[I iln. ml .‘ i I David Adams. “UNDER ONE SHAWL.” BY JOHNNIE DABB. —— You may talk of your matinees, parties or races, You may 513g as you please of the “ afternoon crawl, . But therl'e's nothing so pleasant at all of these p aces As Phoebe and I walking under one shawl. The stars shining bright in the clear sky above us, The_moon just beginning to light up the way. The Wind blowmg sweet with the perfume of clover Comes over the meadows of newly~mown hay. We wander along by the banks of the river, . And hear in the woods the poor whippowil’s call, But I feel in my heart that the world cannot sever My “ girlie ” and I—walking under one shawl. We whisper so softly the birds cannot hear us. I look in the eyes of my darling so fair, And wish I could keep her forever and ever, And envy the breezes that play in her hair. Those btright happy moments ’tis sweet to remem- or M “ Girlie‘s ” sweet blushes I often recall, As told her my love that clear night in September When I:valinng by moonlight, both under one s aw . JACK RABBIT, The Prairie Sport: OR, THE WOLF-CHILDREN OF THE LLANO ESTAOADO. BY JOSEPH E. BADGER, JR., AUTHOR OF “ OLD BULL’S-EYE,” “YELLOW- STONE JACK,” “PACIFIC PETE,” ETC. CHAPTER IV. THE MAD CHIEF. THE war—whoop of the Comanches, the de~ . fiant shouts of the buffalo~hunters, the shrieks and cries of the terrified women and children, were mingled with the sharp twanging of bow- strings, the ringing crack of two rifles—those in the hands of Don Raymon and his son Pablo. The Comanches come boldly charging down upon the train, confident of. an easy victory. But in an instant there came a sudden and unexpected change. Loud and clear, prolonged and ringing, high above the mad tumult, came a series of yells from the vicinity of the rock hills; a war- whoop, but witha different cadence from that of the Comanches. As though there was magic in the sound, the savages clutched their snorting ponies, the drawn bows relaxed, all eyes were instantly turned toward the new actors in this desert drama. ' Riding rapidly toward them, having just debouched from behind a rocky spur, was a party of horsemen arrayed in all the savage panoply of war, gaudy with feathers, plumes and paint, brandishing their long lances, whooping and yelling like demons possessed, as they swayed on their shaggy, fiery ponies, at intervals uttering the wild and peculiar charging cry of the Pawnees. At their head rode a peculiar figure. He alone of all that band seemed to scorn the aid of tawdry ornaments. A fold of mottled skin around his loins; that was all. His hair hung to his waist, white as the undrifted snow, mingling with a beard of patriarchal length. His face, his body and limbs were all painted a deep black—the color of death. The horse he bestrode was a noble one; coal black, fiery, yet under complete control, for it was ridden without aid of blanket, bridle or halter, guided by the pressure of its master’s knees, the sway- i ig of his supple body. As this strange figure forged to the front a low cry ran through the ranks of the Co- manches, a sound almost of terror. A name was mentioned; that of one whose fame was widespread and terrible. “ The MAD CHIEF—the MAD CHIEF!” The past need not be glanced at here. Enough for the present that this man was an outcast—his hand against all men, even as all hands were raised against him, outside of his own band of daring riders. But especially did he seem to be the foe of all Comanches. His hand had filled their lodges time and again with weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth. More than one tried and trusty war— rior had secretly left his lodge and people, se- cretly vowing never to return until he had rid the earth of this terrible scourge. Of them all, not one had returned. Their scalps black- ened in the lodge-smoke of the Mad Chief. All this the Comanches knew, and only for a moment did they hesitate. Intensc hatred quickly crushed out the temporary sensation of fear, and uttering their defiant war-cry, they charged boldly down upon the yelling Pawnees. Their numbers were nearly equal; if any— thing the Comanches were a few braves the stronger. And with brandished lances, With arrows ready notched to the taut bowstrings, their eyes glittering, their paint-bedaubed faces all aglow with hatred the most intense, the desert rivals rushed on, eager to meet breast to breast in the mad dance of death. In amaze the bufit‘alo—hunters lowered their. weapons and awaited the result of this unexJ pected interruption. How would it end? For which side should their wishes be given? Ah! that was hard to decide. They, too, had recognized that dread being, the Mad Chief, and even at this critical mo— ment 3. thousand wild tales of his horrible cruelty, his relentless ferocity, flashed across their minds. Not only toward his wild rivals of the desert. There were awesome tales told of the presence of many a silken-haired scalp Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1875, by BEADLE AND ADAMS, V01. VI. 5!“ Ilihgegcdlafihs, }Pu3msuaas. new YORK, JANUARY 29,1876. \. Headed by that terrible black and white figure,they_urged the in his lodge—«of white captives kept for horri- ble torture. All this and more was remem- bered during the brief interval of that head- long charge, and the mad, devilish combat that followed. . 'Yet the buffalo-hunters were powerless. They could not flee. They could only await the result, holding themselves in readiness to do battle with the victor. Straight ahead rode the Comanches. Few are the savage warriors who can withstand an equal number of the children of the “Queen of the Desert.” Yet the Pawnees did not flinch. Headed by that terrible black and white figure, they urged their ponies on at full speed. Nearer and nearer, until scarce two yards of space of open road divided them, un- til the arrows began to darken the air, until the spellbound spectators held their breath in awful suspense as they awaited the shock. But then, like magic, the Pawnees divide, veering sharply to the left and right, swooping around the astonished Comanches as though intent only upon reaching the wagon—train. All save one—the Mad Chief. Straight ahead he rode, brandishing his ponderous, knotted and scalp-bedecked club, uttering a snarling cry like that of a famished wild beast. Straight on, single-handed, he plunged into the midst of the Comanches, whirling his war— rior club around as though a reed—yet a reed that crushed through bone and muscle like magic. A fitting pair were they—the madman and his mighty horse. Screaming shrilly, his eyes aglow, his gleaming teeth now bloodstained, striking viciously with its iron-like hoofs, trampling the dead and dying into the thirsty sands, overthrowing the weaker ponies as a cougar among coyotes—thus they burst through the Comanches, leaving in their trail a bloody waste of man and beast. Thus he joined his braves, who had swept around and now rode between the Comanches and the wagon-train. With one hand to his lips, the wild rider uttered a shrill yell—a signal. And then the cunningly-conceived ruse was revealed. Yelling exultantly, fully fifty mounted braves rode out from behind the rock-point. The trap was sprung. The Comanches were surrounded. Death seemed inevitable. Their retreat was barred by the blood-stained chief and his braves. There only remained for them to die. ' In that moment the brutal renegade showed how he had gained his high position among the proud desert warriors. Pealing forth the shrill war-cry of his adopted people, he bade ' them follow him. Since die they must, let it be above the bodies of their hated foes—let them gladden the eyes of their god by appear- ing before him with their hands steeped in blood. . A single, simultaneous cry answered him. Then, as one man, the devoted braves charged down upon the ready Pawnees. A cloud of hissing arrows met them. A number of braves fell; the dying gave forth their last breath in silence; the wounded painfully raised them- selves to fire one more shot, to deal one more blow at their destroyers. The rivals met. A dust-cloud rose and filled the air, almost shutting out the terrific duel, setting over the combatants like a veil. Through it all the Mad Chief raged, his massive club cleaving a path of bloodshed and death before him until his arm dripped with gore to the very shoulder. A score weapons were aimed at his life, but now, as often be- fore, he seemed to bear a charmed life. The blows fell harmless, were shattered or turned aside by a sweep of his war-club, or else sever— ed only the empty air as the well-trained charger leaped aside. But swift and deadly were his replies. Man and horse went down in death before his resistless might. A scant half—dozen of the Comanches cut their way through the melee, and fled, their usually stout hearts turned to ice by the fear of that terrible enemy. Past the wagon—train, unnoticed, almost, by the buffalo-hunters who were breathlessly watching the death-struggle beyond. Away over the sandy waste, forget- ting the perils of that waterless desert, think— ing only of fleeing from the dread avenger. Nor, all absorbed in the death-struggle, did any eyes note the progress of two other riders. These, unlike the fleeing Comanches, were thundering down toward the scene of blood, not away from it. The end was near. One by one the Co— manches had fallen. The renegade, whose stout arm laid more than one of his foemen low in the dust, was wounded and faint with loss of ,blood. Despair had seized upon his heart. Now that death stared him in the face, he found that life was very sweet. With a last desperate stroke for freedom, he struck one opposing Pawnee from his pony, dextrously avoided a charge of the Mad Chief, and taking advantage of a rift in the struggling mass, urged his mustang on with a hoarse yell, using his blood-dripping knife as a spur. But it was not written that he should es- cape. His fate was recorded. The avenger was upon his heels. With a hoarse, inarticulate cry, a white- bearded, gigantic figure sped after him, mounted upon a mighty yellow steed. The renegade heard that cry, and glanced back with a shudder of fear. His blood-stained, deeply-tanned face turned to a sickly yellow as he saw his pursuer. Though many a long year had passed since their last meeting, he recognized his deadliest enemy. And more—— he knew that he himself was known. Groaning with terror, he urged his jaded, wounded mustang on. But all in vain. The fiat had gone forth. The yellow horse gained rapidly. He knew that he must be overtaken, and rendered desperate, he turned and threat- ened the white-haired giant with his knife. Laughing hoarsely, the avenger swept aside the weapon, and clutched the wretch by the throat, lifting him from the saddle and holding him, quivering, at arm’s length. CHAPTER V. A STARTLING DISCOVERY. THE Mad Chief uttered a fierce snarling cry as the renegade eluded him so adroitly, and as soon as he could clear himself from the press, he dashed on after the fugitive. But another was before him. The big bor— derer overtodk, disarmed and captured the prize, and was holding him, quivering, at arm’s length when the Pawnee leader rode up alongside, whirling aloft the huge war-club, intent only upon sacrificing the captive. But quick as were his actions, those of an- other were even more rapid. Darting forward at a sharp angle, a. bright blood bay passed between the two men, and a small, brown band dextrously clutched the already descend- ing club, wresting it from the Mad Chief’s hand with a power that made the gore-drip- ping arm fall nerveless to its owner’s side. “Mind your eye, old man Tony!” came a clear, warning cry. “The serpents have fair- ir ponies on at full speed. EU in the ofl‘lce of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. TERMS IN ADVANCE{ v .._ . ly tasted blood, and would as soon strike friend as foe.” Drawing the senseless wretch across his sad- dlebow, holding him there with one heavy hand, the big borderer quickly faced the baf- fled chief, revolver in hand. There was a truly startling resemblance be- tween the two men so strangely confronted. Of the same size and build, with the same fea— tures, the same masses of white hair; there was only the difference in color, in one’s being dressed, the other naked. Let the conditions be changed, let Tony Chew assume the garb of the Mad Chief, and even his bosom friend, Jack Rabbit, would have been puzzled to choose between them. The Mad Chief drew a knife. His braves, watching the different attitudes of the big borderer, flocked to the aid of their idolized leader, with loud yells of angry vengeance. The eyes of big Tony glowed like coals from beneath the heavily contracted brows. He could die, if need be, but while a breath of life remained he would defend his captive. Not for love. No—far from it. For years he had sought this man; for nearly a quar— ter of a century he had known no other object in life than to meet this man face to face. There was a heavy account between them. And now, when the hour for settlement came, this rabble dared to interpose. Jack Rabbit realized this peril, and, true to the man who had been all in all to him since childhood, he wheeled back and took up his position beside Tony, just as the Pawnees ranged around them, their weapons uplifted, their eyes fixed upon the face of their leader, only awaiting his signal. It was given; but the braves quietly dropped their threatening attitude, though keeping the cordon close around the two pale—faces. “Who are you that dare come between a chief and his enemy?”‘haughtily demanded the Pawnee leader. “We are men who, like you, hate the Co- manches,” quickly replied Jack Rabbit, speak- ing like the Mad Chief, in Spanish. “We came here, we fought for you and against the cowardly Comanches. Look! at the girdle of my brother—it hangs thick with the scalps of his enemies. Look again. The hair is all long—the scalps of Comanches alone; there are none of the Pawnee out there.” “It is so—the words of the young white chief sound well in the ears of his red broth- er. White Hair is a big brave, and the Paw— nees are glad to call him their friend and brother. But look—he holds a snake before him, a snake that crept along in the grass and bit at the bare heels of men. His arm is red with blood. I hear the voices of my dead children calling for vengeance. The voices must be obeyed. The blood must be dried up. The white snake is mine. Let White hair give him up, and all will be bright between us, as it should with brethren.” In a cold, stony silence the big borderer listened to this speech. Then, when the Mad Chief paused, he turned to Jack Rabbit and spoke rapidly with his fingers. “Our ears have drank the words of a mighty chief,” said the young plainsman, in a clear, measured tone. “ They are words of wisdom, but the cloud is too thick for him to see both sides of the matter. Listen to the words put in my month by the fingers of the White Hair. “Many moons ago—the lifetime of a young brave—there were two men who had been friends and brothers almost from the hour When their eyes first looked on the sun. They had hunted, slept together, fought for each a. = x a copy, four months, ti. 0!: 00. One copy, one year, . . . 3.00. 7 Two copies, one year, . . 5.00. ‘ O 0 other, and shed blood in each other’s cause. But the day came when a woman, fair and lovely as the moonbeams, crossed their trail. Her tongue was soft and musical as the whis- pering wind toying with the mountain cedars, but it planted black thoughts and bitter hatred in the heart of one of the brothers. He saw that her love was not for him, and he swore revenge. He had it. Like a coward snake, he, with hired braves, stole upon the happy lover in the night. What did he do? Look!” At these words Tony Chew flung back his long hair. His ears had been cropped close to his head. He opened his mouth. The tongue had been out or torn out, almost by its roots I The Pawnees interchanged quick glances, and drew nearer. Not all of them could un— derstand the liquid Spanish, but they could not mistake the meaning of those signs. “You see,” continued Jack Rabbit, his voice growing cold and metallic, “this was the re- venge of the false brother; but not all. He believed that he had killed his enemy, and fled, fearing the revenge of man. But with- him he carried the moon-eyed woman. The wronged man recovered. He learned that his false brother had joined the snakes, and be- come a Comanche. From that day he took the trail of blood. Scores of Comanches gave up their lives, when they met him. But nev- er once did he meet the snake who had bitten his heel—never until now! “ Look! yonder are the brothers—the true and the false, White Hair and the Comanche snake. Do you wonder that he refuses to give. up his prey? . “And now—see! I am White Hair’s broth- er. We are only two—you are many; but this captive belongs to us, and if you want him, you must first kill us.” With ready cocked revolvers, the strangely- matched comrades faced the Pawnee war- party. “No—we will not fight you. The captive belongs by right to White Hair. Only—I ask it as a, fav<2r~let not the White snake ‘live to boast of his‘ having shed the blood of men,” quickly responded the Pawnee leader. The big borderer laughed aloud—a horrible, indescribable sound. As the savages observed the look of intense, relentless hatred that over- spread his face and shone forth from his eyes, they were satisfied that their utmost wishes would be carried out. Little fear of his letting the renegade escape. This matter settled, the Mad Chief rode at the head of his braves up to the wagon-train, paying little attention to the half-defiant at- titude of the bufifalohunters, who had, until now, watched the tragic scene with eyes that never for an instant wandered, forgetting all else in the one Wild, thrilling death-duel. The Mad Chief, now as quiet, cool and com- posed as the youngest of his braves, quickly divined that Don Raymon was the leader of the train, and was soon talking with him upon a friendly footing, questioning the cibolero as to his goods, his desires for a trade, and the like. Meanwhile Tony Chew and Jack Rabbit had drawn aside, the big borderer having securely bound his captive. The comrades were con- versing in low, guarded tones on one side, by the dumb alphabet on the other. A few words will explain what had occurred, prior to their sudden appearance at the train. In the headlong charge, in the confused hand- to—hand struggle that followed the leap across the barranca, the reckless daring and superior weapons of the pale-faces quickly ensured their victory. Demoralized by the rapid fire from the revolvers, terror—stricken by the fall of so many of their comrades, the few survivors broke and fled. But they were not to escape so easily. Living only for vengeance, the big borderer was not satisfied with his long draught of blood. Urging on his big horse, he followed in hot pursuit. Though not entirely sharing his comrade’s :feelings, J a'ck Rabbit was in no wise backward, and half an hour later but two of the Comanches were living. Whether these would have escaped, may be doubted, their ponies were so utterly exhaust— ed, had not the sound of distant fire-arms caught the ears of the plainsmen. The direc— tion told them all. Beyond a doubt the wa— gon-train, in whose fate one at least of the party had such a powerful interest, had been attacked bthhe savages. :A single interchange of glances was all; then they headed toward the distant rock-hills, urging on their jaded steeds, little recking of the danger into which they might be running. The comrades parted, Tony Chew leading his captive, cowed and trembling, tied to his horse’s tail. Jack Rabbit watched him for a few moments, until he neared the rocky point, then turned as though to enter the half-corral formed by the wagons, where a piercing shriek startled him. His first idea was that another tragedy was at hand—that the first blow had been dealt of a frightful massacre. But the Pawnees were drawn up at alittle distance from the carretas, as though awaiting orders. Pressing forward, he soon realized what had occurred. A rather fleshy, yet still handsome woman, was clinging round the neck of Don Raymon, shrieking aloud for her children. He heard the cibolero call the woman wife. The Mad Chief stood by, cold and unmoved. The women and children began to flock forth from the carts, and to join their cries with those of the bereaved mother. Don Raymon seemed quite distracted. He called aloud the names of Pablo and Rosina; but echo alone answered. With a scornful grunt, the Mad Chief strode LA r—ivir ' .w . ‘\