson, and 
 by the log itself. 
 
 But this position of the woman brought into full view 
 of the hidden watcher a figure that knelt at her feet, 
 a 3'oung girl, whose wonderful beauty was thrown into 
 striking relief by the startling contrast presented by her 
 companion. The slender, exquisitely moulded arms, 
 bare nearly to the shoulders, were clasped about the 
 woman. The small, shapely head was thrown back, its 
 crowning glory of dusk}^ tresses, bound with a fillet of 
 wampum broidered with pearls and tiny, delicatel}' tinted 
 shells, had taken a warm, rich color from the reflection 
 of sunset clouds that were piled above the western 
 horizon in purple and flame-lit rifts. The uplifted oval 
 face, the perfect curves of the slightly aquiline nose, the 
 bow-shaped arc of the scarlet lips through which flashed 
 the ivory whiteness of the small teeth, the pure outlines 
 of cheek and throat, the delicately rounded swell of the 
 perfect bust, all these, added to the glowing richness 
 of complexion, gave the effect of a Psyche in fire-gilt. 
 Psyche or Diana, the statuesque picture held Carson 
 spell-bound through the charm of perfect beauty. Then, 
 as the low murmur of the fresh young voice captured 
 another sense, the charm was complete. 
 
 Carson had loved Margaret as a boy loves the woman
 
 224 BAB Y RUE. 
 
 who brings into actual breathing existence the ideal of his 
 imagination, the goddess waiting to be born, the armed 
 and panoplied Minerva who is perfected in the central 
 cell of every masculine brain. He had so loved her that 
 she could never lose her place in his life. She had 
 saved him from the grossness of passion. Through her 
 and because of her he had a profound reverence for what 
 is highest in womanhood. The love sacrificed to friend 
 ship had failed in fruition ; it had not failed in its higher 
 purpose, in the supreme good that comes of loss. 
 Pain and sorrow are the gateways of angel visitors ; 
 tears blind us to their presence, vain complaints lose 
 us the sound of voices that would fain console and 
 uplift. 
 
 A more dangerous archer than Comanche or Pawnee 
 had found Carson in this woodland glade. Through 
 the leaf)' covert of the wild grape-vine Love had pierced 
 him to the heart. The tumultuous Hour was about to 
 strike that banishes the past into far-away C3'cles, that 
 has neither knowledge nor care for the future, the 
 Hour that lives through the delighted senses in a magical 
 present, lost even to the heart-throbs that count its 
 golden seconds, the Hour that was born in Paradise at 
 Eve's creation. A weeping angel caught it from the 
 hands of Time the Devourer, and dropped it through 
 the golden bars, so that every child of the banished 
 pair might meet the lost wanderer, and for that brief 
 space hear counted the silvery chimes that ring through 
 the sixty minutes of Heaven's lost Hour. 
 
 The Hour of Paradise is chased by the serpent. When 
 powerless to beguile, he raises his threatening crest to 
 terrify, unseen when he comes to tempt ; visible and 
 repulsive in the presence of the pure. 
 
 Through the musical murmur of the }'oung girl's liquid 
 voice Carson heard the warning rattle of the deadly 
 crotalus. Pulling aside an obstructing vine, he saw, in 
 a bed of yellow and brown leaves behind the log, the 
 coiled folds of an enormous snake ; its yellowish-brown 
 length marked with dark blotches would have been undis- 
 tinguishable among the leaves but for the upraised scaly
 
 THE CONFLICT. 22$ 
 
 head and the ear-piercing rattle that for the second time 
 sounded the fatal battle-cry. 
 
 The girl sprang to her feet, catching in her slender 
 arms the resistant woman. With a supreme effort of 
 her lithe, agile force, she threw her burden aside, and 
 turned to face the coming danger. As the springing 
 reptile straightened his muscular folds, there was a 
 sharp report, and he lay broken and wounded upon 
 the log, yet still trying in the wrath of the death-agony 
 to strike his envenomed fangs into the prey almost 
 within reach. Carson had hastily followed the shot of 
 his derringer. Breaking a bough as he sprang from the 
 tree, the rattlesnake was soon dispatched. The woman 
 had fallen in a sitting posture upon the ground, and, 
 without apparent consciousness of what was passing, 
 commenced plucking from the low bushes the bright 
 leaves, vainly trying to twist them in the threads of her 
 flowing hair. The girl stood motionless as a statue, the 
 onty evidence of life the soft, glancing light of the dewy 
 eyes that watched, as if in a dream, every movement of 
 this protector, who seemed to have dropped from the 
 sky at the moment of need. 
 
 The colonel's warning against firing a shot, BealPs 
 caution not to trust any Seminole he might meet in the 
 way, were treasured in Carson's memor}*, as words preg 
 nant with wisdom, up to the very instant there was 
 occasion to put them in practice. Alack ! alack ! In 
 the logic of youth, the glance of a soft, dark eye, the 
 sheen of a maiden's tresses, are more potent argument 
 than the gathered and sententious precepts of every 
 graybeard who has 
 
 *' Dipped his nose in the Gascon wine " 
 
 since its first vintage ran in ruddy drops through the 
 twinkling feet of laughing girls. 
 
 Hat in hand, Carson stood smiling and blushing be 
 fore the maiden, dumb through ignorance of a language 
 in which to address her ; but the clear light of the blue 
 eyes flashed to the very depths of those soft, dark orbs, 
 and came glancing back, as if twin stars had stooped 
 15
 
 226 BABY RUE. 
 
 from the radiant path of a summei-'s night to see them 
 selves reflected in the shadowy, changeful depths of 
 silent pools. 
 
 There was a swaying, wavy motion of the slender 
 figure ; long, curling lashes drooped over the tender 
 eyes, where tears slowly gathered and fell. The shapely 
 head bent, and the clasped palms gave touching ex 
 pression of grateful and submissive waiting. Then 
 soul gathered its impalpable elements into sound, and a 
 sigh, a low, tremulous, faint sigh. stole through 
 the scarlet lips to the t3 T mpanum of the listener's ear. 
 
 I do not know what you would have done in Carson's 
 place,. O fastidious reader; but I know what I should 
 have done ; and, because he was a manly fellow, it is 
 just what Carson did. Madame, you need not blush, 
 neither should any old, smirking sinner grin. I was not 
 there to listen, and then betra} 7 the sweet secret of 
 3'outh. Ah, madame ! ah, monsieur ! not for them, not 
 for them, need even the angels fear ! Where Purity 
 and Honesty meet, Love may come ; but the serpent 
 lies dead at their feet.
 
 THE CONFLICT. 22? 
 
 CHAFfER XXVIII. 
 
 BOSOMED in yon green hills alone, 
 A secret nook in a pleasant land. 
 
 EMERSON. 
 
 TO the north of a towering peak in the Witchita 
 chain, now known as Mount Scott, is one of the 
 loveliest valleys of that romantic and picturesque region. 
 Caught in between three broken mountains that encircle 
 it to the west, north, and east, and a spur of the range 
 that curves around its southern border, it is secure from 
 the fierce winds of the plains and the tempestuous 
 " northers" that sweep the western prairies. 
 
 The swift current of a brawling brook enters the valley 
 from a gorge in the dip between the summits of the two 
 highest cones to the northwest. High up the broken 
 ridges it tumbles and foams over masses of loose rock, 
 then rushes wildty down a continuous succession of 
 rapids, over shelving stretches of upland meadows, 
 until it reaches a little lakelet at the head of the valley. 
 
 Its surface dimples and breaks into tiny waves as it 
 swells from shore to shore, sending with each pulsation 
 a fresh current into the swift stream that flows from it 
 in gentle curves a distance of seven miles to the ex 
 treme southeastern boundary of the valley, where it 
 finds outlet through the rocky defile of a narrow canon, 
 or ravine, rent through the inclosing spur. Here the 
 perpendicular walls, three hundred feet high, form a 
 columnar structure of porphyritic trap, occasionally 
 studded with dwarf cedars, which take root, and draw 
 their meagre sustenance from the scanty decomposition
 
 228 BABY RUE. 
 
 of the broken flutings that traverse the face of the 
 escarpment. 
 
 On the northeast corner of the wall, where the creek 
 enters the canon, the columnar trap has broken off at 
 an angle which exposes to view veins of cellular or 
 spongy quartz, filled with liquid naphtha, having a 
 strong, resinous odour. Above the rocky plateau made 
 by the falling debris, a hot spring issues from the cleft 
 angle. The steaming water has washed for itself a basin, 
 the overflow from which is lost in the pebbly bank. On 
 the south of the creek, commencing three miles above, 
 and continuing to its entrance into the canon, is a 
 broad and level piece of bottom-land, covered with a 
 dense growth of wild-rice and rich grasses. The vege 
 tation is less rank up the gentle and easy slopes, though 
 the gama-grass extends up the south ascent from the 
 valle}* to the very verge of the acclivity, where broken, 
 frowning ridges shut out all view save the towering 
 peak which pierces the distant and blue horizon. 
 
 The little sj-lvan landscape thus inclosed has a charm 
 ing variety of scene, mountain, woodland, glade, and 
 brook bring it beauty. From the wild-rice field up to 
 the head of the valley, around the north and east shore 
 of the fairy lakelet, and below the broad plateau of the 
 upland, is a thick wood of oak, walnut, overcup, pecan, 
 and hackberry, with a fringe of cottonwood and willow 
 near the brook-side. Here and there a shad}' glade 
 shelters the delicate sensitive-plant ; or the self- woven 
 tangle of the wild passion-flower curls over and around 
 some gnarled old stump, where, beneath the mosses, 
 the sweetest of wood-violets hide. At the head of the 
 lakelet a wide and extended plateau, a hundred feet 
 above the level of the water, commands a view of the 
 entire valley to its narrow entrance through the canon. 
 Above this, in gradual steppes, hang the upland mea 
 dows, kept fresh and green through the dryest summer 
 by the spray of the falling brook. Sheltered and circled 
 to the west and north by the lofty ridge that binds, in 
 one continuous chain, the truncated cones of the three 
 mountains, even the uplands show patches of tender
 
 * THE CONFLICT. 229 
 
 green, long after autumn has browned and dried the tall 
 grasses ; while the heart of the A'alle}- gleams like an 
 emerald, when, for a da}*, winter has set it in a pearly 
 circlet of snow. 
 
 In January of '44 the Seminoles of Coacoochee's 
 tribe settled twenty families of their negro allies in this 
 valley, preparatory to a final removal of the remainder. 
 For some time the chief had determined to quit the 
 reservation where the United States held his people 
 (not so expressed in the treatj- it forced upon them) as 
 tenants at will. The officious care and supervisory con 
 trol it affected were as intolerable to the proud spirit of 
 King Philip's son as the chains he had worn in San 
 Augustine. In exile, with only a broken portion of the 
 warlike band that had for so many 3'ears upheld the 
 falling sovereignty of his father, he determined to use 
 the exile's last privilege and choose a home. In this 
 search he had twice visited the warlike nations of the 
 plains and the sierras, and the Mexican Indians of the 
 pueblos. The wild savagery of the free nations re 
 pelled him, while the tame submission of the Pueblos 
 was only a shade less humiliating than the. enforced 
 dependence of his people upon the enemy who had 
 banished them from the Everglades. 
 
 With the prophetic instinct of experienced intelli 
 gence, and the foresight of the great warrior who reads 
 in even* movement the intentions of his foe, the chief 
 was sure of the coming conflict between the United 
 States and Mexico. The game of the Everglades was 
 to be played on a larger scale and with a different race. 
 The nation that had pacificated Florida by the extermi 
 nation and expulsion of her native tribes was now 
 about to pacificate Mexico by the absorption of all her 
 territory east of the Rio Grande, and such mining 
 property as might be useful in the future of the Great 
 Republic. The taint in the blood had come through 
 centuries. The robber instinct that had levied tribute 
 upon the Jew, and even upon the weaker Gentile, 
 during the dark ages, broke out afresh in the full light 
 of the nineteenth century. The commercial spirit of
 
 230 BABY RUE. 
 
 the time intensified this instinct. Looking for the 
 friendless, it found the Indian. Greed of private gain 
 upheld the national greed of conquest. The trader 
 cried aloud for the subjugation of the savage, the exter 
 mination of the warriors, confiscation of the land, and 
 indemnities : the last was not a salve to conscience, but 
 a chance for individual gain. 
 
 The nation heeded the voice of the trader. Honor, 
 good faith, pledges, truces, and treaties, and even the 
 flaming rhetoric of the "Declaration of Rights," were 
 unhesitatingly bartered for millions of broad acres. 
 To quiet a few brave, honest souls, who cried " Shame ! " 
 the indemnities were voted and paid, paid through 
 agents who cheated the savage out of the greater part 
 of the miserable pittance the Government doled out. 
 The trader got the remainder. Why should he not? 
 His cupidity had devised indemnities. 
 
 The Anglo-Saxon found the red man of North Am 
 erica hospitable, honest, brave, generous, and sober : if, 
 after three centuries of Christian contact and example, 
 he is wily, treacherous, cruel, a thief and a drunkard, 
 whose is the fault? -To prove it is not altogether 
 his, we will go on with this history. 
 
 In the fall of '43, a hunting party of Seminoles, fol 
 lowing up an affluent of Cache Creek to its source, 
 penetrated the close undergrowth of a densely-timbered 
 bottom to where the clear water of a beautiful cascade 
 rushed through a narrow ravine, high up the moun 
 tain side, over a ridge, in a fall of some two hundred 
 feet upon several immense granite boulders. These 
 rocks divided the current into two separate branches, 
 that wandered apart in maz}- turns until the narrowed 
 bottom-land again brought them together five miles 
 below, just before their junction with the Cache. After 
 long and tiresome search, the hunters found a point of 
 ascent around the cascade, winding in zigzag lines to 
 the mouth of the canon, with an entrance through 
 low, broken walls, and where a practicable path was 
 found beside the stream the source of which they traced 
 to the lakelet in the valley.
 
 THE CONFLICT. 231 
 
 These first discoverers of hidden loveliness found the 
 treasure they sought in captures made from a populous 
 community of beavers, that, until then, had built dams 
 at their own good pleasure, living honest, laborious 
 lives in their submerged dwellings, far from the wiles of 
 the trapper. 
 
 The hunters' report and a visit of inspection to the 
 valley determined Coacoochee to make it the fastness 
 of his people and their persecuted friends until the set 
 tlement of the border disputes between the United 
 States and Mexico should leave the way open to the 
 new Florida he had found, shut in like this by a moun 
 tain chain, beside a fresh laguna near the gulf that 
 washed the shores of his lost home. The secret of this 
 valley was known onry to his people. Imitating the 
 enemy, who had taught him something of engineering 
 in the battles of the Big Cypress and in the defences of 
 his prison at San Augustine, with the assistance of the 
 hunters and such of the negroes as the}- could trust, he 
 cut a narrow causeway, that gradually descended in a 
 curving slope around and down the side of the south 
 eastern ridge, from the mouth of the canon, above the 
 cascade, for a distance of four miles. Then it emerged 
 from the dense undergrowth at the base of the chain, 
 into a rocky glen at the head of a small branch, and 
 in its pebbly bed the trail followed the descending 
 water to where it joined two larger brooks. The united 
 streams ran through a defile, where the track would be 
 lost in the broad trail of the buffalo that here crossed to 
 their grazing ground south of the Canadian. 
 
 To make the entrance to the valley more secure, the 
 path the hunters had found around the cascade was ob 
 structed by loosening huge masses of rock, the fall of 
 which left a bare and inaccessible precipice. This com 
 pleted the security of the fastness ; for although the as 
 cent within the valley to its southern boundary was gentle 
 and rolling, it ended in outhanging, beetling cliffs, at least 
 five hundred feet above the bottom-land below the cas 
 cade. The outer sides of the three great mountains that 
 completed the circular boundary were bare masses of
 
 232 BABY RUE. 
 
 broken granite, thrown loosely together. Rising abruptly 
 eight hundred feet high from a naked prairie, detached 
 from the surrounding peaks, their dangerous ascent 
 made them secure from venture of hunter or wandering 
 traveller. 
 
 Defended in winter by the great height of its north 
 ern boundary, cooled in summer by the breezes that 
 swept over the southern ridge, the salubrious and mild 
 climate determined Coacoochee to settle in the valley a 
 portion of his tribe and his hunted allies. As before 
 stated, in January of '44, there were already there 
 twenty Seminole and negro families, with substantial 
 lodges of logs erected on the plateau at the head of the 
 lake. Sheep, cattle, and ponies grazed the rich pastur 
 age : the following summer the enormous yield of corn 
 proved the fertility of the soil. The natural meadows, 
 with their diversity of luxuriant grasses, would of them 
 selves have subsisted all the cattle and horses belonging 
 to the tribes. 
 
 Pike was right in his intuitive judgment. The morn- 
 1 ing Major Beall and Leszinksky arrived at the Seminole 
 reservation Coacoochee was preparing for the removal 
 of his family. The messenger of Senaco was then in 
 his lodge. The Comanche had met the hunting-party of 
 Seminoles on the Washita ; and having learned from the 
 scouts of the movement westward of the lodges, 
 he believed on their way to Mexico, where it was known 
 Coacoochee intended to go, he determined to invite 
 the chief to a council with the allied Comanches and 
 Kiowas, and if possible induce the renowned warrior of 
 the eastern tribes to join in their newly-made league. 
 To this end the interview on the Canadian that Lo-loch- 
 to-hoo-la interrupted had been arranged. 
 
 There was much to tempt the great Seminole in the 
 offer made by Senaco. If the border tribes could be 
 united under a fearless and experienced leader, armed 
 with the weapons of civilization, with cannon and Mexi 
 can artillerists, the dream of Tecumseh might yet be 
 realized. If they could drive the Americans back to the 
 Mississippi, and make that their line of defence, the
 
 THE CONFLICT. 233 
 
 Seminoles could pay themselves for their lost savannas 
 out of the reconquered territory that had once been the 
 heritage of the peoples of his race. Distrust of the 
 Comanches, those Ishmaelites of the plains, and 
 of the courage and constancy of the Mexican govern 
 ment, made the chief hesitate. He had known some of 
 the Mexican leaders. At Santa Fe he had seen the gov 
 ernor of New Mexico, the blustering and cowardly 
 Armijo, and had heard from the Indians of the pue 
 blos the story of his infamies. When with the Apaches, 
 he had met Salezar, the lieutenant of Armijo, who was 
 delivering to the Indians the guns Armijo had sold them, 
 though he knew the}- were to be used in robbing his own 
 countrymen. Such allies could not be trusted if the 
 league should be broken, or should encounter reverses. 
 
 The appearance of Lo-loch-to-hoo-la was at the 
 most opportune moment for the furtherance of Se- 
 naco's designs. Coacooche knew the Pawnee chief to 
 be fearless, courageous, and true. If the border 
 tribes could number many such allies in their confedera 
 tion, the result might be a constant and united resist 
 ance to the aggressors, who he knew would not easity 
 relinquish the sovereignty of half the continent. The 
 wily Comanche, who had at first read refusal in the 
 manner of the Seminole, now saw the chief's hesitation, 
 his doubt. From that moment Lo-loch-to-hoo-la was an 
 influence to be counted, an ally to be assisted. Except 
 for that recognition b} r the river, the Pawnees would 
 have been surrendered, and the child, whom Senaco 
 supposed he could at any time retake, would have been 
 delivered to her father. That meeting in the cotton- 
 wood grove changed the currents of many lives. 
 
 The day after the attack upon the encampment, about 
 four o'clock in the afternoon, Bob Stearns and Oscar, 
 accompanied by the Witchita Indian who had been cap 
 tured in the skirmish on the cliffs, and who claimed to 
 have been forced to guide the Pawnees and Comanches 
 up the peak-side, arrived at the rocky dell at the head 
 of the little stream through which the Seminole trail led 
 to the valley of the three mountains.
 
 234 BABY RUE. 
 
 For some time Bob and the Indian had been talking 
 earnestly in the Comanche dialect, which is the court lan 
 guage of the southwestern plains. As the}' rested at the 
 spring, while the Indian commenced his hound-like search 
 for the hidden trail, Oscar asked, 
 
 " What did he say, Marse Bob? " 
 
 " He says the path round the ridge, up to that valley 
 in the three mountains whar the Seminolies is, begins 
 somewhar in the undergrowth 'bout here. I '11 look 
 presently myself, when. I get a little rested. Now, the 
 pint that sticks is, I don't half believe in that Injin, no 
 how. He belongs to the stealinest, lyinest tribe to be 
 found am-whar between old Missoury and the Rockies. 
 The red-faced great-gran'son of Judas 'Scariot is jus' as 
 apt to sell us to the Seminolies as he was to sell them to 
 Colonel Kearny. I 've knowed a heap o' Injins ; but I 
 never knowed any but the meanest that 'Id turn tail on the 
 war-path, and go back on thar own color. Now, if Black 
 Beaver and Tisson had n't a-had to go back to the forts 
 for help, I 'd a-jus' left this cummelion cuss tied up with 
 Major Beall till we four could a-come up here and tuck 
 our chances o' finclin' the valley. Now, last night, down 
 thar by the Witchiter village, when I was a-goin' through 
 the Pawnee camp, if you had n't a-had your hand on 
 that Injin's slippery hide thar, the chances is the Pawnees 
 would a-had my har, and the turkey-buzzards the pick- 
 in's by now." 
 
 " Dunno, Marse Bob, what he mought a done, but I 
 tuck mighty good keer to do jis' what you tole me, sir. 
 I jes' grab hold on him thar in the bushes an' I never 
 let go a minit till I heerd you say ' Oscar.' I reckon I 
 hel' him powerful tight. He grunted a heap, an' talked 
 sometimes sort o' squeezed out like, but I jes' kep' on, 
 say in', ' Hole still ! I '11 let you go soon as Marse Bob 
 says so, but if he don't come 'fore mornin' I '11 squeeze 
 you worser 'an, that.' So he hel' still, cos he sort o' 
 understood the motion, 'cept that he kep' gruntin' 
 ' Umph ! umph ! " At the recollection, the childlike 
 negro nature rolled out a merry laugh, that grew up 
 roarious as the Indian bounded to his feet and looked 
 at him in stupid amazement.
 
 THE CONFLICT. 235 
 
 Bob, who had joined in with a quiet chuckle, hastily 
 checked himself, and said, 
 
 " If that Injin knows you was a-laughin' at him, it 
 ain't a-goin' to be healthy for us about here. He'd a- 
 got over a knock-down sooner. The meaner they ar', 
 the more revengin'er they ar*. If he knows and I 
 think it 's most like he '11 find some nasty si}' wa}* o' 
 gittin' even. Now you see I would n't keer a damn 
 about his temper an it wah n't for little Miss Rue : she 
 must be up here with the Seminolies. Lo-loch-to-hoo-la 
 ain't down thar in the Pawnee camp, and the Witchiter 
 says the Big Chief rode through thar village with Coa- 
 coochee and the baby two days before they fit us : he 
 says they are mighty good friends. So be and Coa- 
 coochee is up here in the mountains, it 's most like they 
 would be together : they 're much of a whatness for 
 pride and hatin' pale-faces. The}' 're the kind as 
 would be consortin'. The Seminolie chief never did 
 any better fightin' over thar in the Big Cypress Swamps 
 than that rush of Lo-loch-to-hoo-la the other mornin' 
 when he cut in through our camp and carried off them 
 Comanche chiefs. You see it was a pint o' honor with 
 him, 'cause the} r was arrested when we went for him 
 and did n't get him, all along of our leftenant's squeam- 
 ishness 'bout not foolin' a Injin. It ar' a strange fact 
 about a heathen savage, out here whar thar ain't no 
 civilization, nor penitensharies, nor churches, but so be 
 and he 's anything at all of a warrior,, he '11 do the 
 hardest kind of stand-up fightin' for an}-body as has got 
 in a muss on his account, or that he's friends with or 
 kin to. Now thar 's Black Beaver : he 'd jus' be cut 
 up and fried into hash, hide and taller, for Pike or me. 
 All them old Seminolie warriors was like that. Why. 
 every last one o' them come in and stuck thar heads in 
 the noose, so to speak, when we had Coacoochee and 
 threatened to hang him. The dragoons '11 fight like 
 hell when any o' thars is in a hole. By God! You 
 saw how they was cut to pieces tr}1n' to save Capt'n 
 Moore." Here Bob gulped down his grief in half- 
 smothered oaths, and then, taking a fresh quid of to 
 bacco, continued,
 
 236 BAB Y RUE. 
 
 " They '11 fight like men for a comrade, but they don't 
 do no more 'n a real Injin warrior will. I saw Waxe- 
 hadjo the day he was killed ; he stopped and fit us to 
 let his squaw arid her j r oung ones get safe to the hum 
 mocks, across a big log in the lagoon. When some of 
 ' Ours' who'd got grudges shot two o' the pappooses, 
 a Injin boy he could n't a-been more 'u sixteen or 
 tharabouts runout o' the hummocks and swum toward 
 the log whar the squaw was screechin' over the dead 
 young uns. He got the livin' babies safe to the thickets 
 and come back to help the woman with the others ; he 
 made her go before him, so's to be between her and 
 our fellers, who'd been shootin' steady at 'em all the 
 time. Damn poor shootin', not to hit till then ; sort o' 
 buck ager the}' was narvous, so nigh the game. At 
 last the boy was hit and fell backward into the water. 
 Waxehadjo had swum the lagoon as the woman and the 
 boy started with the limp little bodies : he had got safe 
 under the droopin' moss of the live-oaks. The minit 
 the boy fell he was in agin, and with two or three desprit 
 stretches he was a powerful long-stroke swimmer 
 he got the boy and was carryin' him out when a volley 
 from the dragoons fairly riddled 'em both. We got 
 Waxehadjo's body ; it had nigh onto twenty bullets 
 through it. I remember Major Beall a-sayin', ' What 
 a handsome red devil he was ! ' Well, you see that 's 
 one o' the things Coacoochee ain't forgot : his sister was 
 Waxehadjo's squaw. I saw him scowl at Major Beall, 
 who stood off one side with our leftenant when Capt'n 
 Moore was talkin' to the chief." 
 
 They were both silent a moment when Oscar began, 
 " Poor Marse Cap'n ! poor Marse Cap'n Mo' ! It 
 don't seem nateral, nohow, to think o' him dead, an' 
 the sun a-shinin', an' the 'ar a-blowin', an' the birds a- 
 singin' all the same. He was so much alive so mighty 
 much. Such a dancin', bright look in his 63-68 when a 
 laugh struck 'em on its way out! So big and strong 
 and good, always a-helpin' somebody ! He 'd take any- 
 bod}"'s troubles up, and carry 'era like they was feathers 
 that's what he would take from anybody; but he'd
 
 THE CONFLICT. 237 
 
 give of his best. Always a-givin' ! An' now he 's done 
 give his life fur little Miss Rue fur little Miss Rue, 
 an' he didn't save her - an' she did love him so ! " 
 
 The faithful fellow hid his face and sobbed aloud. 
 
 "Hush, Oscar!" exclaimed Bob, springing to his 
 feet. u S-t-o-p-it! How the hell am I to stand all the 
 strain that's a-comin' and you goin' on like a orderly 
 callin' the roll o' the missin' and the dead? And not a 
 canteen o' whiskey to be got, so be and we was bit by a 
 whole den o' rattlers. To make me a-wantin' liquor, 
 and me swore off! Why the devil do 3*ou keep me a- 
 rememberin' every misfortunit thing that has come up ? 
 Ain't we goin' right now for the little capt'n? And as 
 for Capt'n Moore" he took off his hat, and then, 
 as if to make excuse to himself for uncovering, 
 wiped his forehead and continued, " the capt'n 's gone 
 to a better world 'an this, and he fit his way thar like 
 a soldier ! " 
 
 And with his characteristic distaste for thinking of 
 or lingering over troubles, Bob walked over to where 
 the Indian was carefully lifting the low boughs of a 
 drooping willow, at the very instant a rush was made 
 from a dozen leafy coverts ; and before he had time to 
 grasp the pistols in his belt, he was a captive. Oscar, 
 his eyes still clouded with the tears Bob's oaths had 
 checked, sprang to his feet and knocked down two In 
 dians who tried to seize him, then, with his hastily 
 drawn knife uplifted, stood like some dusky Hercules 
 whose grand pose of defiant rage brought to sight the 
 power of every swelling muscle. At the instant Bob 
 was captured a tomahawk had whirled past him and 
 cleaved the skull of the Witchita. "With the quick in 
 stinct of the frontiersman, Bob realized that the attack 
 ing party did not intend to kill him ; he also saw, from 
 the waiting attitude of the warriors who fell back before 
 Oscar's threatening knife, that they were held at bay, 
 not through fear, but in obedience to some superior, to 
 whom they were evidently trusting for orders. A quick 
 glance back to the willow beneath which the Witchita 
 had fallen, and he saw Coacoochee standing with folded
 
 238 BABY RUE. 
 
 arms beside Loloch-to-koo-la, who touched the dead 
 Indian contemptuous!}-, as M'ith an impatient movement 
 he caught his bloody tomahawk and buried it to the 
 hilt in the damp moss, saying in the Comanche dia 
 lect, 
 
 ' ' The dog that my brother found hurt and starving 
 in the forest has scented his trail to show it to an enemy. 
 The outlaw from his tribe, who was sheltered by the 
 Seminoles, has sold the secret of the valley to the pale 
 faces. He should not have died by the hand of a war 
 rior : he should have gone to the Great Spirit marked 
 by the scourging of the squaws." 
 
 As the chief stooped to regain his weapon, Bob again 
 looked at Oscar. What he saw made him shout, " Don't, 
 Oscar ! don't rush on 'em ! They don't want to kill us ; 
 but you '11 make 'em kill us both, if you cut one on 
 'em. I 'm a capt-y-i>e and I don't want to be brained 
 jus' now when we 've got a chance to hear news o' the 
 little capt'n. They ain't done no hurt to us ; they 've 
 on'y tomahawked that lyin' redskin, and, from what I 
 jus' hearn the Big Chief say, they sarved him right. 
 Hold on ! don't you see it 's the Big Chief here as has 
 got the baby?" 
 
 The negro looked at Bob, and then a fierce light came 
 into his eyes. He made a bounding, panther-like spring 
 and stood face to face with Lo-loch-to-hoo-la, as he said, 
 in the thick utterances of intensest passion, "You've 
 got my marster's little child, an' if you don't promise 
 me right heah to give her up, I '11 drive this knife 
 straight through you. The Lord 's put you in my ban', 
 an' if I die for it, I '11 do it." 
 
 "Oscar! Oscar!" again shouted Bob. "You ar' 
 throwin' away every chance to get the bab}-. You '11 
 kill the Big Chief and we '11 both be tomahawked. Don't 
 you know he's her best friend? You're jus' playing 
 hell with what the Lord 's put into your hand. You 
 cussed jackass, you 're foolin' away her life and ourn. 
 Why, he kept them murderin' Pawnees from finishiu' 
 her." 
 
 Another voice a voice with a soft vibrating ring,
 
 THE CONFLICT. 239 
 
 speaking in that sweet southern English that lends to its 
 flexible force the charm of Latin vowels was heard: 
 " Are you here in search of your master's child?" 
 
 Oscar turned at the sound ; his hand dropped to his 
 side and his eyes lost their fierce fire as he met the mag 
 netic look in the soft, dark eyes of Coacoochee.
 
 PART VII. 
 
 COACOOCHEE. 
 
 LORD of himself, though not of lands ; 
 And having nothing, yet hath all. 
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 16
 
 PART VII. 
 
 COACOOCHEE. 
 
 > 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 I AM Sir Oracle, 
 And when I ope my lips, let no dog hark. 
 
 SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 AT the moment the Seminole Chief spoke to Oscar, 
 Bob, finding himself released by his captors, laid 
 his hand lightly on the negro's shoulder, who stood 
 dumb and motionless, held by a power he had not skill 
 to analyze or understand. The clear intelligence that 
 dominated him with its magnetic force, looked into and 
 through the passionate, childlike nature ; and finding 
 there rage and hate, held, as in a leash, those hounds 
 of the soul, controlled, if not subdued, by the power of 
 the tamer. With a quick glance, that included Bob in 
 the conversation, the chief, without waiting Oscar's 
 answer, continued: "My } T oung men have constantly 
 watched the two warriors that came with the Witchita 
 dog to the mountains. Otulke," and he pointed to the 
 young Seminole who had been with him in the glade 
 when Lo-loch-to-hoo-la interrupted their conference with 
 Senaco, "the brother of Coacoochee, followed the 
 brave white warrior through the camp of the Pawnees, 
 where he risked death at every step in his search for the 
 child of his chief. Coacoochee, himself, waited in the 
 darkness of the forest, near the faithful black man who 
 held the Witchita hound by the throat while his friend 
 was in the path of danger. The heart of the black man 
 is loyal and brave. It is no idle word, no boast of the
 
 244 BABY RUE. 
 
 braggart who rests by the lodge-fire, when he says he is 
 ready to give his life for the child of his master." 
 
 The voice ceased, and there was a look of waiting 
 for question in the face of the chief. Bob cleared his 
 throat nervously, trying to find something to say ; but 
 the ordinarily loquacious spokesman was scarcely up to 
 the occasion. The single-thoughted and simple-hearted 
 negro had less consciousness of his own personality. 
 His one idea was the child, his one feeling unswerving 
 devotion to the search. He had looked into the eyes of 
 Coacoochee, and to the perfect fearlessness of self- 
 abnegation was the added quality of appealing trust, as 
 he said, 
 
 " I want to find little Miss Rue. Whar is she, sir?" 
 
 The chief looked at Lo-loch-to-hoo-la, who answered 
 with a glance of assent to the silent question. Again 
 Coacoochee addressed the negro : 
 
 " She is with the wife of Coacoochee, at the Seminole 
 camp in the mountains." 
 
 " I want to go thar, sir. Thar 's whar we was a-goin' 
 when you cut in on us heah. The Witchita said she 
 was with you all ; an' when we did n't fine that murderin' 
 devel thar, last night " and he raised his clinched 
 fist to designate Lo-loch-to-hoo-la "down with the 
 Pawnees, we just knowed the Injun was right, and she 
 was up thar. I must see her, sir. Thar ain't no time 
 to lose. 'Pears as if I could hear Miss Marg'ret 
 that's her mother, sir callin' rne over the hills an' 
 rivers, to bring her chile befoe the grief of it kills her. 
 An' my marster that 's her father, sir he 's thar the 
 other side o' the Washter a-waitin' fur news of her, 
 waiting an' he knows Oscar 's started to fine her. The 
 Lord 's led me ; an' now I 've foun' the way, nothin' 
 couldn't hole me back. I must start this minute to 
 your house." 
 
 ' ' The lodge of Coacoochee is open to the black war 
 rior with the true heart. If he will stay with the Semi- 
 nolcs he will find freedom. He can walk through the 
 forest and under the sunlight a man. The warriors of 
 his race were the allies of the Seminoles, in the hum-
 
 COACOOCHEE. 245 
 
 mocks and the Everglades. When the great chief of the 
 Long-knives sent his warriors with the Creek hunters to 
 catch slaves, when the women and children were torn 
 from their villages in the territory of King Philip, where 
 for generations they had lived peacefully under the 
 shields of the Seminoles and Mickasuckies, then Coa- 
 coochee swore by the Great Spirit that the son of King 
 Philip would never bury the hatchet until the slave- 
 hunters were driven from his land, and his black friends 
 could rest in peace under the shade of the live-oaks that 
 bent over their lodges. The grass of the Everglades 
 that was reddened with the blood of the Seminoles, the 
 leaves of the hummock that have concealed the war 
 riors of Coacoochee, the cypress of the swamps that 
 have heard the bay of the bloodhounds when the white 
 man followed the trail of the escaping slave, can tell 
 how that oath was kept. When amnesty was offered to 
 their allies, the little remnant of the people of King 
 Philip left alive after the seven years' war surrendered ; 
 when the slave-hunters had been turned from the path 
 of the black man, the Florida Indians were willing to 
 make peace. The great chief of the Cherokees was 
 sent to pledge the faith of the government of the white 
 man to the perpetual protection of the Seminoles and 
 their allies, if they would remove to the lands west of 
 the mighty river. The Cherokee chief was truthful and 
 honest. When the Seminoles were homeless, he sheltered 
 them ; when their allies were claimed by the slave- 
 hunters, he raised his voice and called to the war-chiefs 
 at Fort Gibson against the lying officials of a perjured 
 government. To-day Coacoochee is looking toward the 
 war-path ; he is calling his tried warriors and young 
 braves to the mountains. The pledge made through 
 the great Cherokee is broken. There are slave-hunters 
 in the Creek countay, and the sleep of Coacoochee has 
 been disturbed by the cries, of captured women and 
 children. If my brother will come to the fastness in 
 the mountains, to the lodges of the people of his race, 
 Coacoochee will break his chains, and he shall dwell 
 near the child he seeks."
 
 246 BABY RUE. 
 
 The intonation of these sentences was a master-piece 
 of persuasive eloquence. The commanding, kingly 
 bearing, the earnest, protecting manner, carried every 
 word straight to the listener's heart. Oscar had heard 
 the story of the Everglades, told by brave men who 
 had fought for a cause they did not scruple to denounce, 
 in the freedom of talk where comrades were gathered. 
 His master had not said much. King Stan was never 
 a denunciator}' talker ; but, from his interest as a lis 
 tener, from the kindling of the clear eyes and the ex 
 pressive quiver of the mobile mouth, Oscar could easily 
 translate his feeling. It was a face he had studied 
 since they were children together : he had watched its 
 changes to anticipate command, he had learned it 
 well. It was a mixed knowledge, some such thing as 
 might result if the sagacity of the Newfoundland were 
 added to the deep affectionateness of an unlettered clans 
 man, whose reasoning follows, but never precedes, -the 
 decisions of his chief. Oscar also knew that slave- 
 traders were in the territory, come for the black Indians 
 (as they were called), who, though of slave extraction, 
 had been free for three or four generations. The opin 
 ions of the officers in the garrison had not been hid 
 under a bushel. He had heard Captain Ben's deep 
 oaths ; and the doctor's quiet sarcasm had not entirely 
 failed in getting lodgment in his understanding. He 
 knew that wrongs were being permitted, if not commit 
 ted, b}* the Government. Moreover, the clannishness of 
 color in a measure identified him with these exiles. He 
 had seen the few in the fort, who had been rescued by 
 the military from the traders, who were waiting the 
 decision of the Supreme Court. He had felt a thrill of 
 fierce delight in their stubborn resistance to captivity, 
 and in their wild, untamed defiance of the curious crowd 
 of camp-followers who clustered about their quarters. 
 
 Brought up under other training than that of Mount 
 Hope, or by any other master than King Stan, Oscar 
 would have been the most intractable of slaves, the 
 most resolute of revolutionists. His sense of justice, 
 and the unshrinking self-devotion of his character, would
 
 COACOOCHEE. 247 
 
 have made him the stubborn defender of the helpless and 
 the oppressed of his people. As it was, the insidious 
 appeal of Coacoochee, for the moment, carried him out 
 of his present self, into that other self which lies buried 
 under the " what might have been," an effect not un 
 common to oratory ; else how could we explain the phe 
 nomena of the repeated relapses of converts ? 
 
 B} T this time Bob had found his voice, and was read}* 
 to take the burden of conversation upon himself ; more 
 over, he did not altogether relish the prominence the 
 Seminole chief seemed disposed to give Oscar. For an 
 Indian and a negro to prolong a conversation that ut 
 terly ignored the only white man present was a state of 
 affairs he was neither willing to consider or accept. De 
 termined to bring Oscar to a sense of his inferiority, and 
 Coacoochee to a realization of the supremacy of the 
 Caucasian, he commenced: "I don't think, chief, 
 this black boy can get the rights of all that 'bout them 
 Florida allies o' 3-0111- 'n in his head. Not that I ain't 
 free to say thar's been a darned sight o' rascality in 
 the doin's of them nigger-traders, fust and last. The}* 've 
 started the same game here, in the Creek countoy, they 
 tried down thar at New Orl-ee-ns ; whar they played 
 hard to disgruntle old General Gaines into givin' up 
 them black prisoners o' war that was in the barrack at 
 Fort Pike. But they did n't know the kind o' man the 
 old general was. He had fit them black Injuns when 
 the}- was with you, in that fight on the Withlacooche. 
 He knowed they was real warriors ; and when he got 
 the drop on 'em he war n't the man to give 'em up to 
 such skunks as took to hunten' 'em after they 'd gi'n in 
 and surrendered. jMore 'an that, the old general was 
 a man with a heart in him ; he 'd seen them prisoners 
 when the chiefs and warriors o' thar tribes was brought 
 from Tampa Bay, them on 'em who had come in after 
 that big fight in the Wahoo Swamp, whar our folks got 
 thar squaws and little ones, and the others who come 
 with }-ou the time you brung Louis Pacheco to send him 
 out here. Well, the general seen 'em meet, the old 
 men who 'd fit and starved in the swamps and hum-
 
 248 BABY RUE. 
 
 mocks, a-cryin' fur happy, with thar squaws and young 
 uns ; and the young braves laughin' like gals, with thar 
 mothers and sisters : he seen it, and he felt it like a 
 brave man would : an' he 'd a-fought like they did fur 
 thar homes in the hummock sooner 'an give 'em to the 
 nigger- traders who had come fur 'em with a order from 
 them thievin' Creeks in Georgia. I was thar at Fort 
 Pike, and I seen the commandin' officers turn back that 
 trader Collins, and the New Orleens sheriff and his posse, 
 with the biggest fleas in thar ears, when they axed him 
 to deliver up the prisoners ; and I was one o' the men 
 who come on to Fort Gibson with Leftenant Rej-nolds, 
 when he brought the emmy -grants up the Mississippi, 
 whar Collins tried his law-steal ag'in at Vicksburg ; and 
 the leftenant would n't give up his prisoners ; and at 
 Little Rock they called on the State to get 'em, when 
 Governor Roane said p'int-blank he ' was n't in the nig- 
 ger-catchin' business, and nuther was the State o' Ar- 
 kansaw.' Ino and Louis Pacheco come through with 
 us ; an' so be and they 're any whar about here, I 'ud like 
 to see 'em. 
 
 " Now Oscar don't know nuthin' 'bout them times, and 
 he ain't no right notion o' the difference in thar fix an' 
 his'n. He 's always belonged to his master, and he 's no 
 more a-hankerin' to leave him than Louis Pacheco would 
 be to leave the Seminolies. But that 's nuther here nor 
 thar. You know what we come to the mountains fur, 
 and }'ou seen who we come with. I had n't much 'pinion 
 o' that Witchiter myself; and I'm free to say, 1 think 
 the Big Chief gi'n him just what he 'arned." 
 
 With a deferential nod to the silent Pawnee, Bob 
 closed his politic oration. Its most evident effect was 
 upon Oscar, who was thus recalled from any outside 
 question to the immediate business in hand. His vio 
 lent outburst of temper at sight of the Indian who had 
 brought such distress upon the family to whom he was 
 devoted had been checked b}' Coacoochee's look. The 
 address of the chief had changed his mood, and for the 
 time nearly mastered him. But Bob's strategic seizure 
 of the situation had nullified the chief's influence ; and
 
 COACOOCHEE. 249 
 
 Oscar was now more calmly, but just as persistently, 
 determined to continue his search for the stolen child ; 
 to do battle with any, or all, who resisted or delayed 
 her restoration to her home. 
 
 Coacoochee had watched the changes of the negro's 
 countenance, and knew that all chance of gaining an 
 other adherent was lost. 
 
 The problem left for his solution was, how to dispose 
 of the prisoners, who were likely to be an embarrass 
 ment to their captors, who were not }"et declared 
 enemies of the Americans. To release them without 
 the child would be to invite attack. To retain them 
 might necessitate their prolonged captivity ; beside, 
 they would be difficult prisoners to guard. The Semi- 
 nole chief could, and did, judge them fairly. He under 
 stood that they were men of more than ordinary courage 
 and daring, unswerving in pin-pose, desperatehy deter 
 mined ; the negro blindly devoted and reckless of con 
 sequence, the white man coolly indifferent to danger, 
 yet ready to seize every advantage of defence ; as wary 
 as he was resolute. 
 
 For a moment the Seminole almost resolved to let 
 them pa}' the full price of their rash venture, but the 
 trustful look in the negro's face disarmed him. Bob, if 
 alone, would have been in mortal danger : his diplo 
 matic oration would have been his death-warrant ; but 
 Bob, as a sort of moral twin of the confiding black man, 
 was entitled to the chiefs consideration. So Coacoo 
 chee was, in a measure, forced to his final decision, 
 to separate the men on some plausible pretext, and trust 
 to a temporizing policy until he should be ready to 
 leave the country with his people. Remembering Bob's 
 claim of acquaintanceship, he called, 
 
 " Louis!" 
 
 From beneath the willows emerged a medium-sized, 
 intelligent-looking dark mulatto. He had evidently 
 heard the conversation, for. with a quick glance at the 
 chief, he held out his hand to Bob, speaking English 
 with a slight foreign accent. 
 
 "1 rhemember you verhie well, Mr. Stearns. You
 
 250 BAB Y RUE. 
 
 werhe one of our guard. I have not forgotten how kind 
 and obliging you werhe. I do not think }-ou ^verhe at 
 Fort Gibson, when I was therhe two years ago." 
 
 " No," said Bob, shaking hands with some embar 
 rassment, for he saw the mulatto knew of his desertion. 
 "I was out on the plains then with Pike. You must 
 remember Pike ? " 
 
 " Oh yes ; I rhemember I could stand under his arm. 
 Wherhe is he now ? " 
 
 " Over thar, the other side o' the Washeter with our 
 reserves." 
 
 And Bob thought he had made a good point for his 
 own side in intimating they had force enough to detach 
 a reserve. Coacoochee smiled, and then, leaving Bob 
 talking to his newly-found acquaintance, with Oscar as 
 listener, the two chiefs had a short but decisive confer 
 ence. When it ended, Coacoochee returned to Louis 
 and the men, abruptly saying to Oscar, 
 
 " If you will promise to wait in the mountain with the 
 little child, without attempting to escape until I can 
 send a messenger to 3'our master, }-ou can go at "once to 
 the lodge of Coacoochee." 
 
 " Yes, sir, I promise. I 'm might}' willin' to wait with 
 Miss Rue, if Marse Stan knows I's with her." 
 
 Bob looked at Oscar warning^, but before he could 
 attract the negro's attention, Coacoochee continued. 
 
 " You give me your word as an honest man that you 
 will be quiet and peaceable, that you will wait with 
 out an}* effort to escape until I release you from your 
 promise ? " 
 
 Again Bob's nervous cough and clearing of his throat 
 failed to catch the attention of the negro who was earn 
 estly regarding the chief, as he answered, 
 
 " Yes, sir. You can be sho' o' Oscar. If the Lord 
 lets me see Miss Rue, an' I can stay with her while 
 3*ou 're a waitin' to hear from her father, it '11 be easy fur 
 me to be peaceable an' patient till you tells me I 's free 
 to go an' to take the chile ; fur nohow I could n't go 
 back without her. So I promise }'ou I won't try to get 
 away with her. I '11 wait. I know I can truss you, sir; 
 an' I won't no way try to deceive you."
 
 COACOOCHEE. 2$ I 
 
 The intonation was so true and honest that the chief 
 was sure the negro would keep faith. Much to his dis 
 gust, after Oscar's fall into the trap set, Bob was equalty 
 sure. Henceforth he must count Oscar out in his cal 
 culation of chances. He had nothing but the almost 
 unerring instinct of the frontiersman and his own pluck 
 to rely upon, in the contest he saw was coming with the 
 Seminole chief, who was saying to Oscar, 
 
 ' You can go now, but you must let Louis blindfold 
 you. The pass into the mountains is a secret we can 
 not give to any but our own people." 
 
 t; Yes, sir. It'll be slower work I can't walk so 
 fast. But I ain't afeard I 'm ready fur the blindfold, 
 sir." 
 
 " You will not walk. The horses are waiting there 
 in the wood. You will be perfectly safe." 
 
 " Yes, sir, I know it. I truss you ; an' maybe some 
 time Oscar '11 get a chance to show you how he 's willin' 
 to thank you fur helpin' him to get to his marsters chile 
 in her trouble." 
 
 Then turning to Bob, taking for granted he was the 
 messenger to his master, he added, 
 
 " Good-by, Marse Bob. Tell Marse Stan the baby's 
 safe now. She '11 have one of her own folks with her, 
 an' I '11 never leave off watchin' of her till she 's in her 
 mother's arms. You mus' go on to her mother, Marse 
 Bob, an' say Miss Rue 's got me with her ; then Miss 
 Marg'ret will feel she 's safe. Good-by." 
 
 And in his haste he did not see Bob's look of warn 
 ing. He passed with the mulatto into the copse of wil 
 lows, and Bob was facing the chief, who had not lost 
 one of his unlucky signals to Oscar.
 
 252 BABY RUE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 OUR acts our angels are, or good or ill. 
 
 JOHN FLETCHER. 
 
 THE sound of Carson's derringer brought other 
 travellers to the glade. 
 
 Doctor Randall, who was the advance scout of the 
 first detachment, according to Carson's view of the case, 
 could not have arrived at a more inopportune moment. 
 
 The young officer had one arm around the Indian 
 maiden, and was pressing her shapely little hand to his 
 lips, as he caught sight of Randall's smiling visage. 
 The deep color that rushed to Carson's face outblushed 
 his hair, thus destroying the tender harmony of "the 
 symphony in white and red." However, he was too 
 manl}- a fellow to let his manner reflect even the slightest 
 shade of embarrassment, that might disturb the innocent 
 girl, who unconsciously shrank closer to her protector at 
 sight of this stranger. Releasing her hand, but holding 
 her more firmly by the arm about her waist (believing 
 she did not understand English), Carson said, "How 
 are you, Randall? Meeting you is unexpected. I hap 
 pened here at the most opportune moment." 
 
 " I believe you." There was just a shade of mirthful 
 sarcasm in the doctor's voice. 
 
 Carson exclaimed impetuously, "Randall, don't be 
 a fool ! I never saw the child in m3' life until a few 
 moments ago, when I shot that snake which would 
 else have bitten her. I was there at the river when 
 I saw indications of recent passers-by, and was led 
 here by the sound of voices. It is always important
 
 COACOOCHEE. 253 
 
 to know who are your neighbors when in the enemy's 
 country." 
 
 " Very important. It is evident you have neglected 
 no precaution. Au cont.raire, you have improved 
 every opportunity. You have captured the enemy and 
 brought her to terms. The conquest has been decisive 
 and rapid, the old Roman way, Veni, vidi, vici. But 
 as Mrs. Leszinksky is just at the edge of the wood, with 
 an escort, and the}' are coming this way, don't you think 
 the child had better try if she can stand alone ? " 
 
 The young girl until now had watched the face of her 
 protector. Suddenly she turned, unclasping Carson's 
 arm from about her she faced Randall with a haughty, 
 imperious movement. There was a moment's hesitation, 
 then equally sudden self-control, and she spoke earnestly 
 and rapidly to the woman sitting on the ground. The 
 effect was electric. The woman sprang to her feet and 
 commenced a barbaric wailing chant, waving her arms 
 above her head, then, breaking into moaning sobs, she 
 walked slowly toward the river. 
 
 The maiden stood motionless until the chant had 
 ceased, then, without a glance at Randall, she ap 
 proached Carson, and to the utter surprise of her lis 
 teners said, in slightly hesitating, but perfect English, 
 " The young chief has saved from the fangs of the 
 chitta-micco the widow of Waxehadjo and the daugh 
 ter of Coacoochee. My people do not forget. The 
 lodges of the Seminoles are always open to the pre 
 server of Futtatike and Alaha-chayna.* If he is hungry 
 or tired, he will find rest and food. If he is beset with 
 enemies, Coacoochee will pay with his life the debt of 
 his child." 
 
 " What debt does my child owe to a warrior of the 
 pale-faces ? " 
 
 With majestic mien Coacoochee walked into the mid 
 dle of the opening, and, standing beside the girl, looked 
 from one to the other of his surprised listeners. 
 
 The young maiden caught his hand, exclaiming joy 
 ously, " Etauteh, Ahi !." f 
 
 * Sweet-Orange. t Dear father.
 
 254 BABY RUE. 
 
 The chiefs face softened in expression ; and to his 
 question, in their own language, she rapidly gave tihe 
 history of her encounter. The bright, speaking face, the 
 rapid yet graceful gestures, easily translated her mean 
 ing to Randall and Carson ; and also to another listener, 
 who was waiting under the trees, unobserved by an}- but 
 Coacoochee. As Alaha-chayna ended her relation, she 
 led her father to Carson, and then awaited, with an 
 eager, confident look, the chiefs expression of thanks. 
 
 The Seminole regarded Carson closely ; then, as if con 
 tent with what he saw, extended his hand, saying, " Coa 
 coochee has owed the pale-faces man}' debts, but never, 
 until now, gratitude. In the swamps and hummocks 
 and everglades of Florida, he tried to pay what he owed. 
 There are white men now, in the Cherokee country, 
 with whom he has old accounts to settle. But the 
 child of Coacoochee has spoken. Alaha-cha3'na has 
 pledged the friendship of Coacoochee to the first white 
 man who ever came between Seminole women and dan 
 ger. The pledge shall be kept. The lodges of the 
 Seminoles are open to the young chief. The heart and 
 hand of Coacoochee will answer his call. If my young 
 brother has anything to ask, let him speak." 
 
 Carson took the extended hand ; but before he could 
 find words to answer, Margaret walked rapidly from 
 under the deepening shade of the drooping boughs and 
 vines. Taking the young girl's hand in hers, she laid her 
 other hand trustfully and appealingly on the chiefs arm, 
 saying, while tears ran down her beautiful pale face, 
 " My brother has saved your child. Will you give me 
 mine ? " 
 
 " Your child is not my prisoner." 
 
 "She has been here in your country, in these 
 woods. See! I found this at the instant now, while 
 you were speaking ; I found it in the leaves when I 
 Stood under that tree." 
 
 And she held up a tiny necklace of coral, that Carson 
 instantly recognized as one he had given Rue. Putting 
 it in Carson's hand, she said : " Ask him for my child ! 
 My heart is breaking for her. O Rue, my baby,
 
 COACOOCHEE. 255 
 
 where are you ? " The last words were an agonizing 
 cry. 
 
 "Alaha-chayna looked appealingly at her father, who 
 stood, cold and unmoved, beside Margaret. The young 
 maiden hesitatingly addressed him. He signed an im 
 perative negative to her request. For an instant she 
 was silent ; then, with a quick glance at Carson, who 
 was supporting in his arms the almost fainting mother, 
 she commenced what all those listeners knew to be a 
 passionate entreaty. There was an impatient exclama 
 tion from her father. Proudly and reproachfully she 
 regarded him for a moment in silence, then, turning to 
 Margaret: " Alaha-cha3'na cannot see unmoved the 
 grief of the sister of the brave young chief. If Coa- 
 coochee so soon forgets, Alaha-chayna remembers. She 
 will speak, that the heart of the weeping mother may 
 be glad. The little child is in the lodge of the Seminole 
 chief. She is with the wife of Coacoochee, in the moun 
 tains. The daughter of Osceola has moaned for a year 
 over the cradle her child left empty, when it was called 
 to the land of the Great Spirit. Ning-ah-shaw-na-quita 
 is safe ; for the wife of Coacoochee has taken to her 
 heart the little eaglet Lo-loch-to-hoo-la placed in her 
 care." 
 
 In an instant Margaret clasped to her bosom the girl, 
 who warmly returned the embrace, and the two women 
 were weeping in each other's arms. 
 
 Carson was so absorbed by S3'mpatli3' for his first love, 
 and rapidly growing admiration for the second, that he 
 utterly ignored the masculine assistants at this interview. 
 
 Fortunatel}-, Randall had not so completely lost his 
 wits. He knew that Chief Ross, of the Cherokees, had 
 been the constant and unfaltering friend of the Semi- 
 noles since his unhappy intervention in their affairs in 
 Florida, when he had pledged his honor for the good 
 faith of the Government in their dealings with the 
 Florida tribes, if the}- would remove to the Indian 
 Territory. The very failure of the Government to re 
 deem its promises, and his, had attached Ross more 
 firmly to the deceived tribes and their much-wronged
 
 2$6 BABY RUE. 
 
 allies. They had been left homeless and landless on 
 their arrival in the Territory, because they refused to 
 be settled in the country of their bitter foes, the Creeks, 
 which would have subjected the Seminoles to Creek 
 despotism, and their allies to Creek servitude. The 
 representative of the white claimants in Georgia had 
 followed them like a sleuth-hound from Tampa Bay to 
 the inhospitable wilds, where, through the orders of the 
 Government, they were now refused permission to settle, 
 except under conditions that were impossible to this 
 brave though broken people. In this extremity Ross 
 had come to their relief ; and they settled as tenants on 
 the Cherokee lands, waiting for the slow and partial 
 justice of the United States to place them, as Agreed in 
 the treaty, on a separate reservation. 
 
 Thoroughly informed of their history, Randall had 
 instantly determined to back Margaret's appeal b}' his 
 own entreaty, in the character of friend and medical 
 adviser of the Cherokee chief. He reminded the Semi- 
 nole that the}' had met the previous summer at the 
 residence of Chief Ross. Coacoochee courteously ad 
 mitted the acquaintance, and graciously added that he 
 knew how highly Chief Ross esteemed the doctor, whose 
 services had been so kindly given when a dangerous 
 malarial fever had almost decimated a settlement in the 
 swamp-lands the Cherokees were trying to reclaim. 
 The doctor made a few politic remarks complimentary 
 to his very dear friend, Chief Ross, and then adroitly 
 led the conversation to his present adventure with his 
 patient, who was in failing health, rendered more serious 
 by the great shock of her child's loss. At the allusion 
 the chief looked uneasily toward his daughter and her 
 interlocutors. 
 
 Again Randall's diplomacy was quick and effective in 
 effort. He congratulated the chief on his child's escape, 
 and spoke with apparent frankness and heartiness of 
 the great pleasure it was to them all that Carson had 
 been so fortunate as to arrive at the very moment of 
 her danger. TJien, when the father's heart was touched 
 by the thought of her risk, Randall spoke of her beauty
 
 COACOOCHEE. 
 
 and sweetness, adding, with the most naive and simple 
 expression of confidence, "Carson's lucky arrival has 
 saved, not only your daughter and sister, but nyy patient. 
 The reaction caused by the welcome news of her child's 
 safety, and the soothing effect of your daughter's tender 
 sympathy, have given me new hope for the life of which 
 I had almost despaired, when I consented, as a last ex 
 pedient, to this dangerous expedition. Our fortunate 
 meeting with you has, of course, removed all danger 
 that might have befallen us of chance meeting with hos 
 tile bands. Under your protection I know my patient 
 is safe ; but to your daughter's ministration I trust for 
 her restoration to health. She was in a delicate condi 
 tion before this cruel loss, but the shock that I thought 
 for a few days would kill her, brought about such a 
 restless, nervous state that I consented to this journey, 
 knowing the only hope for her reason was constant 
 bodily fatigue, which her anxiety for her child, and her 
 firm belief in the successful result of her search, has 
 enabled her to bear." 
 
 For a few moments the chief was silent. He had 
 listened to the last few sentences with downcast eyes, 
 and, when Randall ceased speaking, seemed lost in 
 musing. At length, when he raised his ej-es, they met 
 Randall's, which seemed to question him. In a harsh 
 voice, unlike his usual flute-like tones, he said, "You 
 saw here, but now, the sister of Coacoochee, a widow, 
 and childless. The Great Spirit has clouded her un 
 derstanding, and made her sacred as are the mem 
 ories of the past. The father of the child you seek 
 killed Waxehadjo. Coacoochee does not hold anger for 
 that death, though the warriors of the pale-faces were a 
 hundred to one. It was the chance of battle, and a 
 brave man does not count his foes. The wife of Wax 
 ehadjo, the sister of Coacoochee, was in the hummock 
 with her little ones. Two were mercilessly shot. With 
 two she escaped only to see them die in the pathway of 
 exile. Yet Coacoochee is not deaf to the cry of the 
 wife of the man who murdered the children of his sister. 
 The woman can go with the daughter of Coacoochee to 
 
 17
 
 258 BABY RUE. 
 
 the lodge in the mountains. The Seminoles will see 
 that her path is safe. She can return when she will, 
 but Coacoochee cannot promise that she may bring back 
 the child Lo-loch-to-hoo-la left in his lodge." 
 
 The deep tone of the voice had reached the three who 
 were talking together, and held them listeners. Mar 
 garet drew near before the chief had ended the first 
 sentence, and waited breathless until he was silent. At 
 the charge against her husband, she flushed in angry 
 amazement. Her king, the keeper of her conscience, 
 do a wrong like that? Her anger lasted through the 
 otter of safe conduct for herself, and deadened the effect 
 of its final clause. Assurance of her child's safet}- had 
 relieved the mother's heavy heart and aching brain. 
 The charge against her husband angered the loyal and 
 true wife. 
 
 "It is false ! M}- husband never ordered or witnessed 
 the murder of little children ; he would have been the 
 first to place himself between them and danger. It is 
 cruel and cowardly to make such a charge in his 
 absence." 
 
 There was a stead\ T , burning light in the blue eyes 
 that looked into the face of the chief. If her words had 
 ended with the indignant defence of the first sentence 
 it would have been better. But a woman is rarely con 
 tent with the defensive in any contest. The feminine 
 temper at white heat seems to develop and intensify 
 the latent masculine aggressive quality, which some 
 where lies hid in the germ-cells of unused capabilities. 
 
 The angry flush in the chiefs face that came with the 
 charge in Margaret's last sentence faded to a tawny 
 pallor. But before he could answer, his daughter caught 
 his hand, andi again the sweet voice pleaded for peace 
 and pity. 
 
 This gave Randall time to rally from the confusion 
 into which Margaret had thrown him, and regain a hold 
 upon the web of diplomacy, with which he hoped to 
 entangle the chief. In fact, to this able tactician the 
 indignant wife's outbreak was an advantage. Seeing 
 instantly that the chief had mistaken Beall for the hus-
 
 COACOOCHEE. 2$g 
 
 band of Margaret, he counted upon the rectification of 
 the error as a reactionary force that would surely win a 
 partisan all the more zealous because of his recent con 
 version. With a deprecatory look at Margaret, as if to 
 praj- the chief to excuse weakness, he began : 
 
 tk I think, Chief, you have mistaken some older 
 officer for Lieutenant Leszinksky, the husband of my 
 patient." 
 
 "Leszinksky?" The chief hesitated a moment at 
 the difficult name. " I do not know any Leszink 
 sky." The dark, frowning brow, the flashing eyes, the 
 resolute Hues of the expressive mouth, all said how 
 hateful was the name he was now forced to utter. 
 ' k Captain Beall was the officer in command when my 
 sister's children were murdered." 
 
 " That was in Florida?" asked the doctor. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Again Margaret interrupted: "I knew you could 
 not mean my husband. He is the friend of the Indian, 
 as he is always of the oppressed. If you only knew 
 him, if }'ou could see him, you would know how im 
 possible it would be for him to see a little child suffer 
 harm. He was never in Florida. He came West from 
 Washington. We have lived here ever since our mar 
 riage. My little daughter was born at Fort Laramie. 
 The doctor can tell you ; he was then with us. He can 
 tell 3'ou how we have cared for little children in the 
 Pawnee country. My husband never could have wit 
 nessed, without preventing, that cruel deed." 
 
 Into the glade came the watcher that Coacoochee 
 knew was waiting in the wood. Regardless of Randall 
 or Carson, or the little escort of three men who were 
 near by under the trees, Lo-loch-to-hoo-la walked into 
 the opening, and stood beside the Seminole chief, to 
 whom he spoke rapidly, and with an excitement of man 
 ner unusual to the dignified and silent Pawnee. Coa 
 coochee listened with marked interest ; Alaha-chayna 
 with evident delight. At last, as if unable longer to 
 repress her feeling, the young girl turned to Carson and 
 Margaret :
 
 260 BABY RUE. 
 
 " Lo-locli-ta-hoo-la does not forget. Three summers 
 ago, when the frozen waters were melting, and the 
 young grass putting out its first leaves, the wife of 
 the Big Chief went to the trading-post at Larainie to 
 beg medicine for her husband, who seemed touched by 
 the spirit of death. Cochosompahatke 1 gave her food 
 and clothing and medicine. She wept with the child 
 less mother, who was afraid her husband was about to 
 follow his little ones to the land of the Great Spirit. 
 Three times the medicine-man " pointing to Randall 
 " came to the lodge of Lo-loch-to-hoo-la ; he brought 
 gifts from the White Star to the wearied wife, and 
 health to the chief. When the Pawnee woman again 
 sought her friend to speak the words of the grateful 
 Indians, the White Star had gone toward the rising 
 sun with her newly-born daughter. The lodge of Lo- 
 loch-to-hoo-la is desolate ; but he will give back to her 
 mother the child he saved from the tomahawks of las 
 tribe." 
 
 i The White Star.
 
 COACOOCHEE. 26 1 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 WHAT ! will the line stretch out to the crack of doom ? 
 
 SHAKSPERE. 
 
 THINKING the reader a friend of Bob Stearns 
 (the author frankly confesses the strength of his 
 attachment to. that charming ne'er-do-well), we will leave 
 the more distinguished personages of our truthful and 
 simple narrative to care for themselves and each other, 
 while we follow the fortunes of our re-reformed tippler 
 ^nto the Comanche country. The author also confesses 
 to a painful and prolonged wrestling ^ with conscience 
 before he could bring himself to depict "fairly the darker 
 side of another character that has taken firm hold of 
 his affection. 
 
 The moment the Seminole chief won Oscar's confi 
 dence, and his blindly given promise to wait the chiefs 
 pleasure, Bob knew his own captivity, and possibly 
 death, was decided. The sagacious frontiersman was 
 not at all deceived by the suave and apparently friendly 
 manner of Coacoochee. Added to the training of the 
 scout who had served his apprenticeship in Florida 
 and was now passed master in the school of the plains, 
 Bob had the instinctive judgment of character, the fa 
 cility in reading physiognomy, that distinguishes the 
 expert among detectives. As soon as his oration was 
 finished he knew his vaulting ambition had o'er-reached 
 itself. His apologetic manner of sitting down upon the 
 negro and the Indian had not exactly the effect in 
 tended. The boomerang of his diplomacy had literally 
 "returned to plague the inventor." In uncovering the
 
 262 BABY RUE. 
 
 stores of his knowledge, he had uncovered the fact of 
 his campaigning in Florida. His vanity relieved, his 
 oratory aired, he looked for results, and as the rosy 
 mists of self-conceit faded, saw himself standing before 
 the chief, a living exclamation-point to accent the end 
 of a bitter past. The self-disgust that fast followed his 
 oratorical exhibition so upset his self-confidence that 
 he blundered into those useless signals to Oscar that 
 had utterly failed to "catch the attention of the single- 
 thoughted and trustful negro, a blunder that was 
 fatal to his freedom, and that would have ended his 
 place in this histor*y with a martyr's crown, very like a 
 fool's-cap, had not the chief fallen into a similar error, 
 and, through contemptuous judgment, undervalued the 
 ability and real courage of the scout. 
 
 Bob made no more blunders. The stinging pain of 
 tile discovery that he had made an ass of himself, and 
 the collapse that followed his succeeding failure, brought 
 him to his best : vanity was killed, but self-confidence 
 had survived her decapitated twin, and every faculty of 
 mind and sense was alert and active. 
 
 The look in Coacoochee's face of ill-concealed hate 
 was followed by a contemptuous smile of amusement at 
 Bob's discomfiture in the matter of warning signals. 
 The smile broadened as the scout's face assumed an 
 expression of perplexed amazement, and with a blank 
 visage he propounded the inquiry, 
 
 " You ain't a-goin' to send me back without Oscar, 
 and without seein' the babj- ? " 
 
 Xo : the great warrior of the savannas can rest in 
 the land of the Comanches until the black man hears 
 from his master." 
 
 Although the double meaning was plain to Bob, there 
 was not the slightest change in the expression of his 
 features ; his eyes were lustreless and staring ; there 
 was not "a quiver of the partly opened mouth ; nothing 
 in the general vacancy to betray the acute, quick in 
 telligence that was even then forming the plan of his 
 campaign. 
 
 The scout knew from the manner of Coacoochee that
 
 COACOOCHEE. 263 
 
 he had more to dread from the Seminoles than from 
 the Pawnee, the only avowed enemy of the whites then 
 present. Alone and surrounded by foes, that he be- 
 lievecl had already determined his death, the indomita 
 ble courage of the man never quailed. In thought, he 
 was matching himself against the odds, calling and num 
 bering for action every quality that could aid him in 
 the contest. 
 
 In one weakness of Bob's force the odds were terri 
 bly against him ; for in that weakness his nerves were 
 fighting the enemy's battle. Ever since he had left 
 Bouie's Hill he had been beset bj* a foe more implaca 
 ble than Seminole or Pawnee. That heavy debauch at 
 Tisson's had been followed by a shock that for a time 
 paralyzed the nerves of desire. 
 
 At first, da3~s of fatigue had been succeeded by a few 
 hours of restful slumber. Then with renewed strength 
 came the craving for re-indulgence, and the clutch of 
 the insensate habit pulled him from sleep. The inex 
 orable retribution of outraged nature had begun. 
 
 Since the night attack when the Comanches were 
 rescued, Bob had scarcely closed his eyes. Except for 
 his past experience, that had taught him the futility of 
 faith in such visions, he would have believed real the 
 spectres that, at rapidly lessening intervals, hovered 
 over his path like wandering will-o'-the-wisps. 
 
 The imps of alcohol had taken the baby's form. 
 Although Bob was perfectly conscious of the unreality 
 of these apparitions, there was a tinge of superstition in 
 his nature that had already blended in his thought 
 danger to the child with his relapses into drunken 
 ness. 
 
 By one of those strange chances that sometimes ac 
 company such delusions, the spectres hitherto had pre 
 ceded Bob in the path indicated by the Witchita. Here 
 in this rocky glen they seemed continually to wind around 
 and about Bob and the Pawnee chief in the intricate 
 figure of a mazy dance. There was an apparently never- 
 ending line of Baby Rues. Through all his perplexities 
 Bob felt thankful there were so many. One would have
 
 264 BABY RUE. 
 
 seemed too real : the multiplied representatives, though 
 more visionary, were less uncann}'. 
 
 In one way his superstition ruled Bob. He was 
 ready to follow unhesitatingly the leadership that he 
 confidently believed would finally bring him to the real 
 living child. The winding about and around Lo-loch- 
 to-hoo-la confused him. A\ r as the Pawnee chief an ally 
 to be solicited, or an enemy to attack ? 
 
 Freighted with this doubt, the wandering glance of 
 the scout had unconsciously taken an expression of 
 wistful entreat}*, that confirmed Coacoochee in his con 
 temptuous reckoning ; but it had a different effect on 
 the more simple and sincere character of the barbaric 
 Pawnee. 
 
 Lo-loch-to-hoo-la crossed over to where the Seminole 
 and Bob were standing. Much to the relief of our win- 
 somely dear drunkard, the dancing babies clasped hands 
 around him and Lo-loch-to-hoo-la, making a little dent 
 in the swiftly-revolving wheel at the point where they 
 passed in front of Coacoochee, thus excluding the Semi 
 nole from their mystic circle. Their meaning was clear 
 to Bob, and so his mind was at ease. 
 
 The reader must not, in his estimate of the scout, to 
 superstition superadd weakness either of the intellect 
 or, save in one deformity, of the moral nature. 
 
 The scholarly scoffer of the nineteenth century, who 
 plumes himself upon pure logic and strict conclusions, 
 is not altogether free from the deceptions with which 
 imagination sometimes clothes science. His Present is 
 a half-veiled sphinx, who looks over sun-lit wastes of 
 glittering sands ; his Future is shadowy with its dim 
 possibilities, its starry expectations ; his Past, well, 
 I' there were (wise) men before Agamemnon." What 
 if their wisdom was gathered in narrowed wa} r s and by 
 formless methods ? They brought the world into fuller 
 light. Seed-time, ploughing, then the harvest: we 
 plant and work that we may reap. Crudeness, growth, 
 fruition, is the Trinity of Time ! 
 
 While we were musing, Bob grappled the situation. 
 Determined to follow the role into which he had stumbled,
 
 COACOOCHEE. 26$ 
 
 of the vain and confident swaggerer of the camp, with 
 the most ingeniously stupid, the most stupidly honest, 
 air, he addressed Lo-loch-to-hoo-la and the Seminole 
 chief. 
 
 "Well, I must say this's a-pla}-in' it white. I'm 
 powerful tired, Chiefs, o' this sarcumnavigatin' 'round 
 in the Comanche country, and if I can lay off and rest 
 a day or so, while you send in your env-o-y-s, I ain't 
 a-goin' to complain. You see, I've been a-ridin' and 
 a-fightin' now nigh onto a couple o' weeks ; and 't ain't no 
 let down if I do stop here fur a few days, and wait fur 
 3'ou to fix up about the bab}"'s ransom ; and I don't care 
 if I do tell you that our folks ain't a-goin' to be mean 
 about what the}' give, nuther. You seen the other 
 day." and he addressed Lo-loch-to-hoo-la, "that her 
 lather ain't no crab about givin' ; he '11 let go of his best 
 when a friend is a-needin' on it. He traded hoss'es with 
 you, without askin' boot in the swap, when he thought 
 our fellows was a-crowdin' you onfair like. You see, 
 he knowed, fur I told him, that 3-011 'd been good to the 
 bab}' ; an' so be any on us fellows can ever do j'ou a 
 good turn out on the plains, why, we ain't likely to for 
 get it. We ma}' sometimes disremember some things ; 
 but this here about .your standin' the baby's friend ain't 
 one o' them things." 
 
 Two pair of keen eyes were watching Bob with different 
 expressions. Glowing through the soft, lustrous dark 
 ness of Coacoochee's was a baleful light of flame-like 
 red, angry as the tongue of a viper, while Lo-loch-to- 
 hoo-la's fiery glance had softened in the gathering mist 
 of newly awakened feeling. The Seminole had watched 
 the Pawnee during Bob's second attempt at speech-mak 
 ing. An angry flush told his displeasure with the effect 
 he saw, more truly than did the measured accents now 
 addressed to the Big Chief in the Pawnee tongue. 
 
 Through this dialogue Bob stood unmoved, carelessly 
 cutting a fresh quid of tobacco, with an air of listless 
 unconcern that completely deceived Coacoochee as to 
 his linguistic accomplishments. He heard the Pawnee 
 ask that he be permitted to see the baby, and then sent
 
 266 BABY RUE. 
 
 back to her father, with news of the child, and also the 
 horse, that the chief insisted had been lent him to meet 
 the exigency of the time. 
 
 Coacoochee listened courteously, but plausibly insisted 
 that, owing to the danger it would be to his hunted 
 allies (the black Indians), he dared not trust a white 
 man with the secret of the fastness ; that he could risk 
 Oscar, whose observation and intelligence were less to 
 be feared, and whom he hoped to win through the per 
 suasion of Louis Pacheco and the influence of race. 
 
 The Pawnee with evident reluctance gave up the first 
 clause of his request, that Bob should see the child, but 
 urged persistently that he should be sent back with the 
 horse, and a message from Lo-loch-to-hoo-la to "the 
 chief with the honest eyes and true heart, who had saved 
 him from capture." Coacoochee yielded with apparent 
 cordialit}*, but with one brief glance Bob read the Scmi- 
 nole's face, and knew the concession was meant to 
 deceive. 
 
 Ten minutes later Sultan was led into the glen by 
 a Seminole boy. With a frank, kindly look, and a 
 gesture of invitation, Lo-loch-to-hoo-la directed Bob to 
 mount the horse Leszinksky had given the Big Chief in 
 that exchange east of the Washita. 
 
 Nothing in all his life had ever required from Bob 
 such a resolute effort of will ; for the line of dancing 
 babies were clambering over and around the horse in 
 such pell-mell rushes, such frantic leaps, such reckless 
 tumbles, that every step he made, as he advanced and 
 put his foot in the stirrup, was a danger to some one of 
 this company of juggling sprites. With a last resolute 
 effort, Bob sprang into the saddle, although he could 
 not refrain from a half-uttered cry of dismay as a little 
 golden head flattened under his leg. He caught hastily 
 at the clustering curls ; but his hand no sooner went 
 through the ain r nothings and touched the saddle than 
 he recovered his self-control. Seeing the surprised 
 chiefs watching, he looked determinately past a little 
 imp, who was perched on one foot on the curving, high 
 pommel, and laughed in a half-stupid, half-defiant way,
 
 COACOOCHEE. 267 
 
 as he said : " I 'm mighty willin' to get a lift fur I 'm 
 tired o' walkin' ; but, I must say, it 's a damned unhan- 
 some bizness if you mean to turn me and Sultan loose 
 without any pervishun train, in here behind them 
 crawlin' Comanches, that 's a-lyin' hid between us and 
 the command ; when I expected me and Oscar would 
 see the baby. Wh}-, so be an' I had to fight on it, I 'm 
 free to say, it ain't what I expected of real warriors." 
 
 And Bob skilfully counterfeited his late distressful 
 ciy, only he made it end in a defiant ring that seemed 
 like the last notes of a prolonged war-whoop. As if to 
 fit the gesture to the word, he threw his arms above his 
 head, and then, bending forward in his saddle, with a 
 succession of waving motions, he displaced the crowd 
 ing spectres. 
 
 An3 T of my readers who have witnessed the terror and 
 helplessness of a strong man, when beset by the phan 
 toms of an imagination disordered by alcohol, will easily 
 understand the wonderful effort made by Bob to fight his 
 own deceptions, at the same time he deceived his enemy. 
 
 Lo-loch-to-hoo-la came close, and, throwing his arm 
 over Sultan's neck, addressed Bob in the Comanche 
 language. The poor fellow forced himself to listen 
 understandingly, although the liliputian spectres were 
 wildly rushing up the chiefs arm to the very top of 
 the waving feathers tied in his scalp-lock, from which, 
 with the speed of thought, the}* sprang back to Sul 
 tan's head. The Pawnee commenced: "Say to the 
 father of Ning-ah-shaw-na-qui-ta that Lo-loch-to-hoo-la 
 will wait here in the mountains until the path through 
 the forest is open to his friend. He will talk with the 
 father of the child he found on the war-path ; and the 
 Great Spirit will say with whom she shall dwell. Lo- 
 loch-to-hoo-la sends back the horse shod with lightning, 
 that his friend may know the Pawnee will not forget." 
 
 Just then a knowing little imp, who had gravely 
 stopped on the chiefs ear to listen to the conversation, 
 ran up on his scalp-lock, and, balancing for a second, 
 bowed and winked to Bob with such an air of assenting 
 wisdom that the trooper had much ado to restrain a
 
 268 BAB Y RUE. 
 
 ringing laugh. Before he recovered from the confusion 
 of a half-grin and a desperate swallow, Coacoochee, 
 affecting to think Lo-loch-to-hoo-la's last words meant 
 dismissal, gave the cry : -' To-ho-echee ! " 1 
 
 In an instant half a dozen young braves rode into the 
 glen. A few minutes later Bob was in the centre of a 
 party of horsemen, riding rapidly down the bed of the 
 little creek he had ascended with Oscar and the Witch- 
 ita. When they reached the point where the three 
 branches united, they suddenly turned southward, in a 
 direction that Bob knew would soon lead them into the 
 trail from the Washita to the Comanche villages. It 
 was evident to the scout that Coacoochee had deceived 
 the Pawnee chief: that neither the horse Lo-loch-to- 
 hoo-la wished to return, or its rider, were to go to the 
 camp east of the Washita. This confirmation of his 
 suspicions made him credit Coacoochee with the most 
 sinister motives. In the highty-excited condition of 
 his nerves and his imagination, to awaken distrust was 
 to blind .his judgment. The slightest evidence of bad 
 faith was enough to change doubt to certainty. He 
 now credited Coacoochee with treachery to Lo-loch-to- 
 hoo-la, not only in the affair of the message to the 
 father of the little captive, but also in his dealing with 
 the child. Ever}* change of expression in the look or 
 manner of either of the young braves of his escort was 
 another proof of their evil designs. 
 
 Added to all this was a startling change in Bob's illu 
 sions. He had seen the last phantom of the lost baby 
 waving him adieu from Lo-loch-to-hoo-la's shoulder. 
 At the edge of the wood, where he left the chiefs, a 
 wild-cat sprang from the gnarled bough of an immense 
 oak to his pommel. 
 
 Whenever he forced himself to look away from the 
 apparition (that his superstition defined as the double 
 of Coacoochee) a sort of weird fascination brought 
 back his wandering gaze to the glittering eyes whose 
 stare seemed to transfix him. 
 
 The night before the battle at the foot of the Peak, 
 1 The gathering cry of the Seminoles.
 
 COACOOCHEE. 269 
 
 Bob had gone to the surgeon for help in this derange 
 ment of the senses, that had then begun to fill space 
 with delusions. Medical skill, at that date, could only 
 give opiates. The drug gave him three hours heavy 
 sleep before the battle, and helped to keep the nerves 
 stimulated during the excitement of the forty-eight 
 sleepless hours that had followed. In that night expe 
 dition through the Pawnee camp, he had lost the little 
 box of opium that was to have lasted until the clear, 
 sweet December air and health}' fatigue should work a 
 cure. Knowing Bob's force, strength, and vitality, the 
 surgeon had thought the remedy sufficient ; he had not 
 taken into his reckoning the chance of sudden depriva 
 tion of the potent drug. Add to this physical giving 
 way, the drunkard's memory, that runs riot in recollec 
 tion of indulgence, bringing to the palate the ghosts of 
 taste, more terrible in effect and persistence than the 
 wandering spectres of vision, and the reader will be 
 gin to understand the odds already against Bob, when 
 this last imp sprang from the purgatory of unreal reali 
 ties that surround the drunkard. 
 
 The poor fellow made as gallant a fight as ever did 
 soldier on the tented field. Unselfish as brave, he kept 
 constantly in his thoughts the little child, and the dan 
 gers that he now imagined surrounded her. For her 
 sake he resisted his tormenter, and resolute!}' proved 
 its unreality by touch. He hammered the pommel 
 where his last and most formidable enemy perched, and, 
 to give excuse for the blows, made them keep time to a 
 melody he whistled gayly. Every time the hand passed 
 through the shadowy foe was a second's respite from the 
 chilling terror that, in spite of his almost superhuman 
 effort, began to close about him in a sort of suppression 
 that seemed to tighten and throttle the throbbing ar 
 teries that whizzed aloud with the rushes of the full 
 pulse-tides. Suddenly the Seminoles with him uttered 
 their war-cry, as they galloped into the broad Comanche 
 trail, where, some twenty }"ards distant, a part}" of 
 painted warriors were waiting. Bob's spectre sprang to 
 the ground, rapidly increasing in size until it seemed to
 
 2/0 BAB Y RUE. 
 
 fill an immensity of space. The scout halted, horror- 
 struck, as the terrible apparition rolled into his lap, the 
 bleediug, decapitated head of Rue. With a choking 
 cry, the poor fellow rose in his stirrups, threw up his 
 hands in a last wild struggle, and fell to the ground in 
 violent convulsions.
 
 COACOOCHEE. 2? I 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 AND out and cam the thick, thick bluid, 
 
 And out and cam the thin, 
 And out and cam the bonny hert's bluid: 
 
 Thair was nae life left in. 
 
 PERCY'S RELIQUES. 
 
 AT midnight the Osage Carson had sent through the 
 Blue-River pass reached Camp Refuge. (It had 
 been christened in a baptism of blood with the name 
 Pike gave it in the clinching peroration of his first and 
 last effort at oratory.) At the distant hail of the In 
 dian the camp was aroused. Young Hancock, who was 
 on watch, hastily called " Halt! " at the same time re 
 straining the zeal of the guard, who had levelled their 
 muskets at the moving figure dimly seen in the star 
 light. 
 
 Before the Osage reached the hillock, the officers, 
 including the recently-elected captain of the teamsters, 
 were grouped about the little howitzer, while every man 
 of the small force was up and ready for action. 
 
 By the light of a couple of tallow-dips, that his aids 
 assiduously sheltered from the breeze, Leszinksky read 
 Colonel Kearny's dispatches and Carson's short note. 
 The flickering little points of flame lit the face of the 
 young commander, and the watchers who were crowded 
 about read the evil tidings in his frowning brow and the 
 lines of pain around the firmly-closed mouth. He 
 handed the unfolded papers to Buford and Hancock, 
 and, leaning upon the little gun, covered his face with 
 his hands. A moment, and his thoughts were brought 
 to the needs of the present by the question, " What 
 shall we do, Lieutenant ? "
 
 2/2 BABY RUE. 
 
 Raising his face, without am* effort at concealment, 
 he wiped away the tears with which it was wet, and, in 
 a voice that steadied as he ended the first sentence, he 
 said, " We must instantly send messengers to all the 
 forts." Then, turning to Pike and the crowd of ex 
 pectant, anxious men, he continued, " The}- have had 
 a battle with the Comanches near the Witchita Hills, 
 and the regiment is hard hit. Captain Moore is 
 killed." 
 
 A groan of grief and rage came from the little detach 
 ment of the dragoons who belonged to Moore's company ; 
 deep oaths and muttered curses from the infantrymen and 
 teamsters, who were pressing close to hear the news. 
 
 The speaker, who it was evident was trying to master 
 his grief, motioned for silence as he said, " Our com 
 rades are over there, the other side of the Cross Tim 
 bers, with their wounded and dead, waiting for help. 
 Step by step the}* have fought their way back. Embar 
 rassed as they are they dare not risk the passage through 
 the Cross Timbers until they are reinforced and the way 
 is cleared " 
 
 A voice interrupted : " We are read}', Lieutenant, to 
 march this minute ! " A chorus took up the cry : " Yes, 
 we are ready ! " 
 
 Again he quieted them with a gesture. 
 
 " We can best help the regiment by strict obedience 
 to Colonel Kearny's orders. He commands me to hold 
 this camp, and its supplies, now so needful, until rein 
 forcements reach us. Then we are to advance to the 
 ford above Wild Horse Creek, sending a detachment 
 to clear the timbers, while we protect the crossing. I 
 have*no doubt that the Indians who attacked us are still 
 watching this camp. For a messenger to pass their 
 lines in safety will require prudence, as well as courage. 
 It is a perilous path ; every step of the way from here 
 to Fort Washita is beset with danger. Yet it is the 
 nearest point from which help can come. I want volun 
 teers, men who in the path of duty are not afraid of 
 death." 
 
 From the young subalterns, from soldiers and team-
 
 COACOOCHEE. 273 
 
 sters, there were cries of acceptance. They were all by 
 general acclaim volunteer messengers ; each insisted, 
 all claimed priority. Then individual fitness was urged. 
 Resolute, modest men seemed braggarts in their insist- 
 ance, in their discussion of qualities. Age sneered at 
 youth, experience at speed ; while all, according to 
 their own showing, were gifted with strength and endur 
 ance. At last a compatriot of Pike, a wizen-faced, little 
 atom}', a hanger-on of the camp, known in the regiment 
 as "Little Miser}'," climbed on the giant's shoulder, 
 and screamed out in a ridiculous little quavering treble 
 his fitness : 
 
 " I 'm the he what ought ter go. I on'y weigh ninety- 
 eight poun' ! I 've rid races in ole Missouiy ever sinct 
 I could stick on ter a hoss, an' I allus wun 'em. I'm 
 the buzzard as kin do it quick. I sails high in fa'r 
 weather ; but when I goes in fur meat, I kin lay low 
 and fly. Who-o-p ! I 'm the feller ter go. Don't listen 
 at these bull-frogs a-braggin' how they '11 jump, but jes 
 gim me that thoroughbred o' Leftenant Buford's, an' 
 I '11 be at Fort "VVashita an' ^Towson an' back hyar be 
 fore Pike gets it through his head that I 've gone." 
 
 He lifted the giant's hat, and pulled the yellow curls. 
 There was a ripple of laughter as Pike caught the man 
 ikin between his thumb and forefinger, and held him 
 at arm's length. Then, in half-shame at the untimely 
 mirth, they noisily and with more warmth of temper 
 resumed the discussion, looking askant at Little Misery, 
 who, perched on the howitzer, fiercely shook his wiry" 
 knot of fingers at the stolid soldier who had placed him 
 there. 
 
 For a few moments, Leszinksky tried in vain to make 
 himself heard. Finally the contestants paused in a sort 
 of half-hush for breath. With a grave smile he looked 
 around the excited group as he said, "If left entirely 
 alone here, I do not think I could make a successful 
 defence of this camp ; yet the supplies we are guarding 
 are not only needful but invaluable to the wounded and 
 suffering. The enemy attacked us because they knew 
 the importance of the supplies here to the command 
 
 18
 
 2/4 BABY RUE. 
 
 they hoped to cut off. Now we can realize the value 
 of our successful defence. If they had defeated us, had 
 captured this camp, they would have been better armed 
 for that battle at the Witchita Peak, and the retreat of 
 the regiment would have ended in a general massacre 
 before help could have reached them. We have here 
 medicine, food, and ammunition. The reinforcements 
 that come can come rapidty ; they will need no supply 
 train. But now I must call for volunteers to sta} T and 
 help me guard this camp, which is truly a ' Camp of 
 Refuge." 
 
 There were muttered words of assent, low-spoken 
 doubts as to the right thing to do, and a few hastily- 
 checked oaths. The men had begun to understand the 
 character of their young commander ; the} 7 had tested 
 the fighting qualities of the soldier, and so the}' respected 
 the Christian. The claims were not withdrawn, but the 
 claimants were hushed ; they began to think it might be 
 as soldierly to stay as to go. The morale of the camp 
 was coming to its best. Obedience would be rendered 
 to command ; but if choice were permitted, and the 
 comparative risk could be estimated, each soldier would 
 choose the path where Dut}- faced Danger. 
 
 A'fter a short consultation, the announcement was 
 
 made that Lieutenant Hancock and Little Misery were 
 
 to go to Forts Washita and Towson. The young officer 
 
 was to return with the first detachment of the reinforce- 
 
 .ment. 
 
 Pike's offer to go alone through the Cross Timbers, 
 with news of the arrival of Carson's messenger and 
 the successful defence of the camp and its supplies, 
 was accepted. The giant was the first to leave the 
 camp. Clad in a simple hunting-shirt and buckskin 
 breeches, with Indian leggins and moccasins, his head 
 thrust through a rough blanket, and covered with a 
 wide-brimmed slouch hat ; a heavy bowie-knife in his 
 leathern belt, balanced by one of the recently-invented 
 Colt's revolvers ; a haversack, powder-horn, and bullet- 
 pouch slung over his broad shoulders, and in his left 
 hand a long-barrelled Mississippi rifle, he looked the
 
 COACOOCHEE. 2?$ 
 
 colossal model of the frontier partisan, as he joined the 
 little group of officers and men, who were in the corral 
 made by the enclosing wagons, where Buford's thor 
 oughbred was being saddled. 
 
 Perched on the backboard of a wagon, Little Miser}', in 
 all the pomp of a jockey who is about to ride the favorite 
 to the running-post, was giving directions to the volun 
 teer grooms who were rubbing the flanks of the splendid 
 bay. Near by stood Leszinksky and Hancock in earnest 
 talk, while Buford superintended the toilet of the steed 
 whose speed was to bring safet}* to the comrades who 
 were as dear to him as brothers, to the regiment in 
 which centred his soldierly pride. 
 
 The manikin on his perch was the first to observe the 
 approach of the giant ; the broken treble in which he 
 shouted : " Wh-o-o-p ! " startled all the assistants. 
 Tossing up and catching his ragged, brimless makeshift 
 of a cap, he continued: ''Hurray for ole Missoury ! 
 Her big bufferler 's a startin' on the war-path, an' her 
 game buzzard 's a goin' ter fly. Hurray for the biggest 
 Pike she ever riz ! Now jes chaw yer tongue, ole 
 feller, till it splits, so yer can fling yer jaw at 'em 
 an' then sing out" to them fightin' cocks, over yonder 
 in that Injun pit, to bristle out their feathers, an' 
 rip in with thar gaffs, fur the blue hen's chickens is 
 boun' ter win. Tell 'em Little Misery an' Leftenant 
 Hancock 's a comin' with a fresh main, an' by the 
 time thar spurs strike, there won't be a skulkin' 
 red rooster left to crow in the Comanche country. 
 Wh-o-o-p ! " 
 
 Pike laid his hand lightly on the manikin's shoulder, 
 as he spoke to Leszinksk}*. 
 
 " I 'm ready to start, Laotinent. I 'm gwine to try it 
 up the bed o' this little creek to the sand-hills ; then I '11 
 cross to the Washiter. If the Injuns is a-watchin' the 
 ford I may have a tussle with 'em. So be an' you hyar 
 my gun you '11 know there ain't no lack o' the pesky var 
 mints at the ford. But don't come or send any of the 
 boys. I know they'd be might}* willin' to come, but it 
 would n't do no good, an' you 'ud be throwing away
 
 276 BABY RUE. 
 
 3'our chances. If thar ain't no savages about, I '11 send 
 you a sign. Thar 's one thing I thought o' tellin' our 
 ingineer" and he smiled at Hancock. "If he and 
 Little Miser}' will start with the Osage and go to the 
 northeast about five miles, he can put 'em in a trail to 
 Fort Washiter, that the Injuns won't be so apt to watch. 
 I 've been a talkin' to him, and he says it 's a plain trail, 
 and mostly open ground, so they '11 have a fair track if 
 they have to run fur it." 
 
 " We are well mounted and well armed, and can 
 break through a small force." 
 
 The resolute look of the blue eyes, and the straight, 
 elastic pose of the slight, boyish figure, said more than 
 the words. 
 
 " Yes, sir. I know you 're willin' to fight, an' you 're 
 steady and cool when you 're in it. You fit like one o' 
 our reg'ment might a-done, the other daj r , steady and 
 cool and no back down ; that 's the stuff to make sol 
 diers. But you're }'oung. Well, that ain't no harm." 
 And again the giant smiled in a kindly way at the boy 
 officer. "You'll come o' that, and you'll larn back 
 woods ingineering ; but we won't say no more o' that," 
 he added, as he saw the flush in the young face. 
 "I'm sure you'll fight like a brave man, without arth- 
 works. On'y remember this ain't no Jightirf ride. It 's a 
 hard thing fur a }'oung man, and a plucky one at that, 
 to do ; but 3'ou '11 have to give up your own feelins if 
 you meet Injuns. Ton could risk the fight, I know, 
 at heavy odds, but the vegment over yonder with the 
 wounded and the dyin' can't take no risks. The bravest 
 thing you can do now is to run from any Injun. It 's 
 hard; but if you'll think o' them over thar, you'll 
 do it." 
 
 The young officer held out his hand, and as it 
 vanished in Pike's broad palm, he said: "You are 
 right, Pike, and I thank you for saying this so 
 frankly. I see that our commander approves 3"our 
 advice. I shall remember that my courage must all 
 gather into my horse's heels. It is not a fight, but a 
 race to win; and the stakes are our comrades' lives.
 
 COACOOCHEE. 277 
 
 Tell them over there that we are sure to get through, 
 sure to bring them help." 
 
 "Yes!" screamed the manikin, who had! wriggled 
 from under Pike's restraining hand, and was now stand 
 ing in an easy balance on the corner of the wagon, 
 " You jes tell 'em the Hancock flyer is boun' tu win. 
 He 's got the wind and the bottom, an' he 's a-goin' 
 steady an' strong, and Little Misery's his running 
 mate. AVho-o-p ! Cock-a-doodle-do ! " 
 
 There was a kindly leave-taking with the men and 
 officers, warm grasps of the hand and heartfelt 
 wishes for his safe arrival in the beleagured camp. 
 Then Pike started on his perilous journe}', accompanied 
 for a short distance by Leszinksky, who had learned to 
 value the sterling character of the usually taciturn sol 
 dier. For a few moments they walked in silence ; then 
 suddenly Pike stopped. 
 
 " Don't go any fiirder, Lootinent. It distarbs me, like. 
 I'm a-thinkin' o' you, an' not watchin' my way. If 
 thar 's Injuns about, and it 's most like, we must 
 do our last talking hy-ar. I thought jes now I hy-ared 
 a coyote up thar at that ridge ; but it mought a-ben a 
 Injun. Don't go any furder, sir ; I 've trouble in my 
 mind." 
 
 " Very well ; I will say good-by, here. You have my 
 best wishes, Pike, for your own sake as well as for the sake 
 of the regiment. You have been of great value here, as 
 well as a great comfort to me. I have been attached to 
 you heretofore by ties of grateful, affectionate regard ; 
 now you have taught me to esteem, to respect you. We 
 are not only fellow-soldiers : we are children of the one 
 Father. So, with prayers for your safety, I leave you 
 in His keeping." 
 
 For a moment the giant held Leszinksky's hand, with 
 out a word. When he did speak, there were tears in the 
 voice. 
 
 "You've done me a power o' good, sir. You're a 
 blessin' to the VQg'ment. I had n't never quite forgot my 
 mammy and her lovin' ways ; but sometimes it 'pears like 
 you and Mrs. Leszinsky have brung her rite from the
 
 278 BABY RUE. 
 
 grave to me. I allus tries now to do His will " (and he 
 pointed heavenward). "I tries, but sometimes it's 
 hard to beat out ole sins. I means to do right by man 
 and beast, by everything He made ; and if I don't 
 allus make it, why, He knows I tries. I'm more 
 obleeged to you than I can say, sir, fur all you 've done 
 fur me, fust and last, most of all, fur sayin' j'ou'll 
 pray for me. If I have to go ' through the deep waters,' 
 I'll know vou're a-prayin', and I'll know that our 
 Father '11 holp me." 
 
 Before Leszinksky could say another word, the brave, 
 simple-minded fellow was gone. 
 
 Having finished their cavalry inspection, and selected 
 as Hancock's mount a dark roan, wir} T and str.ong, with 
 a reputation for speed that ranked him in the regiment 
 second to Buford's thoroughbred, the young officers ran 
 up the little eminence to watch the starlit prairie until 
 Leszinksky returned from his walk with Pike. 
 
 His selection as express-rider to Fort Towson had so 
 inflamed the everbounding conceit of Little Misery that, 
 with an air of taking place where he belonged, he fol 
 lowed the two 3"oung men, after giving the most pom 
 pously imperious directions to his former comrades of 
 the stable. 
 
 " Now 3'ou kin stop a-rubbin' my hoss ; he '11 do at 
 that. Gin him a mouthful o' that wet grass ter chaw on till 
 we're off. It'll clean his gills, an' start him peert. 
 Yer mought loosen the girths a notch or two, but don't 
 forget to tighten 'em when yer bring him roun' to the 
 start. An' that roan the leftenant 's a-goin' ter ride, 
 jes' lead him up and down out thar till we 're ready. 
 He ain't game, like the thoroughbred ; but he 's a awful 
 fast scrub when he 's warmed. "We mought need his 
 best go right hy-ar at the start ; so jes' walk him roun', 
 an' limber him up." 
 
 The dragoons laughed good-naturedly, and the young 
 officers could not restrain broad smiles at the mani 
 kin's assumption. 
 
 Leszinksky soon returned, and the most absolute 
 silence was kept on the hill-top, where all were
 
 COACOOCHEE. 279 
 
 anxiously listening to every breath of the night that 
 was likely to bring news from the daring yet modest 
 soldier. In about fifteen minutes there came from the 
 direction of the sand-hills the cry of a screech-owl. 
 Leszinksky started, as the shrill voice of the manikin 
 called from under the gun-carriage : 
 
 "That's him, that's Pike! that's the kind o' a owl 
 he is ! I 've hearn him do that a-fore. He kin go 
 more liken a owl than a strange owl could, 'cep'en he 
 war trained to it." 
 
 The young officers laughed ; then, as King Stan 
 raised his hand, all were silent. Again the cry, this 
 time more distant ; once again a far-off call ; then, in 
 the deep silence of the night, only the insect pulse- 
 throbs of the prairie could be heard ; and they knew 
 that as yet the scout had found no foe. 
 
 The Osage was roused from his sleep ; the horses 
 were led around the little knoll to the wide-stretching 
 prairie at the base of its eastern acclivity ; and in a few 
 moments the little part}' were vanishing in the distance, 
 under the glimmering light of twinkling stars. 
 
 Leaving Pike to his solitary venture, we will follow 
 the path to the northeast with the two horsemen and 
 their Osage guide. As they left the camp, the wind 
 from the north blew in gusts, and a low-lying bank of 
 clouds came drifting southward. 
 
 The Osage ran in a loping gait by the horses, that 
 were going in an easy gallop ; from time to time he 
 would lift his hand, and for a moment the horsemen 
 would wait, motionless and silent, while he threw himself 
 on the ground to listen, then springing to his feet, a 
 quick exclamation of content was the signal for another 
 dash. 
 
 Through the gathering darkness, and over a pathless 
 prairie, the guide never once hesitated. The instinct 
 of the savage leads through the trackless plains as un 
 erringly as the compass of the mariner points the course 
 through the trackless waters. 
 
 In a little over half an hour the party had reached the 
 Blue River divide, and struck the open trail that led
 
 280 BAB Y RUE. 
 
 due south to the military road from Fort Towson to 
 Fort Washita. Once started, the horses could be trusted 
 to keep the trail, although every star was now blotted 
 from the heavens, and a keen, biting "norther "was 
 sweeping down from the plains. 
 
 The Osage went north to where Carson waited in the 
 cotton wood grove. 
 
 Hancock and Little Miser}- rode southward under a 
 beating rain, with the wind at their backs, the thorough 
 bred going in a stead}*, long-stretching trot along the 
 rocky divide, until the trail led to the open prairie, then 
 breaking into a sweeping gallop as he felt the springy 
 turf, scarcely feeling the light weight of the little rider, 
 whose firm, easy touch of the bridle, never fretting or 
 vexing the splendid stallion, left him un tired after miles 
 of distance. 
 
 Little Misery's complimentary summing up of the 
 roan that Hancock rode was well deserved. He had 
 " limbered up," and he proved that a scrub ma}- have 
 grit and nerve as well as speed. Neck and neck he 
 kept by the thoroughbred in that gallant ride through 
 night and storm, though the odds of weight were against 
 him. 
 
 At two o'clock they had left Camp Refuge. At seven, 
 when the gray light had forced its way through the 
 clouds and the rain, after a ride of fifty-five miles, they 
 reached the military road where their paths separated. 
 Hancock had only five miles more to go to Fort Washita : 
 while Little Misery, on his untired steed, had before 
 him a run of sixty miles to the post station, at the only 
 settlement between Fort Towson and Washita not de 
 stroyed in the recent raid. 
 
 Little Misery stood up in his stirrups and shouted a 
 parting " Hurray !" to Hancock as the young officer 
 rode westward ; the roan running at its best speed in 
 this spurt that was to take him to the winning-post. 
 Hancock gave a quick glance backward, as the little 
 jockey waved his ragged cap and put spurs to the bay, 
 to which he had given an instant's breathing-spell as 
 lie watched the roan's run. From a thicket of under-
 
 COACOOCHEE. 28 1 
 
 growth, at the edge of the trail they had just left, there 
 was a quick discharge of shot, a flight of whizzing 
 arrows ; and, as a party of Indian horsemen broke into 
 the military road, at the point they had entered it from 
 the trail, Hancock knew the foe they had evaded was 
 close at their heels. 
 
 Urging his horse with voice and spurs to keep at his 
 best, again the young officer looked back, and saw that 
 he was free to ride his race with the enemy, without the 
 sting of having to leave a comrade in extremity of peril ; 
 for Little Miseiy was just turning a distant bend in the 
 road, leaving behind an already distanced foe. 
 
 In twenty minutes Hancock was at headquarters in 
 Fort Washita with his dispatches. Two hours later he 
 was on the road back to Camp Refuge with two com 
 panies of mounted infantiy and two light field-pieces. 
 
 At the moment Little Miser}- put spurs to the bay, 
 while still half- turned in his saddle to watch Hancock, 
 the Indians appeared. In their anxiety to capture the 
 famous thoroughbred unharmed, they would not risk an 
 arrow that might glance in a sudden gust ; but three of 
 their best marksmen fired their rifles at the jockey. One 
 ball took the cap he was waving at Hancock, a second 
 cut through the heavy folds of the dragoon's cape a kind- 
 hearted trooper had lent him ; the third struck between 
 the ribs just below the uplifted arm, and lodged in the 
 chest. 
 
 The shot and the pressure of the spurs were simul 
 taneous. The sudden spring of the stallion, by its 
 reverse shock, prevented Little Misery from falling 
 from the saddle. It threw him from his half-turned 
 posture square into the seat, with his arms around the 
 stallion's neck. 
 
 Four hours later the thoroughbred stopped at the 
 stables at the post-station, where a party of dragoons 
 had just halted. They unwound the bridle-reins from 
 over the head and under the arms of the speechless, 
 half-fainting rider, and unbuckled the suspenders with 
 which he had fastened himself to the pommel of the 
 cavalry-saddle. They found his dispatches in the breast-
 
 282 BAB Y RUE. 
 
 pocket of his ragged jacket, dyed with blood. The 
 officer of the command hastily opened them, and sent 
 them by an express-rider to the commanding officer at 
 Fort Towson. 
 
 The beating rain and the chill of the " norther" had 
 staunched the bleeding wound. Nature's styptics might 
 have saved him. The kindly meant efforts at restora 
 tion destroyed Little Misery's last chance. They carried 
 him into a warm room and gave him stimulants. As he 
 recovered consciousness, the bleeding commenced afresh. 
 There was no surgeon at the post or with the dragoons, 
 so, with all the bandages they could invent, the hemor 
 rhage continued. Between these efforts at help he told 
 his stor}*. 
 
 ' ' When the damned redskin hit me I knowed I was 
 done fur, but I jes' shut my teeth an' swore I 'd come 
 through an' holp git our fellers outen thar clutches. 
 . . . The thoroughbred was a-goin' in a dead run, so it 
 was most like a-layin' in a cradle. You see a saddle 's 
 
 about the on'y one ever I knowed Somehow I got 
 
 off my gallusses, an' fastened my monkey to the pommel 
 
 1 swore a heap last night, 'bout ridin' such a big 
 
 race with a cavalry-saddle ; but the Judge who is up thar at 
 the Grand Stand knowed what 'ud be most apt to bring 
 me through, or he would n't a let me rid it with them big 
 
 stakes up Tell the boys out thar in that devil's pit, 
 
 that the game buzzard's had his last fly, but he brung 
 
 'em help I'm glad it 's me was hit 1 ain't much 
 
 'count and the leftenant got off scot free Tell him 
 
 good bye we had a bully race and we won what 
 
 we was entered fur Hurra}* for old Missuory ! she 
 
 breeds the fryers." Then a few broken efforts at speech, 
 a few tired sighs, and the brave little rider was at the 
 Grand Stand. 
 
 His last sentences had come in broken gasps, but 
 they were the epitome of his life, rollicking, reckless, 
 a rough, uncouth correlative of mirth and pluck. I 
 give the words for what they are worth. They may 
 teach the righteous to love a sinner and to believe in the 
 breadth of God's mercy, the greatness of the Eternal
 
 COACOOCHEE. 283 
 
 Econom}* that ' ' gathereth the fragments that nothing 
 may be lost." 
 
 His face was pallid and pinched. Life had dealt 
 hardly with him ; and death brought out the lines that 
 poverty and ignorance and the crimes of his progenitors 
 had traced. The evil that died with him was of the 
 world's teaching. The good that was within him led 
 him through the gate of death into the presence of the 
 Teacher who said, " Greater love hath no man than 
 this, that a man lay down his life for his friends."
 
 284 BABY RUE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 OVER the mountains, 
 
 And over the waves ; 
 Under the fountains, 
 
 And under the graves, 
 
 Under floods that are deepest, 
 
 Which Neptune obey, 
 Over rocks that are steepest, 
 
 Love will find out the way. 
 
 OLD SONG. 
 
 TWO weeks later in our history Leszinksky and 
 Carson, accompanied by Lo-loch-to-hoo-la and two 
 Pawnee warriors, in the brightest of bright winter morn 
 ings, were climbing the winding path up the spur of 
 the ridge that led around the cascade to the Valley of 
 the Three Mountains. Leszinksky walked slowly be 
 side the Pawnee chief, whose slight lameness seemed a 
 greater disadvantage,than it really was to the vigorous, 
 agile Indian. As the subject of their conversation will 
 come to our knowledge further down the current of this 
 veritable history, we will borrow " Monsieur Balzac's 
 cane," and invisibly keep step with Carson as with the 
 two warriors he hastened up the mountain path through 
 the rocky defile of the narrow canon, beside the little 
 river, that rushed down to its fall over the cascade from 
 the high-lifted fairy valley. 
 
 His face glowing from the quick walk in the sharp, 
 wintiy air, and his heart equally aglow with hope and 
 love, Carson sprang lightly up the gentle incline of the 
 pebbly path, that suddenly ended in the rice-field from 
 which the river flowed into the canon. 
 
 For two reasons, Carson was a willing avant courier.
 
 COACOOCHEE. 285 
 
 To do him full justice we place first his wish to save 
 Margaret the shock of surprise at her husband's corning 
 (even joy in her precarious health might be a danger) ; 
 the after consideration, but one that drew as strongly, 
 was his pardonable haste to see again the recently elect 
 ed queen of his heart. 
 
 The}-oung dragoon, who usually viewed hill and valley 
 through the lens of practical use, as obstruction or ad 
 vantage to progress, was, at the precise moment of his 
 entrance into the valley, so enrapt with the mists of 
 love's imaginings that he was for a moment caught by 
 the charm of the picturesque and romantic landscape 
 Nature had hidden high up in the bosom of the hills. 
 But sympathy with the inanimate was too new and 
 slight a sensation to hold Carson' s thought, past that 
 one second, from the longing desire to look upon a love 
 liness more attractive and more responsive to his admi 
 ration. 
 
 His first step out of the abstraction was into the 
 positive. A little rill that ran into broken falls down a 
 shelving ledge from the cleft corner of the canon, from 
 which spiral rings and shadow}' puffs of vapor ascended, 
 was a more curious attraction to the matter-of-fact sol 
 dier than mere beauty of scene. Ascending the easy 
 steps of the shelving ledge, he reached a broad plateau 
 of rock, where a tiny Indian child was busily gathering 
 shiny bits of broken stone. At the sound of his step 
 the child turned, and the golden curls of Baby Rue 
 flashed in the sunlight. With a glad shout she sprang 
 into his outstretched arms : 
 h " My Billy ! My Billy Tarson ! " 
 
 In a moment she remembered there was a person 
 near by who was dear to her elfin Majesty; so she 
 called, " Laha ! Come, Laha, come ! " Carson looked 
 around. Standing near where the spring issued from 
 a cleft in the rock was Alaha-chayna. The deep 
 blush that dyed the half-averted face of the Indian 
 maiden, the downcast eyes, and the slight trembling 
 of the bending, willowy figure, would have betted 
 her feelings to a more confident lover. The reader will
 
 286 BABY RUE, 
 
 remember that heretofore our blunt soldier had learned 
 only Love's losses. In his ignorance, he thought these 
 signal-flags of surrender meant repulse. But he had a 
 stout heart ; so, seeing no obstacle to this love in the 
 prior right of a comrade, he determined to tempt fate to 
 its utmost. He took into quick account auxiliaries and 
 embarrassments : the last should be first, for they were 
 worrying him in the shape of the two Pawnee warriors 
 who were gravely regarding him from the foot of the 
 ledge. Hoping they had not seen the maiden, in her 
 sheltered place behind the jutting ledge, he called to 
 them in the few words he knew of the Comanche tongue 
 to go on up to the chief's lodge and announce the com 
 ing of Lo-loch-to-hoo-la and the white officers, adding 
 with word and gesture that he would wait here with the 
 child for her father. 
 
 The Indians gave mute responsive signs and walked 
 on up the valley. It was well ; for our imperious little 
 princess had slipped from Carson's arms to enforce 
 obedience to her command. Carson followed her across 
 the wide plateau, giving one last backward look to 
 assure himself of the fact that he was out of view of the 
 warriors, who were rapidly crossing the rice-fields to the 
 open path that led through the wood. As he reached 
 Alaha-chayna and his baby ally there was a more alarm 
 ing order : 
 
 " Tiss my Billy, Laha ! Tiss my Billy Tarson." 
 
 Seeing she was not obeyed to the letter, as the 
 maiden hesitatingly lifted her drooping face and placed 
 her little hand in Carson's expectant palm, the enfant 
 terrible shouted in a shrill, insistant key, "Tiss him, 
 I tell you : tiss him, Laha ! Don't you hear me tell 
 you?" 
 
 His embarrassment increasing with every syllable 
 shrieked by the little tyrant, thinking to quiet her with 
 a half obedience, Carson bent over the young girl's hand 
 and pressed it to his lips. It is doubtful if Rue would 
 have been content with the compromise had not her at 
 tention been suddenly attracted to a little bird, that lit 
 on a jagged point of rock near her collected treasures.
 
 COACOOCHEE. 28? 
 
 Distrusting its intentions, she ran to guard her shining 
 riches, and for a few brief moments was busy looking over 
 the heap to see if she had been robbed. Possibly, if 
 she had watched Carson she would have cared less for 
 her property, in the content given by his perfect obed 
 ience. 
 
 Strange freak of human nature ! Now that he could 
 easily have commenced a decorous and eminently proper 
 and edifying conversation, the young lover recklessly 
 threw away the opportunity for mutual improvement 
 given by Rue's last vagary and did the very thing the 
 insistant child had urged. It was all wrong ; but as a 
 truthful historian I dare not withhold the fact. There 
 is a strange temptation in scarlet lips when long, curling 
 lashes droop over veiled eyes that dare not meet the 
 bold glance of a wooer. And so, though her chee*ks 
 were aflame, he kissed her. 
 
 Poets and romancers linger over Love's first kiss, 
 and for that matter, so did Carson. But 1, being only 
 a relator of absolute history, am glad the telling of it is 
 over. To my young readers it may seem an eas} 7 thing 
 to do, the mere relating of a trifling event in a simple 
 narrative. Well, let any self-confident person put him 
 self in my place, and he will find there are difficulties in 
 the situation. An historian is not necessarily estopped 
 from "being a philosopher and a moralist. Facts are 
 sometimes causes: a cause is "that which produces an 
 effect." Now, this particular fact had a sequence or order 
 of following. In truth, I might say it had a series. I 
 like to be exact, so I will say at once, and have done 
 with it, that it had a succession of sequences. Finding 
 that, for some occult reason (the girl must have been 
 bewitched) , she did not or could not resist, or even raise 
 those drooping e} r elids, Carson kissed her again. Now, 
 having accomplished my task not only as a truthful his 
 torian, but as philosopher, the moralist in me utterly 
 refuses to go any further in this investigation the pub 
 licity of which can do no good in the way of warning. 
 It is enough that he kissed her twice before I turned 
 away, refusing to see.
 
 288 BAB Y RUE. 
 
 The process might have been repeated after this dis 
 creet historian turned his back, but for Baby Rue. 
 Having driven away the predatory bird and reviewed 
 her possessions, the young "voyvoda" bethought her 
 self of her two slaves. 
 
 Then was demonstrated a remarkable problem, and 
 one worth3 r of the stud}' of a physicist, i.e. how instan 
 taneous is the reaction of oscillatory bodies, if the cir 
 cumference in which their attraction is perceptible is 
 disturbed by the approach of any foreign agent. Leav 
 ing this for the investigation of the learned, the historian 
 will resume his task, and go on with his register of 
 events. 
 
 The moment the imperious baby claimed their atten 
 tion, with a most wonderful unanimity, Carson and 
 Alaha-chayna set themselves to instant obedience to her 
 slightest behest, although her wishes were as changeful 
 as a storm-tossed leaf. 
 
 Between the services called for, Carson did manage 
 to make certain declarations and ask certain questions ; 
 and though the answers never seemed sufficientl}' ex 
 plicit (to judge from the insistance with which the lover 
 asked for minute repetitions), there were frequent seiz 
 ures of a little hand in giving or taking some of the 
 baby's treasures that emphasized his thanks for certain 
 replies, that would have been inaudible to this historian 
 had he even tried to listen. As all of this needed a 
 management, a delicate diplomac} T , heretofore untried 
 by the blunt soldier, it required time. Yet the two 
 principals in this little melodrama were so unconscious 
 of the flight of minutes, that when they did take cogni 
 zance of the world beyond that little plateau, they were 
 astonished to see within easy call two canoes, that must 
 have crossed the little lake, and come the seven miles 
 of length of the narrow river, since the arrival of the 
 Pawnees at the settlement at the head of the valle}-. 
 Margaret, Randall, and Coacoochee were in the first 
 canoe ; in the second were Bob Stearns and Oscar. 
 The discovery of their approach was due to the roving 
 eyes of little Rue. Carson had just told her of the
 
 COACOOCHEE. 289 
 
 speedy coming of her father ; and it had immediately 
 required all of his skill, assisted by the gentle persuasion 
 of the Indian maiden, to keep her from a headlong race 
 down the stretching shelves of the plateau. Her impa 
 tience was beginning to test the temper of the lover, 
 whose constant attention she claimed, when he would 
 so much rather have continued a conversation, for which 
 she had hitherto been the convenient pretext. All of 
 the loose ti*easui - es of Carson, all of the detachable orna 
 ments of Alaha-chayna, had been offered in a vain effort 
 to quiet the uneasy little despot. At the risk of his 
 own 63'es, and her fingers, Carson finally gave her his 
 hunting-knife, which she had deigned to demand, hoping 
 for one moment of freedom as she clashed it back and 
 forth in the scabbard. Suddenly she threw aside the 
 coveted plaything and with a quick spring escaped from 
 Alaha-chayna's arms, and then rushed to the edge of 
 the rock, where she woke the echoes of the canon with 
 the call : 
 
 "Mamma! Mamma! Mamma!" 
 
 In an effort to escape Carson, who had hastily followed 
 her, she ran across the plateau to where it gave a view 
 of the entrance to the canon ; then, dancing about in an 
 ecstasv of joy, she changed the shout to : 
 
 "Papa! Papa!" 
 
 Carson caught her as she started down the shelving 
 ledge to meet King Stan, who, with the Pawnee chief, 
 was just crossing the steaming rill of the hot spring at 
 the entrance into the valley. 
 
 A minute later Leszinksky clasped in his arms his 
 wife, and the child of whose restoration he had at one 
 time almost despaired. 
 
 After greetings had been exchanged, and broken bits 
 of news told, the party separated into little groups ac 
 cording to the manner in which they were to go up the 
 valley. 
 
 The first departure was a beautiful, fairy-like birchen 
 canoe, that suddenly shot out of its hiding-place in the 
 reeds ; and with a few flashing strokes of the paddle 
 Alaha-chayna was leading the little flotilla in the race up
 
 2QO BABY RUE. 
 
 the river. As the graceful, erect figure vanished in a 
 curve of the narrow stream, the two Indian chiefs were 
 standing in the larger canoes, waiting for a distribution 
 of the passengers. 
 
 Randall and Carson, after assisting Margaret to a 
 seat in the canoe with Coacoochee, and waiting to see 
 Leszinksky embarked with Rue and Lo-loch-to-hoo-la, 
 walked on up the meadow-path, closely followed by Bob 
 Stearns and Oscar, who were anxious to hear the news 
 Carson had to tell. 
 
 The story was more uneventful than the listeners ex 
 pected. The reinforcements had been gathered in so 
 quickly and in such force that the Indians were over 
 awed. There had been only a slight skirmish at the 
 ford of the Washita, and the crossing had been effected, 
 after shelling the woods, without loss. In view of the 
 immediate movement of at least half of the force on the 
 Arkansas frontier to Texas, any further advance into 
 the Comanche country had been thought unadvisable. 
 Moreover, Lo-loch-to-hoo-la's voluntary offer to give up 
 the child made further invasion needless, unless it was 
 intended to punish the Comanches for the raid, in which 
 it could not be proven that they had been active assis 
 tants. 
 
 Then Randall asked, " Where is the command?" 
 " The companies from the lower forts have gone back 
 to their quarters. The volunteers are in a rage and 
 likely to do mischief. The general feared they might, in 
 their present temper, attack inoffensive hunting-parties, 
 or even the Seminole villages, as the}- regard the Semi- 
 noles as allies of the Pawnees ; and so, to prevent further 
 difficulty, part of our regiment is temporarily encamped 
 on the Canadian at the mouth of Little River ; and our 
 scouting parties are watching until the volunteers are 
 disbanded." 
 
 " Where did you meet Lo-loch-to-hoo-la?" 
 " At the cottonwood grove. The morning I left there 
 he told me how and where to leave signals if Leszink 
 sky decided to come for Mrs. Leszinksky and Rue. I 
 pledged my word to Coacoochee for Stan and myself,
 
 COACOOCHEE. 291 
 
 that we would never use or reveal, without his permis 
 sion, the pass to the valley if we were brought here." . 
 
 There was more talk of the meeting with Lo-loch-to- 
 hoo-la, and then, as Bob and Oscar walked ahead, Ran 
 dall said : 
 
 ' ' I don't wonder that you thought it needful to come 
 for our party. We might have made the trip in safety 
 under the guidance and guard of the Seminoles, as we 
 did in coming. But possibly a certain lovely maiden 
 would have remained in this vale of Eden." 
 
 Carson turned hastil}'. Seeing that Bob and Oscar 
 had gone on to the lake and were out of hearing, he 
 answered : 
 
 " If Mrs. Leszinksky and Rue had been safe at 
 Bouie's Hill, I would have come to see Coacoochee's 
 daughter. This morning I asked her to be my wife, 
 and she has promised her consent if I can win her fa 
 ther's. Now, Randall, you understand I want no more 
 damned nonsense." 
 
 " Don't be a fool, Carson." 
 
 The young dragoon faced the doctor with such a red 
 face and angry look that Randall laughed outright, 
 but, seeing the rising temper he controlled himself, and 
 added, 
 
 " You would be a fool if you thought I did not thor 
 oughly respect and esteem the lovely girl whose only 
 weakness, as far as I can judge, is this promise to 3*011. 
 This is better luck than j-ou deserve, youngster. But 
 with all my heart I congratulate j*ou, and if in any way 
 I can aid 3~ou, count on my best. Does King Stan 
 know of 3'our success ? " 
 
 " Yes. I told him of her, and how much I cared for 
 her, before we came. As he started up the river just 
 now, I told him it was all right." 
 
 Randall laughed pleasantly, and Carson, whose tem 
 per had vanished, looked delighted, until the doctor 
 said : 
 
 "But it isn't all right; and if 3*ou are not a more 
 skilful diplomatist than most of our thick-headed dra 
 goons, it will be all wrong. Coacoochee is sufficiently
 
 2Q2 BABY RUE. 
 
 grateful to do you any ordinary kindness as between 
 man and man ; but his hatred to the whites is only 
 glossed over with a few likings. I think he would as 
 soon see his daughter dead as the wife of one of the 
 race he has never forgiven for exiling him to these 
 wilds." 
 
 Carson exclaimed in a resolute, angry tone, "If he 
 refuses me, I will run away with his daughter." 
 
 " I do not believe } r ou would, Carson. You are here 
 as Coacoochee's trusted guest, trusted with the secret 
 of his last place of refuge. I do not think you would 
 tarnish your own honor or tempt the woman }-ou love 
 to a disobedience that would come near breaking the 
 heart of this grand savage." 
 
 "Damn his grandeur! I love his daughter better 
 than he does." 
 
 " Then you will only try to win her as an honest man 
 and a chivalrous soldier should. More than any one 
 else, you are bound to respect her faith to her father." 
 
 "See here, Randall; I can stand that sort of thing 
 from Stan, for his life is as pure as a saint's, and his 
 religion goes into every act of his life ; but, confound it, 
 I won't stand schooling from a fellow who is n't a bit 
 better than the rest of us sinners, in fact, who has n't 
 as good a chance hereafter ; for you don't even believe 
 in hell." 
 
 Randall's laugh was tantalizing as he answered : 
 "Thatwaloss. But this happens not be a question 
 of theology. It is simply a discussion of what a gentle 
 man may do, if he would not soil his honor." 
 
 Here Carson's oaths came so much faster than his 
 arguments that your historian prefers to skip the con 
 versation and go- on to where Bob and Oscar were wait 
 ing to ferry Carson and Randall over the lake to the 
 little village that nestled close to the opposite shore, 
 under the shelter of the shelving upland meadows, where 
 were the comfortable log-houses of the chief and his 
 family. 
 
 The feriyboat, made of untanned buffalo-skins, 
 stretched over ribs of split oak-saplings, was light and
 
 COACOOCHEE. 293 
 
 strong. Bob and Oscar had unfastened it from its 
 moorings, and, seated in it, were waiting the arrival of 
 the two passengers, who were delayed by frequent 
 pauses in their walk through the wood, when the inter 
 est or emphasis of the conversation required the aid of 
 look and gesture. 
 
 The sight of Bob at his ease in the boat, and provided 
 with a listener, assured your historian that the scout was 
 talking long before sound could verify sight. 
 
 As this conversation (if monologue can be called con 
 versation) fills a blank in our history, I will give it as I 
 heard it : 
 
 " Now, the more I think on it, the surer I am, Coa- 
 coochee meant to euchre the Big Chief in that matter of 
 Sultan and me and you. He jest thought Louis Pacheco, 
 who I 'm free to say 's as much of a gentleman as a mu 
 latto could be, would rope you into the traces with the 
 black Injuns ; and that the less chance I had to get 
 back with Sultan to our leftenant, the better chance 
 he had o' keeping the Pawnee chief from ever makin' 
 friends for good with our folks. Now, when I could n't 
 nohow make 3*011 understand, but you jest went and 
 left me, and me bad with the manner-poker (mania a 
 potu), why, I jest had to cave. I tell you that last 
 sight I had o' that monstrous cat would a-fetched 
 Julius Caesar, and a-wilted him. I did n't know nuthin', 
 so be and you don't count half-seein' things in a sort o' 
 blind way, until I waked up the next mornin' in that 
 Comanche lodge, tied fast. It mought a-been, like they 
 said arterwards, to keep me from a-gettin' hurt ; but it 
 looked mighty like I was a prisoner, though I 'm free to 
 say the black drink that old squaw brung me did me a 
 power o' good. It cl'ared m}- head and let me sleep in 
 a way no reg'lar surgeon ever did. I wish Doctor Ran 
 dall knowed what that physic was made on ; it 's time 
 some o' the reg'lars had 1'arnt somethin' 'bout curin' 
 the grip whiskey gets of a poor devil who 's a tryin' to 
 stop and cau't. Why, you see, if I got a pull at a bot 
 tle now, I couldn't nohow let it go by me, now my 
 promise is up and the little cap'n res-cw-erf."
 
 294 BABY RUE. 
 
 " Don't, Marse Bob ; don't try that no mo' ; 't allus 
 gets you down, sir." 
 
 ' l How the devil am I to try it withouten any liquor ? " 
 
 Just then Randall and Carson reached the lake, and 
 the question remained forever unanswered. 
 
 The Seminoles had profited by their residence in the 
 Cherokee country. The dinner, given to our party of 
 friends in the comfortable log-house that had been Mar 
 garet's since her arrival in the valle} r , was as perfect in 
 the manner of service, as excellent in qualit} 7 and vari 
 ety of fish, game, fruit, and vegetables, as, at that time, 
 could have been expected in the home of the wealthiest 
 settler. 
 
 Alaha-chayna had been constantly with Margaret and 
 Baby Rue ; but with instinctive courtesy the Indians 
 now left the so recently reunited family to the freedom 
 of unrestrained conversation with their friends. After 
 dinner the elfin princess, missing some of her customary 
 courtiers, imperiously demanded to be taken to Alaha- 
 chayna. Notwithstanding a glance from Randall, that 
 dyed his face several shades deeper than his tawny 
 locks, Carson immediately rose to accompany the wilful 
 child. 
 
 In the quiet of Rue's absence, Randall and Leszink- 
 sky discussed the chances for King Stan's success in the 
 mission entrusted to him by General Arbuckle. 
 
 Once more the tribes were to be invited to a council. 
 The inducement held out to the Seminole chief was the 
 final settlement of the rights of the so-called Black Indi 
 ans, while the alternative of peace or war was to be 
 offered to the Pawnees. 
 
 Then Leszinksky told the story of Lo-loch-to-hoo-la. 
 It was only another black page in the record of Indian 
 agents. A tribe cheated and despoiled ; families gath 
 ered into a reservation far from the hunting-grounds, 
 and then left to starve, while pale vampires grew rich 
 on the very life-blood of Indian women and children. 
 Back of all this was a more terrible shadow, a broken 
 and landless nation, defrauded through the treaties 
 that had been forced upon a helpless people or signed
 
 COACOOCHEE. 295 
 
 by confiding, unlettered chiefs, calling in vain to the 
 government that had robbed its tribes of their lands for 
 the miserable pittance that had been promised for their 
 bare sustenance. 
 
 Just here, that the feeling of an honest soldier may 
 reach the people, who should (and I trust yet will) 
 sweep this iniquit} 7 from the land, I give the last of 
 the story in Leszinksky's words. 
 
 "When, at the close of the simple record of his 
 wrongs, the landless chief and childless father looked 
 into my e}-es, and asked, ' My brother, is this just? Is 
 the white man the owner of the earth ? I loved the land 
 upon which I was born ; my bod}' is made of its sands. 
 The Great Spirit gave me eyes to see it. The sun 
 shines to warm it,, the rain falls to fertilize it, the moon 
 brings back to it the spirits of our people. Yet I can 
 not live upon it because the great chief of the whites 
 has seen that it was good, and has taken it for his 
 children.' I was speechless through shame. Every 
 word was true. Every word cut through the sophisms 
 of the spoilers. Unless we change our entire Indian 
 policy we will, as we deserve, stand before the world 
 dishonored through the acts of dishonest agents and 
 by the evidence of broken treaties." 
 
 As Leszinksky ceased speaking, Randall walked 
 about uneasil}*. Margaret's e} T es flashed through tears. 
 At last Randall said : 
 
 " Then you can do nothing with Lo-loch-to-hoo-la. 
 The Pawnee will not go to the council ? " 
 
 " Yes ; he has promised for my sake, and for Rue's 
 sake, and because of the kindness you and Margaret 
 showed his wife, that he will be friends with the people 
 that left him nothing." 
 
 There was a tenderness in the tone, a simple loving- 
 ness, that went from the speaker's heart to the hearts of 
 his listeners. Randall pulled his hat over his eyes, and 
 walked out in the meadow. Margaret, weeping on her 
 husband's breast, sobbed out a request that ruled the 
 current of her child's life. 
 
 " We will love him, Stan ; he shall find a home with
 
 296 BABY RUE. 
 
 us. Promise me that if I should not live, I am not 
 strong as I was in the old da3~s, and I may not stay 
 with you long, so you will promise me that this brave, 
 simple Indian, who loves our child as his own, shall be 
 always sure of a place b}- your hearth, and a welcome 
 from the little child he saved and gave back to me. 
 You must never send Rue away where he cannot see 
 her." 
 
 Struck to the heart by the shadow of this possible 
 loss, King Stan promised. 
 
 The next morning there was a slight fall of snow, 
 and, as the clouds continued to gather, the departure of 
 the visitors was delayed. In fact, all were willing to 
 prolong their stay. Leszinksky was anxious to shield 
 his wife from exposure to the threatening storm, and 
 was glad of an opportunit}' to know more intimatel}- the 
 Seminole chief. Moreover, all of the part}- considered 
 Carson, as all were desirous his wooing should be suc 
 cessful. The young cavalryman was in high spirits. 
 Having won where he most feared repulse, he never 
 seemed to think of the serious obstacles yet to be over 
 come. His hopefulness infected the others ; even the 
 gentle Alaha-cha} - na smiled gayly at his boyish romps 
 with Rue, for whom his affection overflowed, for to her 
 capture he owed his present happiness. Besides he had 
 good reason for hopefulness, for he knew his interests 
 were in able hands. 
 
 Randall had won a firm place in the chiefs regard 
 from the first moment of their meeting ; and now was 
 added the quality of thankfulness. The week before 
 Leszinksky's and Carson's arrival, Coacoochee's first 
 son was born, and Randall's skill had saved the child's 
 life, the Indian women (the only accoucheurs of the 
 tribe) having hopelessly given up all effort to resus 
 citate the apparently lifeless infant. After saving the 
 child, his services had been of great benefit to the 
 mother. Here, too, Margaret would be an efficient ally, 
 as the warmest friendship already existed between Rue's 
 mother and the kind-hearted, loving daughter of Osceola,
 
 COACOOCHEE. 297 
 
 who had cared for our little princess when ill with the 
 slight malarial fever that had followed her night's ex 
 posure upon the Canadian River. 
 
 The day after Carson's arrival, Margaret spent the 
 morning with Che-cho-ter l ; and, between minute in 
 spections of the little, mummy-like baby wrapped in 
 swaddling clothes, the love-tale was told, a tale to 
 which few women are insensible ; but one especially in 
 teresting to two young mothers who were happily wed 
 ded. Che-cho-ter's influence in favor of the lover of her 
 step-daughter was promised, and none could be greater 
 with Coacoochee. For to his affection for his wife add 
 his almost passionate regard for the memory of the high- 
 souled warrior, her father, and you will see that the par 
 tisan Margaret had won in the chiefs household was the 
 most valuable all}* Carson could count. 
 
 The third night, when the storm had passed, leaving 
 the valley shrouded in snow, beside the fire, where the 
 yellow glow of burning pine reflected its rich light and 
 >iitfused its pleasant resinous odour, a happy, hopeful 
 'party, talked over Carson's chances. Even Randall, 
 who had at first been doubtful of success, seemed con 
 fident of the chiefs final surrender. 
 
 There was a heavy knock on the door, and into this 
 pleasant gathering, this joyful reunion of intimate 
 friends, came the two Indian chiefs. Lo-loch-to-hoo-la 
 walked to where Margaret sat beside her husband, in 
 whose arms Rue had fallen asleep, while Coacoochee 
 stood in the centre of the room, looking frowningly 
 around the little circle. Carson and Randall both arose 
 as the door opened. Surprise reached its height as 
 Bob and Oscar hurriedly entered. 
 
 Coacoochee said, " Thieving Creeks and white slave- 
 hunters have been to the Seminole villages on the Can 
 adian. The}* have taken away in chains twenty of the 
 black warriors who fought with Coacoochee in Florida. 
 They fired upon unarmed Seminoles within the lodges, 
 and they have killed the sister of Coacoochee. If the 
 news reaches the people in the village " and he 
 1 Morning Dew.
 
 298 BABY RUE. 
 
 pointed to the little settlement "your lives are en 
 dangered. You have come here as my guests, trusting 
 to the protection of the Seminoles. We are here to 
 take you through to your people. There is no time to 
 lose, for fugitives who have escaped the slaughter 
 may come, and I will not be able to appease with 
 words the avengers of blood. The Pawnee chief has 
 a score of men who are faithful and can be trusted ; 
 they are already down the valley with the horses. The 
 boats are waiting below the village. Bring the child 
 and her mother, and come." The manner of the chief 
 was abrupt and imperious. 
 
 Leszinksky commenced: "Chief " when Coacoo- 
 chee stopped him. 
 
 "It is useless to talk. Tell your general he has 
 sent 3"ou to the Seminoles upon a fruitless errand. We 
 cannot live in peace in the Creek country. It is full of 
 white slave-stealers and murderers. They shoot us, 
 and chain our allies, and drag them awa}' captives. 
 But the red man's heart is free : he will not desert the 
 blacks, who were his neighbors in the land of his birth ; 
 neither will he let those who came with peace in their 
 hands be harmed." 
 
 Again the door opened : this time, a fairer vision, 
 Alaha-chayna, who, with tears falling down her sweet 
 face, began to prepare Margaret and Rue for the jour 
 ney. Carson took her hand and led her to Coacoochee. 
 
 "Chief, I love your daughter. I cannot leave her 
 without telling you the truth. She is willing to marry 
 me ; and to-morrow I intended to ask you to trust me 
 with her happiness. Now, I ask you to keep her for 
 me, until a white man can prove to }-ou that he is honest 
 and Io3-al. You will wrong her if you refuse me the 
 time and the trial I ask." 
 
 As the audacious declaration was made, Randall and 
 Leszinksky looked at each other in alarm ; all closed 
 about the group in the centre of the room, as if to 
 shield Carson fi-om the chiefs displeasure. 
 
 For a moment Coacoochee's eyes flashed into the blue 
 eyes of the }'oung dragoon. The angry glance met the
 
 COACOOCHEE. 299 
 
 steady light of truth. Intense feeling had given Carson 
 unwonted dignity, while the occasion called out a splen 
 did exhibition of the highest courage. The chief now 
 turned to his daughter ; there were quick, short ques 
 tions and low replies in the Seminole tongue. Bravely, 
 through it all, the young maiden left her hand in Car 
 son's as she answered her father, her voice growing 
 fuller and steadier as the questioning went on. There 
 was a moment of breathless silence. Coacoochee again 
 seemed to read with a look the very soul of the 3'oung 
 soldier ; then he addressed Randall : " I have said that 
 the heart of an Indian is free. I trust in your care the 
 daughter of a chief. Take her with 3-011 to the house of 
 your friends," he waved his hand at Leszinksky and 
 Margaret, ' ' and see that she goes with honor and a 
 pure name to the home of her husband." 
 
 Then they saw him, as a shadowy figure, who led the 
 way in silence to the boats below the village. After 
 they were embarked, they again saw him, a solitary 
 figure, in the swift canoe that preceded them down the 
 river. Below the shelving ledge of the hot spring were 
 two ponies, that were to take Margaret and Alaha- 
 chayna to the little glen where the few faithful followers 
 of Lo-loch-to-hoo-la waited with the horses. Coacoo 
 chee lifted his daughter to her seat in the fanciful 
 Mexican saddle, and, after a murmur of sweet Indian 
 words, kissed her, and with a quick clasp of Carson's 
 hand placed it in the hand of his child, and he went 
 up the valley as the moon came out of the clouds, and 
 a burst of silvery light lit its bridal-robe of snow.
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 . THE LESZINKSKYS. 
 
 THE HISTORY OF A FAMILY THROUGH THE MIDDLE AGES. 
 
 THK old order changeth, yielding place to new, 
 And God fulfils himself in many ways. 
 
 TENNYSON.
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 THE LESZINKSKYS. 
 
 THE HISTORY OF A FAMILY THROUGH THE MIDDLE AGES. 
 
 A PSYCHOLOGICAL AND GENEALOGICAL STUDY OP 
 THE LESZINKSKI. The personal history of the Leszinkskys, 
 one of the proudest of the princely houses of Warsaw, is a 
 summary of the history of Poland. The early chroniclers pre 
 tend to carry back their annals to the remotest periods ; going 
 so far as to trace descent from Lech, a great-grandson of 
 Noah. This superstructure of ancestry is derived from a 
 fanciful affinity to the name of Lech, one of the monarchs 
 who figure in their ancient and fabulous legends, and which 
 is also found in the genealogy of the patriarchs. 
 
 Ground for this traditionary pretension of the Leszinkskys 
 is given in the changes of the family patronymic. From the 
 Lechzinczski of the voyvodes, through the Leszczynski of the 
 palatines, to the Leszinkskys of the French and American 
 Revolutions, there is an unbroken chain of descent, easily 
 traced, even through the dim and clouded history of the 
 Middle Ages, by the splendor of their martial achievements. 
 
 The first of the Lechzinczski voyvodes had fought the 
 Seljukian Turks, as allies of the Greek Emperors of Con 
 stantinople, when the Ottoman Turks or Osinanlis were yet 
 a wandering tribe from Khorassan. It was one of their 
 proudest boasts that for two centuries the banner of the 
 Lechzinczski was the oriflamme of victory wherever Chris 
 tian and Moslem met; it had never in all that time retreated 
 before the Crescent. On two stricken fields, where the 
 standards of the Greek emperor were surrendered, the Polish 
 voyvodes refused quarter and perished with their contingent. 
 Out of these disasters grew a hereditary enmity that took the
 
 304 APPENDIX. 
 
 Lechzinczski colors into the van of every battle where shone 
 the silver Crescent of the Turk. 
 
 When pagans, and later in their history when devout 
 though fierce Catholics, they were true and unfaltering allies 
 of the Greeks. 
 
 In 1355 a cadet of the family married the heiress of Kabilo- 
 vitsch, one of the most powerful of the Servian nobles. The 
 young Lechzinczski took the arms and name of his wife's 
 family, who were closely related to the King of Servia. 
 
 In 1376, immediately before the fall of Nissa, the Castle of 
 Kabilovitsch was captured by the Turks. The old Kabilo- 
 vitsch and his son-in-law died in defence of their stronghold ; 
 the garrison was put to the sword, and the wife, two sons and 
 three daughters of Lechzinczski-Kabilovitsch were carried 
 captives to Adrianople, the newly-acquired capital of the 
 Ottomans in Europe. 
 
 Amurath the First accepted ransom from the King of 
 Servia for the mother and her youngest child, a daughter, 
 but refused to liberate the others. His favorite wife adopted 
 the two older daughters. The sons were to be forced recruits 
 in the famous corps of Janissaries, which was then composed 
 of the flower of captured Christian youth, who, cut off from 
 all ties of country and kindred, trained to renounce the faith 
 in which they were born, carefully educated for the profession 
 of arms, and tempted with liberal rewards and honors, con 
 stituted a military brotherhood that grew to be the most 
 powerful instrument of imperial ambition ever devised by 
 subtle statecraft. 
 
 The elder brother, Stanislaus, then nineteen years of age, 
 resisted all threats, all seduction. Milosch, the younger, 
 yielded to persuasion and flattery, and assumed the uniform. 
 The brothers had been constantly separated; but Milosch 
 seemed to be so content with his position and so pleased 
 with his comrades, that he was permitted to see his brother, 
 his captors believing that his representation of the service 
 and its rewards would have sure effect upon the mind of a 
 youth broken by solitude and harsh treatment. 
 
 Stanislaus was unbound and brought to the tent of the 
 Aga of Janissaries. Milosch sprang to meet and embrace 
 him ; but Stanislaus plucked from his brother's belt a jew 
 elled dagger and plunged it to the hilt into the breast of the 
 Aga, saying, " This for the dishonor you have forced upon 
 my father's son! " Then he turned upon the guard, and fell, 
 pierced by a dozen sword- thrusts. The lesson of courage 
 and constancy was not lost. Milosch tore off the now ab 
 horred uniform, repressing his sobs to declare his hatred of
 
 THE LESZINKSKYS. 305 
 
 his brother's murderers. He would undoubtedly have been 
 the victim of the sultan's anger but for the interference of 
 the Prince of Caraniania, a newly reconciled ally, to whom 
 Amurath had just given in marriage his adopted daughter, 
 the twin-sister of Milosch, having betrothed the younger 
 daughter to his own son, Prince Saoudji. Milosch was taken 
 by the prince to Caraniania, and treated with the greatest 
 kindness and indulgence; but although he became much at 
 tached to his brother-in-law, he sullenly resented his sister's 
 desertion of the Christian faith. 
 
 The prince, sympathizing with the boy's conflict of feel 
 ing, sent him, accompanied by a princely escort and laden 
 with rich presents, to the Greek Emperor Palaeologous, the 
 hereditary friend of his father's race. 
 
 The young voyvode, strikingly handsome and recklessly 
 brave, in a few years became the favorite of the court. He 
 was the acknowledged leader of the young nobility, distin 
 guishing himself in every conflict of arms where the now 
 enfeebled Greeks made attempt to resist the constantly 
 encroaching power of the Ottoman Turks in Europe. When, 
 at length Palaeologous, disheartened by his losses and the 
 immense military superiority of Amurath, decided to treat 
 with the Turks for an offensive and defensive alliance, Mi 
 losch openly expressed his contempt for the prudential con 
 siderations of the emperor, and haughtily took leave of the 
 court, going direct to Caraniania, trusting to engage his 
 brother-in-law, the prince, with whom he had kept up 
 kindly relations, to oppose the Turkish power in Asia, 
 whilst a coalition of the Bosnians, Servians, and other Scla 
 vonic tribes should attack Amurath's European provinces. 
 Having succeeded in his self-appointed mission, he returned 
 to Constantinople, on his route to Servia, to receive intelli 
 gence which utterly wrecked his most cherished personal 
 hopes. A stronger feeling than hatred to the Turks had led 
 the young voyvode where, through dangers met and con 
 quered, ambition pointed the path of success. He had loved, 
 with all the intensity and daring of youth, a Byzantine prin 
 cess, the niece of the emperor. During his absence she had 
 been given in marriage to the sultan, as the seal of the new 
 alliance of Greek and Moslem. Notwithstanding the differ 
 ence of faith and the little estimate in which women were 
 held by the Mahometans, such marriages were not uncommon, 
 in the history of the Greek emperors. These alliances were 
 propitiatory offerings to stop conquest, offerings accepted by 
 the wily Turks as reason for the future acquisition of new 
 territory.
 
 306 APPENDIX. 
 
 The young Lechzinczski-Kabilovitsch sought his sister, the 
 wife of Prince Saoudji, and forced her to arrange an inter 
 view, in which he intended to overwhelm with scorn and 
 reproach the woman who had bartered his love for a crown. 
 He found only a pale, heart-broken victim of kingly craft, 
 whom he forgave whilst swearing to avenge her wrongs and 
 his own. In this mood he arrived at the court of the King 
 of Servia and found the country ripe for revolt against the 
 Turks, who, since the fall of Kissa, had exacted from the 
 Servians a yearly tribute of one thousand pounds of silver 
 and one thousand horse-soldiers. The tax of silver alone 
 was for that age heavy ; but the yearly burthen of furnish 
 ing and equipping a thousand horsemen was still more griev 
 ous to a prince already crippled by the loss of the most 
 important city in his kingdom. 
 
 The history of the Middle Ages furnishes the record of no 
 more daring adventurer, no diplomat more skilled in intrigue, 
 than the young Milosch Kabilovitsch. Energetic and reso 
 lute, the very rashness of his courage was an element of suc 
 cess, giving him a marked ascendency over the turbulent and 
 restless Sclavonians of Bosnia, Servia, and Poland. To the 
 fierce and intractable will of the Polish voyvode, born the 
 ruler of life and death of the serfs on his immense estates, 
 he added the passive and stolid power of resistance to obsta 
 cle he had learned from the Turks, joined to the finesse and 
 politic statecraft of the Greek court, then, it is true, in its 
 decadence, but which, despoiled by military power, was the 
 centre of every political coalition of Eastern Europe. Such 
 a character could not fail of leadership in the complications 
 which at that time puzzled the wisest and most experienced 
 statesmen. 
 
 The Ottoman power was steadily moving to its zenith. 
 Orchan, the predecessor of Amurath the First, in a reign of 
 thirty-three years had not only conquered, but had almost 
 completed the work of making a homogeneous country of the 
 fairest provinces of Western Asia. Gaining a foothold on 
 the European continent, he established his growing power 
 by a marriage with the emperor's daughter and an alliance 
 with the Greeks. The first essay of his successor had been 
 to extend the conquests of Orchan in Europe. 
 
 Ever after the capture of Adrianople the Greek emperor 
 had cringed to the sultan; but treaties and alliances were 
 only the flimsy coverings of hate and fear. The Greek court 
 was the hidden focus of every intrigue that had for its object 
 the humiliation or downfall of the Turks. 
 
 Through the efforts of Milosch-Kabilovitsch, a close and
 
 THE LESZINKSKYS. 307 
 
 secret alliance had been formed by his brothers-in-law, 
 Prince Saoudji and the Prince of Caramania, with Andro 
 nicus, son of the Emperor PalaBologous. The Prince of 
 Caramania took the initiative, surprised and defeated AH 
 Pasha, and then threatened Brusa, thus drawing Amurath 
 with the larger portion of his army to Asia. Prince Saoudji, 
 who had been left in command at Adrianople, immediately 
 united his forces with the young Greek nobility and their 
 followers under Andronicus, and in open revolt established 
 their camp near Constantinople. 
 
 Amurath hurried back across the Straits, leaving Prince 
 Bajazet to hold the Caramanians in check. He summoned 
 the Greek emperor to his presence to answer for the conduct 
 of Andronicus. Palseologous denied all participation in the 
 rebellion; and to allay the suspicion of Amurath, agreed to 
 join in the attack upon their sons. 
 
 The return of Amurath disconcerted the plans of the 
 princes, rendering the diversion of the Prince of Caramania 
 useless, arid forestalling the arrival of Milosch-Kabilovitsch 
 with their Servian and Polish allies. They retreated to the 
 town of Didymotichi, where they were besieged into surren 
 der. Prince Saoudji was beheaded in his father's presence. 
 The adherents of the princes were put to the sword, and the 
 Princess Saoudji saved herself and her young children by a 
 rapid flight into Bosnia. 
 
 Notwithstanding these disasters, the resolution of Milosch 
 Kabilovitsch never faltered. He had been met on his return 
 from Poland with the news of the* utter defeat of the princes, 
 the execution of Prince Saoudji, and the condition of his 
 fugitive sister. 
 
 At the head of the Poles and Hungarians he hastened to 
 Bosnia to her relief. There, joined by the Servian and Bul 
 garian force already in the field, he made a sudden and 
 impetuous attack upon the advancing Ottomans, whom he 
 completely routed and destroyed. 
 
 Unfortunately for the coalition, Milosch was severely 
 wounded in the engagement. He was carried to the Castle 
 of Kabilovitsch, which he had retaken from the Turks and 
 which was now the asylum of the widow of Prince Saoudji 
 and her children. During a previous visit to Poland he had 
 taken with him his mother and younger sister, who had until 
 then resided at the court of their kinsman the King of Ser- 
 via. By this sister's marriage with the Lechzinczski voy- 
 vode, the acknowledged head of the family, he had strength 
 ened his cause with the Poles, but his enforced absence 
 from the allied army at this time lost them the fruits of the
 
 308 APPENDIX. 
 
 victory he had gained. Jealousies and dissensions, the vacil 
 lations and delays which usually attend a confederacy com 
 posed of rival powers, kept the forces of the allies inactive at 
 the very moment when vigorous action was most needed. 
 
 The Turks under AH Pasha, who burned with a desire to 
 wipe out the record of his late defeat in Asia, marched north 
 ward in heaw force across that mountain-chain of the Balkan 
 which by the recent treaty of Berlin has been assigned to 
 them as their natural barrier against invasion. Schumla 
 surrendered; Tirnova and Pravadi were stormed and cap 
 tured; Bulgaria was completely overrun; the king surren 
 dered at discretion, and the kingdom was annexed to the 
 Ottoman Empire, which thus advanced its northern frontier 
 to the Danube. 
 
 The Servians, alarmed at the utter destruction of their con 
 federate, now earnestly sought to collect the remaining forces 
 of the anti-Turkish league, and instantly prepared for a 
 desperate resistance. Servia, Bosnia, Poland, all of Sclavonic 
 blood, except Russsia (which at that time was held in wretched 
 slavery by the Mongols), united in this conflict of races. 
 Besides these Sclavonic nations, the Skijeetars of Albania, 
 the semi-Roman people of Wallachia, and the Magyars of 
 Hungary, who, like their kinsmen, the Ottoman Turks, had 
 won by force a settlement in Europe, but, unlike the Turks, 
 adopted the creed and civilization of Christendom, now 
 joined in one great effort against the invading Moslem. Xo 
 further aid was obtainable. The ruling kingdoms of Western 
 Europe heard with indifference of the perils to which Eastern 
 Europe was exposed by the encroachments of this new Ma 
 hometan power. The weak Richard the Second ruled in 
 England. The almost imbecile Charles the Sixth was king 
 of France. The German Empire, under the worthless Wen- 
 ceslaus, was in a wretched condition. War was raging be 
 tween the Robber Knights and the burghers of the free cities 
 from the Rhine to the Danube. The schism in the papacy 
 divided the Catholic power, and the two popes one at Avig 
 non and one at Rome hurled anathemas at each other and at 
 the heretic Greeks. The old crusading spirit had died out, 
 and the rising of the Crescent in the eastern horizon of Eu 
 rope only served to light the path of the turbulent and power 
 ful nobles who contended for supremacy in the West. 
 
 There are times in the history of nations when one man is of 
 more worth than an army. The great need of the allies was 
 a leader. They outnumbered the Turks nearly two to one. 
 Unhappily, they also outnumbered them in commanders. 
 Amurath had taken the field in person. Under him was
 
 THE LESZINKSKYS. 309 
 
 marshalled a well-disciplined and thoroughly trained soldiery, 
 led by the most famous officers of the time : Ali Pasha, Prince 
 Bajazet surnamed " Yilderim " or the " Lightning " for the 
 terrible rapidity of his charge, Tiinourtash, Yoldan. Bey and 
 Prince Yacoub. Either of these leaders was the superior, in 
 military chieftainship and strategetical skill, of the princes of 
 the confederation ; but, able as they were, they were only the 
 lieutenants of a general who had proved himself matchless 
 in the hardest fought fields of Asia and Europe. Amurath 
 was there in person to hold the van with his Janissaries ; and 
 when on the 27th of August, 1389, the sun arose over the 
 plains of Kassova, it was the sun of victory to the Turkish 
 sultan. The night before, the conference of the confederate 
 princes had broken up in stormy disputes. Ill-digested 
 plans had been discussed and thrown aside. The hour had 
 struck, but the man was wanting. 
 
 Milosch Kabilovitsch, the soul of the coalition, barely re 
 covered from his wound, had risen from his bed at the earnest 
 entreaty of the King of Servia ; but with all the haste he could 
 make in his enfeebled state, he was still a day's journey 
 away. Courier after courier met him with entreaty, that 
 grew to prayer. The Poles and Hungarians refused to go 
 into action until he should arrive, and obstinately stayed with 
 the rear-guard. The Servians hesitated until their sovereign, 
 King Lazarus, shamed them into following his banner. 
 
 There were quarrels for place and command that threw the 
 troops into confusion until the fierce charge of Prince Baja 
 zet forced them to make common cause against the Turks. 
 Vuk Brankowich at the head of the Servian and Albanian 
 force on the right whig, fought desperately until the Bosnians 
 on the left gave way, and Prince Bajazet was at liberty to lead 
 his command, flushed with success, against the already hard- 
 pressed Christian right. At the same instant, the Janissaries 
 under Amurath advanced against the centre, which was held 
 by King Lazarus, following a charge of the Akindji and Azabs, 
 and the field was virtually won by the^Turks. 
 
 Charged furiously in every quarter, obliged to fight in con 
 fusion and disorder, their own strength and that of their 
 horses exhausted, Vuk Brankowich and his command died 
 gloriously, around their standards. 
 
 At this crisis of disaster, the Poles and Hungarians, moved 
 by some new and sudden impulse, advanced with a wild cry, 
 and rode down the Turkish irregulars like reeds; and then, 
 with levelled spears, they charged the advanced division of the 
 Janissaries. They broke through the ranks of that famous 
 corps, and sent the Spahis flying, like leaves in the wind.
 
 310 APPENDIX. 
 
 But the day was lost before this glorious charge was 
 made. 
 
 The Janissaries rallied and re-formed in the rear of the 
 Polish and Hungarian squadron, "cutting off all chance of 
 retreat ; whilst in front a steady forest of hostile spears began to 
 extend and wheel their inclosing lines around the doomed band. 
 At this moment their ranks opened, and a man rode toward 
 the standard of the sultan, throwing away his spear, making 
 no effort to do aught but parry attack. Supposing him a 
 deserter, he was dismounted and brought into the presence of 
 Amurath. Pretending he had important secrets to reveal, he 
 was admitted to approach the sultan, whom he stabbed with 
 a sudden and mortal stroke of his dagger. Quickly turning 
 on the guard, Milosch Kabilovitsch for it was he although 
 still suffering from his wounds, thrice cleared himself from 
 the press of vengeful foes and fought his way to his horse, as 
 the Poles once again broke through the Janissaries and sur 
 rounded him. Whether it was then, or afterwards, he re 
 ceived his death-blow, was never known ; for one by one man 
 and horse went down, until the ground where the greatest of 
 the voyvodes perished was piled with the dying and dead. 
 
 It is interesting to a student of psychology to trace family 
 characteristics through the changes of centuries, as they are 
 intensified or modified by new infusions and the culture that 
 results from grafting. 
 
 There are no more well-defined or salient figures in history 
 than are to be found in different groups of the Sclavic race ; 
 and in no group of that race are more marked types than in 
 this of the Lechzinczski. 
 
 In all families there are certain individuals who seem to 
 gather into their own personality the very essence of race, 
 thus becoming its interpreters and representatives. The 
 history of the Lechzinczski-Kabilovitsch furnishes the key 
 to the understanding of character, as well as to that of the 
 alliances of the family in the Orient. Inflexible will and un 
 yielding adhesion to a faith that grew dearer from persecution, 
 joined to a high and noble regard for the untarnished honor 
 of his house, placed the name of the young Stanislaus Lech 
 zinczski-Kabilovitsch on the first and most glorious page of 
 the family archives. Milosch was a variety of the same type ; 
 but the mixed Turkish and Greek training had its effect 
 upon the impressionable Sclav. His courage was aggres 
 sive as well as resolute. Intellectually he was the giant of 
 his race. The central and governing figure in every political 
 and military coalition of Eastern Europe and Western Asia, 
 he despotically ruled the councils of the Confederation
 
 THE LESZINKSKYS. 311 
 
 until the end of his short but brilliant career upon the field 
 of Kossova. 
 
 The three sisters of Stanislaus and Milosch were no less 
 remarkable. Distinguished for their wonderful beauty, 
 known in every court of Europe and Western Asia as the 
 " three lilies of Kabilovitsch," they impressed themselves 
 upon their time and were efficient allies of Milosch. Imperi 
 ous, ambitious, loyal always to the traditions of their house, 
 clinging together through all changes of fortune, self-poised 
 at the summit of success, unfaltering in purpose, unshaken 
 in resolution in the midst of disaster, they seemed to make 
 good the claims of the Sclavi to descent from the Amazons. 
 Entering princely houses, they ruled the alliances of those 
 houses, and to their influence can be traced points of depar 
 ture in polity which in after years marked the beginning of 
 new dynasties. 
 
 The Princess Nifisay, the eldest, had always great influence 
 with her adopted father, Amurath. Even after the battle of 
 Iconium, she succeeded in disarming his rage against her 
 husband, and won honorable terms for the revolted Caraman- 
 ians. Her only son married his cousin, the daughter of the 
 Polish Lechzinczski. 
 
 The Princess Saoudji was the centre and moving spirit 
 of the revolt of Adrianople. After her escape to Bosnia 
 she was queen absolute in the camp of the allies. Left by 
 Milosch chatelaine of the Castle of Kabilovitsch, she de 
 fended it with a small force of Poles and Albanians against 
 a three days' assault of the vanguard of the Turks, when the 
 arrival of Bajazet himself, with overwhelming numbers, 
 forced its surrender; but even then she made terms for 
 the safety of the garrison. Distrusting her brother-in-law, 
 Prince Bajazet, who had signalized his accession to the throne 
 by the murder of Prince Yacoub, the next in succession, she 
 confided her only son, Prince Osman, to the care of a faithful 
 Albanian. He, finding escape into Poland or Hungary impos 
 sible, adopted the bold and, as it proved, successful expedient 
 of crossing into Asia, where he found shelter and protection 
 for the young prince at the court of the Emir of Nedjid. The 
 Princess Saoudji, with her daughter, was released by Prince 
 Bajazet and permitted to go to her sister in Poland, where 
 she hoped to find her son arrived. When the young Prince 
 of Caramania came for his promised bride, the daughter of 
 Elizabeth, the youngest of the " lilies," she learned from him 
 of the safe arrival of her son in Derayeh, the capital of Ned 
 jid. She prepared to rejoin him, but an alliance proposed 
 for her daughter with Gedymin, Grand Duke of Lithuania.
 
 312 APPENDIX. 
 
 who afterwards wrested the Ukraine from Russia, detained 
 her until its completion. This delay and another at the court 
 of Caramania, prevented her arrival in Nedjid until after her 
 son's accession to the throne, he having been adopted by the 
 late emir, whose daughter he had married. Later in history, 
 at the time of the Mahometan reformation, we find the Emir 
 Saoud, son of Osman, military leader of the Wahabees. 
 
 The marriage of Elizabeth, the youngest of the sisters of 
 Milosch, with the Lechzinczski voyvode, was the epoch from 
 which dated the rapid advancement to power of the family 
 in Poland. Her grandson, the first palatine, who ranks 
 third in the great names of the Leszinkskys, was the con 
 queror of the Teutonic knights, who until then had been the 
 terror of the Poles as well as of the free cities of the Rhine. 
 The Zolkiewskis, the Sobieskis, the Czartoryskis, proudly 
 trace their descent from the youngest and fairest of the 
 " lilies of Kabilovitsch " ; and there are characteristics, per 
 sonal and mental, in these families which show a marked 
 resemblance of race. The great Zriny, the defender of Szi- 
 geth, not unworthily named the Leonidas of Hungary, 
 was a grandson of Elizabeth. 
 
 With the name of John Sobieski in the family annals is 
 joined that of Palatine Raphael Leszczynski (the change of 
 patronymic came with the palatinate), the fourth star of the 
 first magnitude in our record. Educated at the court of 
 Louis the Fourteenth of France, skilled in all martial and 
 knightly accomplishments, the personal friend and companion 
 in his wanderings from court to court of King Charles the 
 Second of England, the entire resources of his estate in Po 
 land were used in his friend's service, and his life freely ad 
 ventured in frequent and hazardous journeys to England and 
 Scotland, whenever the need of the king required there a de 
 voted and trusty friend. After the Restoration, finding the 
 debts owing him had escaped the king's memory, and scorning 
 to recall his services, the palatine visited his relatives in 
 Hungary. True to the hereditary enmity of -his house, he 
 sought service with Monticuculi, general of the Austrian and 
 Hungarian army, in the war against the Sultan Mahomet 
 the Fourth. 
 
 At the battle of St. Gothard, the palatine, at the head of 
 the imperial cavalry, repeatedly charged the ranks of the 
 Janissaries. Repulsed time after time, with thinned ranks, 
 the Christian cavalry wavered, when Leszczynski passed the 
 word along the line that they " must break the Turks or 
 perish." Riding in front of his men bareheaded, the pala 
 tine halted, and, holding his hand toward heaven, made the
 
 THE LESZINKSKYS, 313 
 
 prayer so famous in history, " mighty Generalissimo icho 
 art on high I if thou icilt not this day help thy children, the Chris- 
 tians, at least do not help these dogs, the Turks ; and thou sha.lt 
 soon see something that will please thee." Either the prayer 
 was heard or else the spirit of the mighty palatine had found 
 an answering chord in the hearts of his men; for in this 
 charge the famous infantry was not only broken, but literally 
 trampled to death beneath the hoofs of his cohorts. 
 
 In defence of Candia against the Turks some years later, 
 the palatine was again a volunteer. After the fall of Candia 
 he came back to Poland in time to aid Sobieski and some few 
 of the great nobles to break the humiliating treaty made 
 with the Turks by the King of Poland. At Lemberg he was 
 the right arm of Sobieski, who there gained the most brilliant 
 victory of the age. At the liberation of Vienna the palatine 
 again led the charge against the Janissaries, but he fell, mor 
 tally wounded, in the moment of victory. He was succeeded 
 in the palatinate by his son Stanislaus, afterwards King of 
 Poland. 
 
 Again we have a Leszczynski so prominent in history that 
 we have only to name him the fifth in our constellation. The 
 character of King Stanislaus, his uprightness, courage, equa 
 nimity, and patience, prove the effect of civilization, the cul 
 ture of time, and the modification of grafts, upon the untamed 
 fiery spirit of his ancestor, the great voyvode. 
 
 " Stanislaus Leszczynski," said one of his contemporaries, 
 " has a happy facility of manners that makes him win his 
 way to all hearts. Courageous and at the same time mild 
 in disposition, he is also prepossessing in appearance." At 
 the time of the disputes in the Polish Succession, after the 
 death of Sobieski, Charles the Twelfth of Sweden declared 
 he had " never seen a man so fit to conciliate all parties." 
 The changes of fortune which met King Stanislaus; his 
 abdication to give peace to Poland; his recall to the king 
 dom ; the marriage of his daughter Marie to Louis the Fif 
 teenth of France; the treachery which led to the surrender 
 of Dantzig, the only city of Poland that could stand a siege; 
 the second abdication of royalty ; the peerless integrity which 
 decided his rival to trust to the care of the ex-king his chil 
 dren, whom the fortunes of war had left homeless: the words 
 with which the warm-hearted and forgiving philosopher re 
 ceived them, " Heaven no doubt drove me from my country 
 that I might be able to afford you an asylum in your mis 
 fortune," all the events of his life, and its numberless roman 
 tic incidents, brighten and adorn the page of the earlier part 
 of the eighteenth century. With only one episode we have
 
 314 APPENDIX. 
 
 to do. During a visit of King Stanislaus to the Pasha of 
 Moldavia, at the time of his escape after the surrender of 
 Dantzig, pleased with the charming face and manner of a 
 boy offered for sale in the market-place, he bought the child 
 and brought him to Lorraine, and afterwards took him to 
 Paris. It then transpired that the boy was the son of the 
 Emir of Nedjid, consequently a descendant of Princess 
 Saoudji. The family of the emir had been captured at their 
 summer home in the mountains. 
 
 The two daughters, twins, had been destined for the sul 
 tan's harem at Constantinople, but were lost by their captors, 
 the ship being taken by an Algerine pirate. The boy had 
 been sold to a slave-merchant from Moldavia, and happily 
 rescued by King Stanislaus, who was now about to entrust 
 him to the French envoy to Arabia to be restored to his 
 father, when the child asked that he might first visit a cousin 
 of his father, a baron of Brittany, himself a descendant of 
 the Moors of Grenada. 
 
 King Stanislaus accompanied the boy to Brittany, where, 
 to their joy, they found the twin-sisters, whose ransom had 
 been effected by the son of this relative who was in the port 
 of Tripoli at the time of the pirate's return. He had brought 
 the girls to Brittany, the Ottoman wars in the East having 
 made their return to Arabia for the time impossible. 
 
 The beauty and intelligence of one of the sisters captivated 
 the still romantic and impressionable old monarch; his kind 
 ness to her brother commanded her gratitude, and a private 
 marriage was quickly arranged. 
 
 The marriage of the Catholic king to his Mahometan 
 bride, who refused to give up her faith, was celebrated by a 
 Huguenot preacher; consequently it was not legal in that 
 country or time. But the king chivalrously kept his plighted 
 faith, and when, the following year, his young wife died in 
 Paris in child-bed, he openly acknowledged the marriage and 
 his son. 
 
 The ex-king died in Paris in 1766. The young Count de 
 Deux Ponts, then fifteen years of age, bore his barren title 
 only by. courtesy of the royal family of France. 
 
 Poland had now another sovereign, and the Duchies of 
 Bar and Lorraine, by the treaty signed at Vienna in 1735, 
 were, upon the death of King Stanislaus, to devolve to the 
 crown of France. In addition, the council declared the 
 French king heir of the Duchy of Deux Ponts. The sale of 
 some valuable jewels sent to his mother by the Emir of Ned 
 jid, immediately after her marriage, sufficed for the boy's 
 education and keep.
 
 THE LESZINKSKYS. 315 
 
 The hauteur and coldness of his royal relatives in France 
 had disgusted young Stanislaus with kings and courtiers, 
 and when, in 1777, his comrade and friend, the young Mar 
 quis de la Fayette, proposed to him to form one of his 
 company of volunteers to America, the offer was instantly 
 accepted. 
 
 So the sixth star of the Leszinksky rose in the Western 
 horizon, brightening steadily from the moment the young 
 Count de Deux Pouts landed at Georgetown, his sole in 
 heritance his father's sword and his mother's wedding-ring 
 with the simple inscription, " Stanislaus a Ruchiel." 
 
 The 25th of April, 1777, the Marquis de la Fayette, the 
 Barons Kosciusko, Pulaski, and de Kalb, the Count de Deux 
 Fonts and six French gentlemen, having landed the day 
 before at Georgetown, entered the city of Charleston, South 
 Carolina. They were received in the most hospitable man 
 ner by the Whigs. In fact, their arrival could not have been 
 better timed had they especially desired to secure an enthu 
 siastic and cordial welcome. It was the most distressing 
 period in the history of the colonial struggle. The slender 
 resources of the revolutionists were beginning to give way. 
 There had been a rapid inflation in the prices of the actual 
 necessaries of life, whilst luxuries were already far beyond 
 the means of the less wealthy planters of the South, and the 
 small farmers of the North. 
 
 The first successes of the Continentals had led to over- 
 confidence; the reaction caused undue depression. Arnold 
 had retreated from Canada, which was now in the unmolested 
 possession of the British troops. Washington had given up 
 Long Island, after the capture of two of his generals and a 
 heavy proportion of his small force. The reverses in the 
 field had such an effect upon the undisciplined troops that 
 notwithstanding the consistent force of character of the corn- 
 mander-in-chief, he had half-despairingly exclaimed, " Are 
 these the men I am to defend America with? " The patient 
 endurance and resolute courage of " the gentleman from Vir 
 ginia " were sorely tried by the insubordination of the men 
 and the incompetence of the commissariat. 
 
 The Southern colonies had not yet felt the full force of the 
 war; but the fierce partisanship of the Tories taught them 
 what they might expect from domestic foes if once supported 
 by British regulars. The leading clansmen among the Scotch 
 Highlanders settled in North and South Carolina were now 
 loyal supporters of the government to which they had sur 
 rendered upon the field of Culloden. That tried adherent of 
 the Stuarts, Donald Macdonald of Keppoch, was now in
 
 316 APPENDIX. 
 
 Carolina, as faithful to the house of Hanover as he had been 
 iu Scotland to the Young Pretender. Even McLeod, for 
 getting the butcheries of the Duke of Cumberland, accepted 
 a command in the Household Troops. These Highland gen 
 tlemen were monarchists purs et simples ; single-thoughted and 
 devout in their beliefs, they were still Royalists, though the 
 " Young Chevalier " had died in exile, and the crown was the 
 inheritance of the family that had supplanted him. 
 
 Until 1777 the contest in the Carolinas had been altogether 
 one of opinion. The two leading clansmen, Macdouald and 
 McLeod, had been in constant communication with the Royal 
 ists of the Xorth and the generals of the regular army ; but 
 their absence from home had not as yet been signalized by 
 any interruption of neighborly intercourse between the two 
 factious. The most noted Whig gentlemen were with the 
 Continentals in Virginia, and the Carolinians at home had 
 come to regard the war more as an occasion for the expres 
 sion of sympathy, than as an actuality in which they had per 
 sonal interest. Still sympathy was intense, and partisanship 
 was growing daily more bitter, more separating in its social 
 effect. 
 
 In this state of affairs the landing of these foreign allies, 
 though few in number and officially unauthorized by the 
 French Government, was more significant than would first 
 appear at this distant date. It was to the downcast Whigs 
 the harbinger of a new epoch, the earnest of future help. 
 The immediate effect was electric: the patriots grew bolder 
 in act as well as expression. Men were ashamed not to be in 
 arms for a cause they had declared to be just and righteous, 
 when foreigners had come to offer help. 
 
 The progress of these gentlemen through the country was 
 an ovation. They lit the torches of war that Sumpter and 
 Marion kept alive. It was not alone the tried and untried 
 swords of Lafayette and his friends that were offered to the 
 Continental cause that summer in Philadelphia, but the faith 
 and hope of the South, that brightened at their approach, 
 and that burned steadily through all subsequent trial and 
 disaster. 
 
 But we have only to do with what befell the sixth hero in 
 our line. Stanislaus Leszinksky, Count de Deux Pouts, 
 served as a volunteer aide with Washington until after the 
 battle of Brandywine, when, in token of its appreciation of 
 his brilliant service and gallant behavior, Congress offered 
 him the command of a regiment. This he declined, prefer 
 ring to serve on the staff of Pulaski, the son of his father's 
 most devoted adherent in Poland and his own personal friend.
 
 THE LESZINKSKYS. 317 
 
 Five months afterward, when Pulaski resigned his indepen 
 dent command to join Washington at Valley Forge, he was 
 accompanied by Major Leszinksky. Acrain, when the fa 
 mous Pulaski Legion was formed, Leszinksky was one of its 
 officers. 
 
 From March of 1779 until the following autumn the Legion 
 was in constant, active service in the Carolinas; and there 
 grew an enthusiastic and lifelong friendship between the 
 young officer and the great partisan generals, Bumpier, Ma 
 rion, and Pickens. At the siege of Savannah, where Pulaski 
 was killed, Major Leszinksky lost an arm. Before he was 
 entirely recovered, he started North to join Von Steuben's di 
 vision in Virginia. In North Carolina he was captured by 
 Fanning, the brutal Tory leader, and condemned to be hung, 
 in retaliation for the recent execution of a noted Tory horse- 
 thief. The fortunate arrival in Fanning's camp of General 
 Macdonald saved Leszinksky. 
 
 Macdonald's good offices did not stop there. Finding the 
 young Pole suffering from his inflamed wound and distrusting 
 Fanning's good faith, he insisted on Major Leszinksky's 
 being paroled, and offered him the hospitality of his home in 
 Warrington, where his family then were, until he should be 
 perfectly recovered. The offer was thankfully accepted. 
 
 The Macdonald afterwards may have thought this soldierly 
 kindness ill repaid. For when Marion at length arranged Les 
 zinksky's exchange for a tardy British gallant he had picked 
 up in the swamp, Major Leszinksky's leave-taking was so 
 sudden that he did not say adieu to his host, although he car 
 ried away with him the Macdonald's young cousin, the fair 
 Janet, daughter of " Stern Angus .of the Isles," who was 
 on a visit to her cousins. 
 
 Janet Macdonald was married to her Polish Lochinvar in 
 Richmond. But from that instant her name was a forbidden 
 word in her father's house. The unforgiving old Highlander 
 carried his wrath so far that he quarrelled with General Mac 
 donald, who had introduced "sic a godless papisher to the 
 feckless fule wha had rin wi' him to the deil." 
 
 At the end of the war "Macdonald of the Isles" went 
 back to Scotland, where he had fallen heir to a large landed 
 estate, and Janet Leszinksky was never again counted even 
 as " a far-away Macdonald." But her fair face and gentle 
 manners had won her favor among her husband's friends and 
 comrades. During her husband's absence with his command, 
 she was always a welcome guest at Monticello. The young 
 pair were favorites of Mr. Jefferson and his daughter. 
 
 The republicanism of the great Democrat so infected the
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 Polish descendant of kings that after the surrender of York- 
 town we hear no more of the title of the Count de Deux 
 Fonts; but General Leszinksky, the retired Continental offi 
 cer, ended his life in Charlottesville, where he had been ever 
 since the close of the war, Professor of Modern Languages in 
 the University of Virginia. 
 
 Her father's curse had clung to poor Janet. Three sons 
 had been still-born ; for the life of the fourth she paid her 
 own. At her request the son she left bore the name of her 
 brother Donald. On the death of General Leszinksky, a few 
 years later, Mr. Jefferson wrote to " Macdonald of the Isles " 
 in his grandson's behalf. The letter was never answered, 
 and Mr. Jefferson was appointed the boy's guardian. 
 
 High-tempered and quarrelsome, come of a race of soldiers, 
 Donald Leszinksky was entered in the army at sixteen years 
 of age. He fought under Jackson in the War of 1812; was 
 dismissed the service for insubordination in 1814, and re-in 
 stated at the earnest entreaty of his father's old comrades. 
 He married the only daughter of Judge Mason of Albemarle, 
 in 1817, and was killed in a duel in 1818, two months before 
 the birth of his son Stanislaus.
 
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