# 1,5;,pW.Wf$WW¢W v.9» ,5, I 1’“. »» m .. .mmm ... at. "". .. a... .. ... one side the separation was voluntary, it seemed to both a destiny inexorable. , The parting was soon over, but its agony remained long after they had left the place; Helen Armstrong going home to a father she might find dead ; Charles Clancy to seek vengeance for a mother, who, too sure- ly, had been murdered. “I‘- CHAPTER LXXIV. A PURSUIT. In the courtyard of the San Saba Mission lay nine corpses, all told. The white men, who rushed out of the dining-room, did not stay to count them. They werebut the dead bodies of slaves; and their fellow-slaves, who had succeeded in concealing themselves, now cautiously emerging from their places of concealment, alone stood over them. Their masters were too intensely engross- ed about those of nearer and dearer rela- tionship to give them more than a passing . glance. They were in fear of finding, not far off, other dead bodies with skins that were white. As soon as released from their imprison— ment they ran hither and thither like maniacs escaped from a madhouse. Most of Colonel Armstrong’s guests made direct for the rancheria. The young surgeon, Wharton, stayed by his best, sharing his anguished apprehensions. The hunters, Hawkins and Cris Tucker, both being bach- elors, and having no care beyond, also re- mained. . Dupre was almost frenzied with the agony of the hour. The old soldier felt it quite as keenly, but acted with more cool- ness. As he called for his daughters, in turn pronouncing their names, the remnant of household servants came clustering around him. Helen’s maid was among them, the mu- latto girl, Julia. She had evaded the savages by shutting herself up in her young mis- tress’s sleeping-chamber. “ Where are they, J ule—-—my daughters?” was the earnest interrogatory. The girl could only answer it by saying that some time after they had left the din- ner-table she had seen them going out into the garden. All rushed thither, Colonel Armstrong leading the search, Dupre and Wharton close following. . The names “Helen l” “Jessie!” rung through the inclosure, penetrating every part. There was no answer, save echoes from the old walls, and other echoes further olf— the reverberations of their voices in the for- est outside. The garden was soon gone through— searched everywhere. Now not with any hope that the sisters were alive, but a fear of finding their dead bodies. They were not found there, nor any- where; and the conjecture was, they were not dead. Though little less dismal was the conclusion come to—that they had been carried off. “ Oh, Heaven! to think they were cap~ tives, and who were their captors! The red-skinned, red-handed savages that had left such sanguinary traces behind them! Up to this time Colonel Armstrong had preserved a certain equanimity~the stoical strength due to age and stern experience. It now gave way, as the worst came before him. The father’s heart had been too severely tested; it was on the point of yielding to despair. The young planter was equally stricken, showing it more. It gave them but slight relief when their fellow-colonists came crowding from the ' rancheria, with the report that the Indians had not been there. The people dwelling in the adobe huts had seen nothing of the savages, nor heard aught of what had oc— curred, till awakened out of their sleep by the return of those who had been in the dining-room. There was no need for much questioning now. All seemed clear—too clear. A party of Indians—no doubt that seen by Hawkins and Tucker—had beset the build- ing, their aim being plunder. The half- breed, it seemed, was at the bottom of it, and had concocted the whole scheme. Knowing of Dupre’s treasure, he had put himself in communication with the savages, alflfd obtained their assistance in carrying it o . Comin up through the garden, they had accidenta ly encountered the young girls and taken them away, perhaps as a measure of precaution. Or it might be—horrid thought !—that the villainous sang melee de- signed including them in his scheme of spo- liation! ; » This was the summing up, hastily done, as the colonists, coming in, became acquaint- ed with what had transpired. : Pursuit, of course! But how? And in what direction? It required coolness and consideration. The time for hurried action had gone by. It could do no good, but the reverse. By this the spoilers would be well advanced on their way to some plates of safety; too far off to be overtaken by any direct pursuit. The astuteness of which they had given proof, in grasping the spoil, left no likeli- hood of their acting inconsiderater after- ward. They had not gone off with a knowl- edge that fifty men would be sure to come after them—reach carrying a rifle and skilled in the use of it—without taking precautions to cover their retreat. And who could tell the direction they had taken? It was night, and thpir trail could not be lifted before daylight.’ It might be, in places where the moonbeams fell upon open ground. But not beneath the shadows of. that forest stretching away behind the Missmn walls. Through this it was evident they had retreated with their spoils. , Bupren with some of the younger and more exmtable members of the community, clamored for immediate pursuit. Thedy spoke without reflecting on what way it was to be made. Even Colonel Armstrong was inclined to their setting out at once. The bereaved father, half-distracted was no longer himself. ’ Fortunately, there was one man among them who, still preserving coolness, knewr how to act. It was the hunter Hawkins. He said: “ It’s no use, now, our goin’ after them in a hurry. They’ve had the start too far. We wouldn’t have the slightest chance of overtaking them. Not till they get to their roostin’—place, wherever that be. I reckon, from what me and Cris Tucker saw, we’ll be able to find it. But we must approach them a different way than ridin’ straight on 'em. There were only a score in triepartv that’s been here; but that ain’t likely to biz all 0’ them. There may be ten times as many waitin’ for them somewhere else. If ye’ll take my advice, gentlemen, before startin ye’ll fit out in a proper fashion, pre. pared or any thing that mayturn up. Then {all have a chance to get what ye go after. et Cris Tucker and me, and some 0’ the others as are ready, take a scout down to the crossing-place, and see if they’re gone back over the river. Most like they have; but, they mayn’t. If not you’d only lose time by all goin’ there, besides not bein’ pre- pared to keep on. few of us can ride quicker, an’ be back here by the time the rest 0’ you are ready.” _ Colonel Armstrong yielded to this coun- sel. Despite his anguished impatience, the old soldier could perceive that a hasty, reck- less riding after the savages might not only end in disappointment, but still further dis- aster. It was a dread thought he had to endure -—the reflection that his daughters, dear as his own life, were at that moment strug- gling in the arms of—-— Oh, Heaven! hinder him from thinking of it! Dupre, still agitated, was calling for im- mediate pursuit. He would have insisted upon it, but for being swayed by the more prudent counsel of him he now looked upon as his father. To this he yielded, and the deliberations were brought to a close by an assent to the proposal of Hawkins. By this time half 'a score of the colonists, who had gone back to the rancheria, came up on their horses, armed and accoutered for the scout. Tucker was among them, now on horse- back, holding another horse in hand. It was the steed of his hunter comrade, who, laying hold of the rein and throwing his thigh over the saddle, led off in stern, earn- egt silence; the others in like silence riding a ter. CHAPTER LXXV. PURSUED. A MAN on horseback making his way through a wood. It is a tract of virgin for- est, in which ax of settler has never sounded. And rarely traversed by ridden horse; still more rarely by pedestrian. He now passing through it rides along no road, no troddcn path, no trace of any kind. For all, he goes as rapidly as the thick- standing tree-trunks and the tangles of un- derwood will allow. . At the same time he shows caution, and on his face there is fear. It is not of any thing before, but evidently something be— hind. This can be told by theway he sits his saddle—at intervals slewing himself round, and glancing apprehensively back. After of each of these twistings he again faces forward, and urges the animal on. The moonbeams, here and there slanting down through breaks in the forest foliage, give light enough to guide him along his * course, though he does not appear to be sure of it. The only thing certain is that he has a fear of something behind, and is fleeing from it. Now and then he makes stop, holds his horse in check, and listens. It is for the purpose of ascertaining whether he still heads in the same direction, a thing not easily done in passing through a pathless forest. Under the circumstances how can his ears avail him? They would not always, though now they do. He hears a sound, which he knows to be that of water in mo- tion—the sough of a flowing river. He does not stay to listen to its mono- tone. Soon as hearing it, and noting the side from which heard, he urges on his horse in the opposite direction. It is evi- dent he does not intend proceeding to the river’s bank. He, has parted from it, and has no desire to go back again. After a series of these short pauses and shoots forward, he at length arrives on the timber’s edge. There he sees before him an expanse of open plain. The moon, gleam- ing down upon it, shows it clothed with tall grass, which, stirred by the night breeze, and silvered by the moonbeams, re- sembles the surfaco of a tropic sea covered with phosphorescent medusae. Swarms of fireflies, playing among the stalks, and flit- ting hither and thither, make the resem- blance more complete. The hastening horseman thinks not of these, nor even looks at them. The expression upon his face tells that he is not in a mood for con- templating nature. His eyes are fixed upon a dark line, seen beyond the moonlit plain. It looks like the border of another tract of timber similar to that passed through. In reality it is the continuous facade of a cliff,. shutting in the opposite side of the valley. He knows it is this, and intends making for it. He only stays to scrutinize its profile, and take bearings for a point with which he has a previous acquaintance. This apparently determined, he sets his horse once more in motion, and rides off over the plain; not now in zigzags, or slowly, as when passing through the timber, but in a straight, tail-on-end gallop, fast as his animal can go. ' An odd sort of horseman, looking at him in the moonlight! He would appear equally singular, seen by the light of da'. He wears the costume of a Comanche ndian; and his hands, wrists, arms—so far as seen —have the correct red-skin color. Not so his face, which is white; under the moon showing pallid and dingy, like that of a chimney-sweep carelessly cleansed. There is no one to smile at these incon- gruities; no one to take note of them; and the fleeing horseman gallops on over the plain without interruption. Once under the shadow of the cliff he pulls up, and, seated in his saddle, casts a glance along its face. A spot of triangular shape, with apex inverted,darker than the adjacent wall, shows a break in the escarp- ment. It is the emboucliure of a ravine, whose bottom is the bed of an intermittent stream, running only when there is rain. It is now dry, and its channel gives a prac- ticable path to a plain above, the surface of which is on the same level with the crest of the cliff, the latter being but its termina- tion. Toward the dark embrasure the horse— man bcads, as if he had been there before. In like fearless manner he enters within its grim jaws, and rides on up the slope, under the somber shadow of rugged rocks overhanging right and left. It costs him a climb of some twenty min- utes, after which he again emerges into clear moonlight upon the upper plain. Here he once more makes halt, and looks back. His view is over a river-bottom, With a continuous line of timber seen afar off, and nearer some isolated groves, with open expanses betwoen. It is the valley of the San Saba. After gazing at it for a. while, he dismounts; as he does so, mutter. ing: “ There can be no good in my going any further. I may as well stay here till the rest come up. They can’t be much longer now, unless they’ve had a fight to detain them. That I don’t think at all likely,~af— ter what the half-blood told us. In any case some of them must soon come this way. D—nl To think of Sime Woodley here! And after me, sure, for the killing of Charles Clancy! Harkness, too, with him. He’s met my old jailer somewhere on the way, and brought him back to help in tracking me. What the deyil can it. all mean? Are the Fates combining against me? “There appeared others along with Woodley. One of them so like Clancy himself, I could have sworn it was he, if I hadn’t been sure of having settled him. Dead certain of that. If ever gun-bullet gave a death shot, mine did. The last breath was out of his body before I left him. “Sure he’s dead. But sure Sime Wood- ley isn’t. Curse this ugly-headed back- woodsman! He appears to have been created for the especial purpose of pursu- ing me. “And she in my power, to let her so slackly escape! I may never have such a chance again. Now safe, she’ll go home, not only to curse, but mock me! Before letting go, I should have driven my knife into her. Hach! Why did I not do it? Why not? Hach l” A glance of chagrin accompanies the ex- clamation; dark and demoniac, such as Sa- tan may have given when expelled fro Paradise. ~ A moment’s pause, then the soliloquy is continued. “No good my grinning about it now. Regrets won’t get her back. Well; there may be another chance, in spite of Sime VVoodley and all of them. If I live there shall be, though it cost half my life to bring it about.” Another pause, spent in apparent reflec- tion. Again the soliloquy. “No; I won’t go further till the boys come up. ’Tisn’t likely Sime ‘Woodley will follow me on here. He and his party ap— peared to be afoot. I saw no horses. They might have been near, for all that. But they can’t tell which wayI took through the timber, and can’t track me till after day- light, anyhow. Before then Borlasse is pretty certain to be along. Just possible he may come across Woodley and his lot. They’re sure to make for the Mission, and sure to take the road up the other side. There’s a good chance of their being met at the crossing, unless that begging fellow has let all out. Maybe they’ve killed him on the spot. I didn’t hear the end of it, and hope they have. “ It won’t do for me to stand conspicuous- ly here. YVoodley might know of this pass, and take it into his head to come straight on—thinking I’d make for it. If so, and he should get here first, that would be a fix for me. I must strike for cover. \Vhere’s the best place ?” ' He glances around. His eye falls upon a dark mass about a quarter of a mile off, and some two hundred yards out from the Cliff’s edge. It is a grove of black-jack oak ; the trees, though small, growing close, branched to the roots, and umbrageous. . “ The very place! Under cover there I can see all that comes up, and will know our fellows through this clear moonlight. It’ll do.”- Springing back into his saddle, he again sets the horse in motion, and rides on to- ward the grove. On reaching it, he dismounts, leads his animal in among the trees, and makes it fast by tying the bridle—rein to a branch. There is a tin canteen hanging from the horn of the saddle, capable of holding half a gallon. It is still half-full, not of water, but whisky. The other half he has drunk during the day; the larger portion of it while carrying off the captives. He then drank to give him courage and add to the ecstasy of his triumph. He now carries the canteen to his lips in the hope of tempering his chagrin. He drinks also because of late addicted to it. . Standing in shadow on the outer edge of the grove, he watches for the coming of his confederates. He keeps his eyes upon the point where the gorge goes down to the river valley. They could ascend it without his seeing them, but not pass on over the upper plain. Horse or man crossing there would show conspicuously. They must soon, else he will not see them. His sight is rapidly becoming ob- scured, and the equilibrium of his body en- dangered. Chagrin, impatience, the in— creasing passion for drink, prompt him to carry the canteen too often to his lips, and hold it there too long. As the vessel grows lighter, so does his head. This only at first. Afterward the head becomes heavy; while his limbs refuse longer to support the weight of his body. With an indistinct perception ofbeing unable to keep his feet, and in be- lief he might better in a horizontal attitude, he staggers back to where he has tied his horse, reels, and falls heavily to the earth. In ten seconds after he is asleep. If J em Borlasse had come along and seen him just then, he would have said: “ Phil Quantreii’s drunk!" (To be continued-commemed in No. 97.) The Red oyazeppa: THE MADMAN OF THE PLAINS. A STRANGE STORY OF THE THAI FRONTIER! [THE RIGHT OF Danna-inner: mm.) a BY ALBERT W. AIKEN, AUTHOR or “ OVERLAND KIT," “ wou- nnuon,“ “ AGE or cranes," “ wrrcnns or NEW roux,“ n’rc. CHAPTER XLIV. THE INDIAN CAMP. “ THE headwaters of the Concho, where the Twin Mountains look down upon the prairie.” The village of the White Mustang nestled by the stream. , As the strange being, who called himself the Madman of the Plains, had shrewdly guessed, the Indians had journeyed home- ward, laden with their spoil, without cau~ tion. ' And why should they exercise restraint? . That the Mexi- ; What had they to fear? Comanche to his village amid the moun~ tains, and there snatch from his teeth the spoil his arm had won ? So the savages had journeyed on home- ward without-care. Their losses in the raid had been triflingl compared to the booty that they had gaine in prisoners, bceves, horses and scalps, thanks to the skill with which their leader, the White Mustang, had planned ‘the sur- prises which gave them the hamenda of Bandera and the town of Dhanis. Gleefully then they pursued their home- ward path—without care, without caution. Bandera and his daughter had been treat- ed with great respect. Both guessed the reason, and trembled when they thought of it. At length the Indian village was reached. As the Madman had predicted, band after band had separated from the main body on the homeward march, and only the warriors of the White Mustang’s village, some three hundred in number, remained when they struck the Concho and commenced to fol- low thc course of the stream upward. The village of the Comanche chief was situated in a little valley shut in by low hills, spurs of the Twin Mountains. The Concho ran through the valley. It was a lonely spot; the timbercd hills breaking the force of the wind in every di— rection. The prairie without abounded in game, while the limpid stream, which mur- mured over golden sands through the val- ley, was filled with fish. Little wonder that the Comanche chief was proud of his home. . Bandera and his daughter were placed in two wigwams, close to the lodge of the White Mustang, and an. ample guard sta- tioned around it. ‘ An hour after the chief arrived in the valley a second war-party came in, consist- ing of some twenty warriors, and they bore as prisoners Luis Bandera and Silver Spear, whom they had captured on the prairie just below Dhanis. ‘ The half-brew. was the woman who had accosted Luis in the square. Then came a third troop, the last——ten warriors only—~with a single prisoner, Lope, the Panther. The adventurer had remained on the roof of the hacienda, and from it witnessed the Indian attack. At the risk of his neck he had drOpped from the roof to the ground at the rear of the house, and plunged into the river. Emerging from the stream on the other side, he had followed the Sego down, and thus had fallen into the hands of the In- dians coming up. Lope was cenveyed away at once and placed in awigwam, but the girl and Luis first endured the inspection of all the tribe ——the color of the girl being a puzzle to them. At last they, too, were placed in a wig- wam—quite a large one, and filled with buffalo—skins. A guard was set before the door, and then the Indians withdrew. But the guard was not the only watch upon the prisoners, for one of the chiefs laid himself down at the back of the wig- wam, and, placing his ear close to the skin which formed the wall of the lodge, listened to the conversation of those within. The two had had but little chance for con- versation since their meeting in Dhanis. “ A gloomy prospect before us,” said young Bandera, slowly. “ Yes,” replied the girl, sadly. “ Answer me one question,” said the youth, suddenly; “Why did you tell me in cans would attempt to rescue the prisoner v and retake the herd of fat beeves, and the ; drove of horses which they carried with them, the spoils of victory? As little chance of that as of the sun falling from the sky. there, on the frontier, would they get the thousand men to follow the Dhanis that we must part forever?” “ Because it was the truth." “But the reason—do you no longer love me ‘3” “Because your father would never con- sent that you should wed me, the poor half— breed,” the girl replied. “ My father cares nothing for me. He has disowned me. l’Vlien you disappeared so suddenly, I resolved to find you if you were in Mexico. I sought my father’s aid, and, in consideration of a sum of golden ounces, agreed never to let him see my face again. MD r father knows nothing of our love.” ‘ “ There, you are wrong; he knows every thing,” the girl said, quickly. “ What makes you think so ‘2” Luis asked, in surprise. “ Because he attempted my life. You shall know all now—the reason of my suds den_ disappearance. One night three men burst into my little cottage- I was on my knees, telling my beads. They Seized, bound and gagged me, bore me from the house to a lonely spot by the river; there they were joined by a fourth man,evidently the leader. He was masked and wrapped in a cloak, but in him I recognized your father. The three men then bound me to the back of a wild steed, loosed their hold upon him, and sent me forth to death. It was a terrible ride. I shudder even now when I think of it.” “ And you think that my father doomed you 910 this terrible death because I loved on .” ‘ ‘ “ What other reason could he have?” “ I can tell you that,” said a voice, coming from beneath one of the buffalo- robes, and the Panther stuck his head out from under the cover. “ Strange things happen in this world, and it is one of those strange chances that I should happen to be placed in the same Wigwam with you two, and overhear your conversation, as I am probably the only man in the world who can explain this mystery to you. But, first, a question,” he addressed the girl. “ “’ere you not brought up by Father Philip, the Mission Priest ‘3” . “ Yes, senor,” the girl answered, in sur— prise. . “Do you remember any thing of your childhood ‘3" ' “A little." “A great house—a sudden shock~a man carrying you on a milk—white steed across the prairie ‘3" asked the adventurer, eagerly. “ Yes-I~l remember something like that, but it seems like a dream,” the girl answered, slowly. I “It is reality!” the Panther cried. am the man who rode with you on the milk-white horse. Young sir, you are the son of Ponce de Bandera; this girl is the daughter of your uncle, Juan De Bandcra, whom your father murdered that he might seize his estate. She is your cousin, and the rightful heir to all the broad acres of Ban- dera. “Is it possible i" cried Luis, in intense surprise. “It is possible,” the Panther replied. firmly. “ In ,Dhanis I have the papers to back my words. In Dliauisl Iforgot—«the savages have given it to the flames. It is of little consequence now, though,” he add- ed, with a grimace. "Ponce de Bandera bound you on the back of the wild horse and sent you forth to perish in the desert because on were the daughter of the man he killed: because you were the heir that might some day rise up in his path and dis- pute his claim to the estates of Bandera. While on lived, he feared. This is the se- cret. f I had known ten days ago what I know now, this hour I would have been in the city of Mexico, jingling a thousand golden ounces together, instead of being here a miserable captive in the hands of the Comanche.” And the adventurer groaned in disgust. “ I can hardly believe this wondrous story,” Luis said, in astonishment. “ It makes very little difference now," the Panther said; “ Bandera is a home for the owl and the coyote, and we, helpless here." “We may be able to buy our ransom." said the young man. hopefully. “Buy! With what ‘3” asked the adven— turer. “ The herds of Bandera are already in the hands of the Indians.” “ Alas, I fear that we are lost !" the young Mexican exclaimed. “ Let us hope," the girl said; “let us not give way to despair until the last hour comes.” An Indian entered the lodge; it was the chief, Ahvhuala. He assisted the captives to rise and bade them follow him. An escort of braves conducted the three to the end of the valley. There they found horses waiting. The arms of the captives were unbound- g “ Mount and ride." said the chief. “ The White Mustang gives you your freedom," and he placed weapons in their hands. Amazed, the three mounted and set forth. Soon they were on the prairie, speeding rap- idly southward. CHAPTER XLV. TEE nirvELA'riox. GIRALDA sat alone on her couch of skins. Her thoughts were sad ones. Torn ruthless- ly from all she loved, and a terrible fate be— fore her, she doubted not that she 11 ad been spared to become the wife of some Coman- che chief. Suddenly the doorway was darkened,and a tall figure resplendent in war—paint, and in a gayly decorated garb of deeroskiu, stood before her. “ White maiden, look up,” said the chief, in excellent Spanish. “ See White Mus- tang, great chief of the Comanche nation.” The tones of the chieftain’s voice sounded strangely familiar to the ears’ of the girl, yet she had never seen the haughty Indian be- fore. “Will the white singing-bird come and sing in the Wigwam of the great chief ?" he asked, softly. Giralda shuddered ; her thought was true; she had been reserved for a dreadful fate. “ Why does the white bird shrink from the chief? Does she fear the Comanche warrior ?” “ The white bird can not mate with the red chief,” she answered, slowly. “ Why not ?” “ Because she loves another.” “ The white hunter with the long rifle— the horse-tamer? Wahl the White Mus— tang will take his scalp, and it shall dry in his Wigwam.” Giralda looked at the chief for a moment, a glint of the old-time fire in her eyes, but she made no answer. “ The white bird is angry with the chief— angry because he loves her and hates the horse warrior,” the keen-witted savage said, slowly. “Does the white bird guess why the Comanche chief led his warriors to Dhanis ?” “ The chief came once before," the girl said, a covert gleam of malico in her dark e '83. 3“ And went back—quick—too," replied the Indian. “ The Comanche does not for- get. Too few warriors then—plenty now. Will white bird sing in the lodge of the chief 1?” he asked again. “ I can not.” - “ White bird love her father much?” the chief said, slowly. Giralda trembled at the question; she guessed the. ordeal that was coming. “ Yes,” she answered. “ Does she wish to see him burned at the stake, the Comanche warriors dancing around him and laughing at his despairing cries for mercy ‘3” Giralda covered her face with her hands in despair. “The Mexican girl will see her father die unless she consents to become the squaw of the chief,” the Comanche said, firmly. “ If jwhite bird consents, the old chief shall go rec.” Giralda was in agony, but her woman's wit came to her aid. “ Will not the chief give the white bird time to think? She is a helpless prisoner in his hands ; she can not escape.” “ How long?” asked the Indian, laconi- cally. “ Give me all the time that you can," pleaded the girl. “ To-mcrrow at this time the chief will come for his answer. Let the white bird make up her mind. Either she comes and sings in the lodge of the White Mustang, or else the old chief dies at the stake. The thite Mustang hasspoken ; he never breaks his word.” And with this assurance. grave- ly delivered, the Indian left the Wigwam. Giralch's heart was full of agony. She had gained the respite of a day, but what chance of escape would that day bring She was many miles from the Mexican frontier, right in the heart of the Indian country.~ A. large and well-armed forcc alone could hope to cope with the savage fee in their strong- hold. Then to her mind came the thought of her lover-«the daring Mustanger. “ Oh, if he only knew my peril l” she mu:- mured in despair. There is a subtle glamour in the passion we call love which distracts the senses. The presence of Gilbert, the Mustanger, alone, near the Indians‘ camp. would have given more hope to Giralda’s heart than the knowledge of a regiment of Mexican sol~ diers marching to give the Indians battle. How her heart would havevrejoiced had she known that, even as the indian chief uttered his threat to force her to become his, from the wooded hights of the western bill which overlooked the valley, her lover, with anxious eyes, gazed down upon the In dian village, and vainly tried to guess which \Vlg‘Wfil‘fl held the prisoner so dear to his heart. It was night. Bandera in darkness sat upon his skin couch and gloomily meditated upon the events that had transpired so rapidly. The abrupt entrance of an Indian chief I ‘ ll.