hour,” and at its head was written that very
street, and that identical number!

Driving back the ugly suspicions which
found birth together with that strange "coin-
cidence—rendered all the more remarkable
when he took into consideration that blood-
soaked scrap of paper, and the broken names
it contained—Thomas Gayworthy questioned
Jason Dogood closely, for one thing asking
if he knew or had ever heard of the H. K.
Jones mentioned in the posters with which
Leadville was liberally supplied.

No; Dogood could give him no light on
that point; and after bidding the veteran
bury Corse Payson decently, at his expense,
the cost of all to be figured up and passed
over to Pop-eyed Moses, who would promptly
settle the bill, Ten-Strike Tom took his de-
parture with hasty steps.

There was nothing in his calm countenance
to betray the powerful excitement which he
really felt, but if any one had heedlessly got-
ten in the Sport’s way, just then, he would
have thought a mountain had risen up to fall
upon him!

Since the slain man was not H. K. Jones.
wasn’t it positive his slayer bore that name?
If not, why had those dying lips pronounced
that name so distinctly?

And if H. K. Jones, was be the same man
who had written Fanny Barbour her last tid-
ings concerning Anson Barbour, her father?
And—what did those incomplete names mean,
in that bloody bit of paper?

These were only a few of the busy thoughts
which troubled Gayworthy as he strode swift-
ly on to the livery-stable where his favorite
saddle-horse was put up, and bidding that
animal be prepared for the road with as little
delay as possible, the King-Pin Sport hurried
back to his hotel, with word for the horse to
be sent after him, in haste.

Swiftly changing his garments for others
more suitable for a long and rough ride, then
securing a compact package of food which
was hurriedly arranged for him by one of the
servants, Gayworthy gained the street where
his spirited steed was standing in charge of a
stable-boy.

Tossing the lad a bright dollar, Gayworthy
Sprung into the saddle and trotted out of

town, striking into the regular Denver trail.

at a more rapid pace, little suspecting who
was peering from ambush, muttering:

“Too late, ye bloodhound! Denver's 175
miles away, and if ye had the wings of an
eagle, still'w you’d be too late to save the girl!"

CHAPTER XIII.
NEWS on THE MISSING MINER.

ALLACE GILMORE slackened his brisk
pace as he drew near the boarding-house
conducted by \Vidow Payson, under whose
friendly roof Fanny Barbour had found tem-
porary shelter while endeavoring to solve the
mystery which enshrouded the fate of her
father, Anson Barbour.

He cast quick, searching looks up and
down the street before mounting those low,
broad steps leading to the front entrance,
and the glow of gaslight from the ground-
glass globe above that portal revealed a face
,far more anxious than hopeful.

Mr. Gilmore had lost all traces of hurry,
too, and his feet seemed to have suddenly
grown wondrously heavy during those last
few seconds; but his gloved hand went forth
to grasp the bell without hesitation, and
speech came premptly enough when that
summons was answered.

“ Miss Barbour is in?”

“Yes, sir. I just saw her go into the
back parlor, and—”

“Thanks!” and Gilmore deftly slipped a
solid coin into that by no means unwilling
palm as he added: “ Never mind; I am ex-
pected, and will introduce myself, thank

on!”

\Vithout stopping to receive the murmured
gratitude which the comer maid was willing
enough to return for that dour-6mg \Vallace
Gilmore passed along the hall until at the
door through which Fanny Barbour had
shown him once before.

His hand was lifting to rap in token of a
desire to enter, but that proved wholly un
necessary; the door swung open, and the
pale, yet still beautiful countenance of Miss
Barbour met his gaze.

“I heard— \Vill you step in, sir?” she
spoke, in tones which she tried in vain to
keep steady and even. “I felt that you
were coming, and when I heard your
voice—”

“You really recognized my voice, Miss
Fanny?” asked the young gentleman, flush-
ing a bit as his eyes caught a brighter
glow. “After hearing it only once, and
then—”

“ Oh, sir!” huskily exclaimed Fanny, hand
closing almost convulsively on his arm as
she gazed into his face, paying not the
slightest heed to his words the while.
“ What is it? You surely have heard—you
bring me news of my poor father?”

That anticipatory smile faded out to give
place to a frown, and almost rudely freeing
his arm from that trembling grasp, \Vallace
Gilmore turned away to a convenient stand,
on which he dropped his hat, the action
helping to cover his involuntary display of
anger.

Her sole thought was of that missing
parent, then, and his coming had naught to
do with that eager welcome?

This unwelcome fact received still further
confirmation when Fanny follOWed him,
speaking swiftly, and even less clearly than
at first:

“You have—bad news! Your face he-
trays that much! Oh, sir! tell me that-—
tell me all! I am strong. I can hear up
under it. Anything is better than this awful
suspense!”

That frown was gone, now, and as he
turned to meet that longing yet fearful gaze,
Wallace Gilmore was once more master of
himself, and his smile partially relieved those
fears even before his tongue spoke.

“ If I really bring tidings, Miss Fanny, ’tis
hardly bad news, for---”

Less able to bear up against hope than de-
spair, the maiden Swayed like one attacked
with vertigo, and \Vallace Gilmore promptly
improved his opportunity, lending her gentle
support to the nearest couch, where he sat
down by her side, holding her trembling
hands in his. speaking rapidly yet soothing-
ly the while.

“I honestly believe I may bid you hope,
Miss Fanny! I firmly feel that your father
is yet alive and will be heard from if not
actually seen, in a very short space of time.”

Fanny quickly rallied now that her worst
fears Were banished, and with a soft flush
creeping into her fair cheeks, making her
look even more lovely than before as she be-
gan to realize her situation, she gently freed
her hands and moved a bit away from the
gentleman seated beside her.

 

 

 

Wallace Gilmore was quick-witted enough,
and knew how to take a hint without waiting
for worse.

Quietly rising, he drew a chair nearer the
couch, speaking as he reseated himself, mak-
ing it all seem perfectly right and natural by
his adroitness.

“ I really ought to beg your pardon, Miss
Fanny, for so clumsily startling you, but I
had no such intention, I assure you. I only
wished to break the news—”

“ You have news, then 2’ Of my—of father,
sir?’

"' Unless the fellow who brought me word
is a rank impostor—yes,” gravely answered
the gentleman.

Fanny lost something of that glad antici-
pation from her face, but she was gathering
her shaken nerves, now, and bravely asked a
further explanation, with her eyes instead of
vorce.

Bowing to signify his comprehension of
that mute request, Wallace Gilmore seemed
arranging his own thoughts for a brief space,
then spoke with greater deliberation:

“ I will tell you all about it, Miss Fanny,
and then you will be better able to judge
just how much this information is worth.

“ \Vhen I had the pleasure of escorting
you home, last evening, after saving you
further annoyance from that trampish-look
ing rascal, I had just a bit too much food for
thought to pay any particular attention to
what might be going on around me. And
so—well, as it turned out, some one saw me
as I left this house, and dogged me clear to
my rooms!”

“You were not-no harm came to you.
sir?" almost timidly asked the maiden after
a brief pause, like one feeling a remark of
some sort is expected.

Gilmore gave a slight start, then smiled
faintly.

“ I really beg your pardon, Fan—Miss
Barbour! I was thinking of—of something
else. I didn’t—let that pass, please, and I’ll
tell you just what did happen. then.

“ Not last night, nor this morning, either,
but well along this afternoon. A fellow
came to me, and after beating around the
bush until my stock of patience was well-
nigh exhausted, let fall some hints as to your
father, Anson Barbour.” '

The anxious daughter made a quick, im-
patient gesture as she cried out in her eager-
ness to learn all:

“ Why did you not bring him here, to me?
Oh, tell me where I can find him, so I can
glean from his own lips—my poor, lost
father!”

Her fears gained the upper-hand once more,
for Wallace Gilmore was shaking his head,
decidedly, and she put the worst inter-
pretation upon that gesture.

“I surely would have brought the fellow
to see you, Miss Fanny, had I felt certain he
was just what he claimed to be. I was
afraid—I feared for you, lest something
prove wrong, you understand?”

“I wish I could understand, but—what
could harm me, sir?” faltered the maiden,
brushing a hand across her brows with a
troubled air. -

\Vallace Gilmore made a slight gesture,
then added:

“I may have been wrong; I’m trying to
hope I was wrong; but still I couldn’t help
doubtin the fellow—and I’ll tell you why:

“He et fall sundry hints as though he
knew something of importance concerning a
gentleman named Anson Barbour—”

“ My father!"

“Your father, yes. But when I tried to
pin him down to naked facts, and asked him
for more positive information, the fellow
squirmed out of it after a fashion which
made me half-suspect he was far more knave
than honest messenger!”

“Oh, if I might only see him, face to
face!” passionately exclaimed the daughter,
hands clasping and eyes all aglow. “He
would not refuse to tell me! I surely could
glean— May I not see him, sir?" ,

“'allacc Gilmore hesitated before making
answer. There was a slight frown wrink-
ling his brows, and a light as of uneasiness
in his gray eyes.

He seemed debating within himself just
how much he ought to tell, but then his mus-
tached lips parted, to pronounce:

“Please wait, Miss Fanny, until you have
heard me to a finish, then if you still desire
to see this fellow——”

“Surely, since he comes from my fa-
ther—”

“ Does be, though?” swiftly interjectcd
Gilmore. “That’s the doubt I’m worrying
over the most, don’t you see, Miss Fanny?
If he really knew anything of importance,
wouldn’t he be willing to tell me, especially
as I bade him set his own price for the in-
formation?”

“ You think, then?”

“Might it not be that he noticed some of
the advertisements you have inserted in the
papers, and from them conceived an idea
that he might bleed your purse?"

“ If so, why reque the reward you offered
him. sir?"

Wallace Gilmore gave an abrupt start at
this crisply-put query, and his visage bright-
ened up wonderfully as he ejaculated:

“ I never once thought of that! \Vhy
should be, for a fact? And—— Let me fin-
ish, please, Miss Fanny, then I’ll listen to
your opinion.

“ This fellow—BasCom Hooper, as he gave
his name told me he had been looking you
up for several days, but that he failed to
strike oil until last night,‘ when he recog-
nized you as we were just r Inching this
house.

“ Ile said he watched until I came forth,
then he dogged me home, only leaving after
he had learned my name and the fact that I
was a permanent guest at that hotel.

“ After making this explanation, he let
fall the hints I told you of, only to doggedly
decline giving me more light, let me offer
what I might.

“ When I accused him of being a fraud,
he retorted that it made very little difference
what my opinion of him might be, so long
as the young lady took him for what he was
worth. And then he swore right roundly
that he held proof sufficient to fully satisfy
Fanny Barbour he came direct from her long-
missing father; but that be positively de-
clined to speak more definitely to an outsider
like—myself!"

Wallace Gilmore flung out a hand as be
pronounced that last word, with the air of
one who has fairly rid himself of an incon-
venient burden, but Fanny hardly heeded
the man in her intenseintcrest in the message
he brought, imperfect though that surely
was.

“Oh, if you had only brought him here!
If I only might—why has he not come to me,
then, since he knew I lived here?"

Gilmore shook his head, gravely, then
slowly made reply:

 

“I’m afraid you’ll have to blame me for
that, Miss Fanny. In my fears lest you be
rudely annoyed, I took a precaution—well,
then, to boil it all down. I told the fellow to
keep away from here until I gained permis-
sion to introduce him, under penalty of be-
ing arrested as a blackmailer!"

Her face wore a troubled, regretful look,
but Fanny could not bring herself to say
just what she thought. At least, this gentle-
man had acted for what he thought her best
interests.

\Vallace Gilmore brightened up a bit as he
failed to receive the reproof he clearly antici-
pated, and rising from his seat, he spoke
again:

“ I can plainly see you think I acted un-
wisely in threatening this stranger, Miss
Barbour, but—”

“No, no, not unwisely from your point of
view, sir, but—is there no way by which I
can summon that stranger, sir? If I might
only see him face to face, surely I could win
the whole truth from his lips?”

“ You shall see him, Miss Fanny, if he
hasn’t jumped the town!"

CHAPTER XIV.
THE MISSING MINER’S MESSENGER.

\YALLACE GILMORE caught up his hat as
he spoke, but paused, as Fanny Barbour
gave a low exclamation, her face betraying
that new fear.

“ You do not think—surely you have not
frightened him away?”

“ Not unless he is actually the impostor I
took him to be,” quickly assured the man.
“If he has fled from Denver, that will be
ample proof as to his trickery. If he is
honest, be sure he will remain in town until
he has fully performed his mission.”

“And you—can you find him, Mr. Gil-
more?”

“If he is in town, yes,” decisively assert—
ed IVallace. “ I will not only find, but I’ll
fetch him here for you to question, Miss
Fanny. Until then, good—by!"

Like one who means to waste no unneces-
sary time in getting down to solid business,
Wallace Gilmore left the room and house,
taking no heed of if he noted the fact that
the maiden followed him to the front door,
lingering there until his briskly-moving
figure faded away amidst the shadows of
night.

Fanny was still standing on the threshold,
her thoughts so wholly occupied with this
fresh complication in the mystery which she
was hoping to solve, that she never heard a
sound of that stealthy approach, nor knew
that any eyes were upon her trim shape as it
stood outlined against the lighted hallway,
until a low, husky voice addressed her,
with:

“ Isn’t this Miss Fanny Barbour, ma’am?"

The maiden started and shrunk back a
pace, but before she could do more or say
aught, the roughly-clad form of a man came
forward into the gas—light, one hand making
a deprecatory gesture while its irate deferen-
tially touched the brim of a Soft felt hat.

“ I beg your pardon, ma’am, if I startled

you by speaking so abruptly; but I was-

afraid you’d draw back, and I’d lose my
chance of speaking at all. So---you really
are Miss Fanny Barbour?"

“ I am Miss Barbour. And you are- -"

“I reckon he told you, ma’am,” with
shoulders shrugging and thumb twitching
toward the corner where her eyes had lost
sight of Wallace Gilmore. “I’m Bascom
Hooper, who-n”

Fanny gave a low, glad cry that cut short
his explanation, and the next instant her
hands were closing upon his nearest arm,
urging him up those steps to the entrance of
the boarding-house.

“Oh, sir, I’m so glad! I began to fear
that--- My father? Tell me of my poor,
dear father! You have seen him? He is
alive—--and well?"

Bascom Hooper flashed a swift glance
around, up and down that quiet street, as
though he feared observation or interrup-
tion, then stepped hastily forward, taking
the maiden with him.

“Beg your pardon, miss,” he said. as the
heavy door swung to behind them, his hat
coming off to reveal the frosty hair covering
a not unshapely head. “ Reckon you’ll
think I‘m pretty brash, but the fact is---
did that young gent tell you he swore to
turn me over to the cops if I came here to
see you, without his permission?"

“That was a mistake, for which Mr. Gil-
more is sorry, now," quickly explained the
maiden, leading the way through ball to
the back parlor, where she knew they stood
little danger of untimely interruption, at
that hour. “ Now, sir, pray relieve my sus-
pense! My father?”

lascom Hooper cast a slow glance of ap—
proval around the room, giving a curt nod
of his head as though fully content with his
present surroundings, apparently without
hearing that anxious question.

Almost involuntarily Fanny Barbour took
note of his outer man, even then feeling a
vague wonder that Wallace Gilmore should
have so promptly set down this person as an
impostor.

Something past the middle age, Bascom
IIoOper was firmly if not very heavily built,
his frame giving evidence of no little mus-
cular power, in combination with great
activity.

Both hair and full beard were now iron-
gray, but they had once been of inky black-
ness, to match his dark eyes, still full of fire
and animation, even while in comparative
repose, as now.

IIis garb was cheap, but fairly well fitting
and perfectly clean. He seemed more like a
laboring man in comfortable circumstances
than the tramp or “traveling fraud” to
which Wallace Gilmore had likened him.

Those piercing eyes suddenly came back
to the maiden, catching her making this
visual study, and Bascom Hooper gave a
grim smile and subdued chuckle as Fanny
drew back a bit, in slight confusion.

“Don’t mention it, ma’am, for I was giv-
ing you the chance on purpose, just to part-
way balance the impression that young gent
may have left on your mind.”

“ l never---he didn’t---if you would please
tell me of father, sir?” falteringly spoke up
the anxious daughter.

“ That’s just what I came here for,
ma’am, and to make the send-off as smooth
as may be---Anson Barbour is playing in
mighty hard luck, just now, but he was
never more alive, nor ever in sounder health,
than he is this blessed minute!”

Fanny gave a gasping breath of intense
relief, sinking back upon the couch with
face very pale, with one hand clasped above
her wildly-throbbing heart, but with the
awful dread those first words had given birth
to, banished from her mind.

 

 

“ \Vith so much by way of a starter, miss,
I’ll talk straight as a stretched string, letting
the boss do the smoothing over when he and
you meet up with each other: and that’ll be
pretty much when you feel like it, Miss
Fanny.”

“The boss? Do yen mean—my father,
sir?”

“He’s my boss, yes,” with a short nod of
assent. “He’s playing in such hard luck,
right now, that he couldn’t well come here
after you, miss, or he'd be making all this
chinqnusic instead of me: see?”

“I don’t— Father sent you, sir? How
did he know—"

“ Through the newspapers, miss. The
advertisements you put in, asking informa-
tion concerning Anson Barbour, told him
right where to look for you; leastways, that
you Were here in Denver. And so—well,
he sent me here to hunt you out and fetch
you to him, quick as the law allows!”

“ To join him—where at, sir?”

Bascom Hooper shook his head, positively.

“As to that, ma'am, I’m not saying, just
now nor just here, but the distance to your
father isn’t so mighty great but what you
might cross it on horseback, or in a rig, for
the matter 0’ that."

This queer evasion in a measure awakened
doubts in Fanny’s breast, and her changing
countenance showed as much, even before
she spoke again:

“ You say my father sent you, because he
was unable to come in person, Mr. Hooper?”
“ \Vell, you can let it go at that, ma’am.”

“ Yet you say father was—is well?”

That iron-gray head‘ nodded assent once
more.

“Then, why didn’t father write to me?
\Vhy not Send me a line in his own hand,
over his own signature, that I might be sure
vou—”

An abrupt gesture cut her vehement speech
short, and Bascom Hooper made crisp reply

'to her growing doubts.

“I’ve ‘got nothing at all to do with that,
ma’am. I reckon the boss will explain it
all when you two come together once more.
If not——well, if that meeting fails to take
place, I'm not the one in fault!”

The stranger settled a bit further in his
chair, but then, as though struck by a sud-
den memory. or, possibly, warned by the
growing doubts with which yonder fair face

'as clouded, he leaned forward with one
hand slipping into his breast, to emerge
again holding a small parcel done up in
blank paper.

His roughened fingers quickly unwrapped
the paper as he added:

“ Did you ever happen to see anything like
this, ma’am ?”

He extended a hand, in the palm of which
gleamed a'golden locket and coiled chain,
such as are frequently worn about the throat
by woman or child; and as Fanny Barbour
leaned eagerly forward, a slight motion of
that hand turned the locket over to exhibit
another side, curiously and elaborately enam~
eled in colors.

The maiden gave a low, gasping cry as
this met her eyes, and she almost snatched
the 'jewelry from his palm, turning toward
the nearest gas-jet, the more accuratelyt
observe that work of art. ‘

“Have I ever—look!” and her thumb
pressed a hidden spring which caused the
locket to fly open on its hinges, letting the
light fall upon a pair of admirably-painted
miniatures, one of a woman the other of a
little girl. “My mother!" she added, with
a choking sob pressing her lips to the por-
trait, then glancing less keenly at the other
likeness.

Bascom Hooper smiled grimly as he saw
this, but his lips remained closed, like one
fairly well satisfied with the way matters
are working, and wise enough to let well
alone.

Fanny Barbour lifted her free hand to her
own throat, drawing from her bosom by the
chain attached, another locket which proved
to be an exact counterpart of the one pro-
duced by this messenger from the long-
missing miner, Anson Barbour.

Touching a like spring, Fanny leaned
nearer to that messenger, showing him the
two portraits her locket contained; one of
the same child held in a leaf of the first
locket, its opposite miniature that of a man
under middle age, bearded heavily, yet hear-
ing an almost startling resemblance to that
little girl.

“See!” she said, agitatedly, first showing
the enameled back of the locket, then expos—
ing the inside. “ Both alike! My picture,
taken at the same time; in your locket with
mother, in mine with father!”

Bascom Hooper glanced at the child’s faCe,
but lingered much longer over that of the
father. Then he spoke in softer tones:

“That's the boss, plain enough, ma’am,
though he. don't look quite so mighty spruced
up, now, nor quite so young, for the matter
0‘ that! Still, I’d know it for the boss if I
was to meet it in the dark!"

“And he — my father gave you this
locket?”

“The boss did just that, ma'am!” positive-
ly asserted the messenger, head nodding in
concert with tongue. "lle give me that,
saying for me to Show it only if I couldn‘t
get you to listen to reason without."

“ Not show it:I I don’t-— “'hat does all
this puzzle mean, sir?” exclaimed the bewil—
dered maiden.

“That‘s more’n I‘m at liberty to explain,
ma’am,” gravely declared Hooper. his heavy
brows Contracting a. bit. “ It’ll all he made
clear enough, I reckon, when you conu- to
the boss—for you‘ll come, ma’um?"

“If I only knew—and yet—the locket!
Mamma’s picture!"

That frown became little less than a scowl,
now, but before those downcast eyes were
lifted to his face again, Buscoin Hooper was
forcing a smile which seemed genuine, even
if it was counterfeit.

“You see, Miss Barbour, it‘s just this
way: The boss gave me that locket at the
last, and told me to show it to you, if I just
had to. If I did show it, he said, I was to
say like this:

“ ‘If she’s still my child—if she’s a true
daughter to the man whose portrait shows in
this locket—tell Fanny to make all possible
haste in coming to Inc—her only living par-
ent!’

“That is what the boss said, Miss Bar—
bour, word for word. I couldn‘t have for-
gotten ary word, because I kept on saying
of ’em over until they were like. mighty
black print on my brain. Now—what is
it, ma‘ain?”

“If I only knew! \Nhy didn‘t he come,
in person? You said—surely you told me
that—he is well? He is not—he has met
with no serious injury, sir?"

Fanny fairly held her breath, but Bascom
Hooper hesitated to speak.

(To be conttailed—commenced in N0. 594.)

 

Lo Not a. Poor Indian.

SINCE the Cherokees sold their lands in the
Indian Territory for nearly $10,000,000 some
long prevalent notions as to the poverty and de-
pendence of the aborigines have been dispelled.
If the Indian has been mistreated and plundered
in the past, he is now benefiting by the very
conditions under which he formerly suffered.
The prodigious increase in the country’s popula-
tion has made the great reserved tracts in the
West so desirable that, incredible as it may
seem, the Indians that occupy them can get a
fair price for them.

The result is that now, at the close of our
“century of dishonor,” the Indian tribes of
the United States are the richest people in
the world, with almost fabulous sums to
their credit in the United States Treasury,
with millions of acres of improved lands to
which they have clean title, with vast in-
vestments in bonds and other securities
which continually add to their accumula-
tions.

The Cherokees have held for them in trust by
the Government $11,237,000. They number
26,257 souls, so that their individual wealth in
cash is $424. The tribe owns, besides, more than
5,000.000 acres of land, about half of which is
arable. The four other civilized tribes in the
Indian Territory—the Choctaws, Chickasaws,
Greeks and Seminoles—have, with the Chero-
kees, in bank and in the United States Treasury,
the aggregate sum of 819,000,000. They own
nearly 20,000,000 acres of land. rich in mineral
deposits and worth $100 000 000: they produce
between $5,000,000 and $0,000,000 of farm crops
every year, and they possess nearly 1,000,000
head of live stock.

This is not inclusive of their real property in
houses, churches, shops and factories. The five
tribes together number some 70,000 persons, and
their wealth per capita is about $1,800. Yet
those Indians, prosperous as they are, cannot
hold up their heads beside some of their fortu-
nate race. There is a little remnant of the
Delawares, ninety-five in number, living in
Oklahoma. to whom the G0vernment Owes the
sum of $874186, which is $9,202 for every soul
of them, and they own land which increases
their possessions, individually, to $11,000. The
Osages are only little less well to do.

The Pnyallups in Washington are the richest
of all Indians in land, some of it being worth
$10,000 an acre, owing to its desirable position,
while more than a score of men in the tribe
have fortunes ranging from $30,000 to $200,000
each. The Coenr d’Alenes are accounted even
more wealthy, and the tribe, which numbers
less than 500 persons, is in receipt of revenues
that would support the state of a grand duchy.
Even the Indians of New York are by no
means as poor as they appear.

A Washington correspondent estimates that
they are worth over $500 apiece, their worth
being almost in land, which might be sold for a
good round sum. The richest of' civilized peo-
ples is the English, with $1,236 per capita. An
equal distribution of property in France would
give each person $1,102. In the United States
our wealth is estimated at $1,020 for. each in-
dividual.

With many a. poor tribe of Indians worth
from $5,000 to $10,000 per capita, man, woman
and child, it is possible that the invader and
oppressor will, sooner or later, have to go to
the Indian and borrow of him at usurious rates
the money to pay taxes on land which his fore-
fathers stole from the unhappy aborigines.

BUFFALO BILL

A UTHOR AND HERO

 

 

Beadle’s Dime Library.

By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham.

794 Buffalo Bill’s Winnin Hand.
78? Buffalo Bill‘s Dead S 0t.
781 Buffalo Bill’s Brand.
777 Buffalo Bill’s Spy-Shadower
773 Butfals Bill’s Pan; or, Cody to the Rescue
769 Buffalo Bill’s Sweepstake.
765 Buffalo Bill’s Dozen.
761 Buffalo Bill’s Mascot.
757 Buffalo Bill’s Double.
750 Buffalo Bill’s Big Four
743 Buffalo Bill's Flush Band.
739 Buffalo Bill’s Blind.
735 Buffalo Bill and His Merry Men.
Buffalo Bill’s Beagles.
727 Buffalo Bill’s Body Guard.
722 Buffalo Bill on the War—Path.
716 Buffalo B-ll‘s Scout Shadowers.
710 Buffalo Bill Baffled.
697 Buffalo Bill‘s Buckskin Brotherhood.
691 Buffalo Bill‘s Blind Trail.
667 Buffalo Bill's Swoop; or, the King of the Mines.
649 Buffalo Bill’s Chief of Cowboys; or,Buck Taylor.
644 Buffalo Bill’s Bonanza.
‘ ‘ Buffalo Bill’s Grip
Buffalo Bill’s Pledge.
189 Wild Bill’s Gold Trail.
110 Wild Bill’s Trump Card.
168 Wild Bill, the Pistol Dead Shot.

By Buffalo Bill.

800 Wild Bill, the Dead-Center Shot; or, Rio Grande
Ralph. the Cowboy Chief.
639 The Gold King.
599 The Dead-Shot Nine.
414 Red Renard, the Indian Detective.
401 The One-Arm Pard.
397 The Wizard Brothers: or, White Beaver’s Trail.
394 White Beaver, the, Exile of the Platte.
319 Wild Bill, the Whirlwind of the “Fest.
304 Texas Jack. the Prair Rattler.
243 The Pilgrim Sharp.
83 Gold Bullet Sport.
52 Death-Trailer. the Chief of Scouts.

By Leon Lewis, Ned Bnutline, etc.

773 Buffalo Bill‘s Ban; or. Cody to the Rescue.
6812 Buffalo Bill’s Secret Service Trail.

6'29 Buffalo Bill’s Daring 8016.

517 Buffalo Bill‘s First- Frail.

158 Buffalo Bill. Chief of Scouts.

117 Buffalo Bill‘s Strange I’ard.

92 Buffalo Bill, the Buckskin King.

The above Dunc LIBRARIES are for sale by all news-
dcalers, or sent, postpaid, on receipt of twelve eents
each.

BEADLE 8; ADAMS, Publishers,

925‘ WILLIAM ST., N. .Y'.

that...“‘.ii";w..l.

Beadle’s Dime Librarv.

8 The Headless Horseman; A Strange Story of
Texas.
12 The Death—Shot; or,Tra.cked to Death.
55 The Scalp Hunters. A Romance of the Plains.
66 The Specter Barque. A Tale of the Pacific.
74 The Captain of the Rifles; or, The Queen of the
Lakes.
200 The Ride Rangers; or. Adventures in Mexico.
208 The White Chief. A Romanceof Northern Mex-

100.
213 The War Trail; or, The Hunt of the Wild Horse.
218 The Wild Huntress or, The Squatter’s Ven-
geance.
228 The Maroon. A Tale of Voodoo and Obeah.
234 The Hunter‘s Feast.
207 The White Squaw.
Bnannu‘s DIME LIBRARY is for sale by all News-
dealers, ten cents per copy, or sent by mail on re-
ceipt of twelve cents each.

In Beadle’s Half—Dime Library.

4 The Wild Horse Hunters.
7 Blue Dick; or, The Yellow Chief’s Vengeance.
87 The Land Pirates; or, The League of Devil’s
Island.
137 The Helpless Hand; or, Backwoods Retribution
239 The Gold-seeker Guide; or, The Lost Mountain,

BEADLn's HALF—DIME LIBRARY is for sale by all
Newsdealers, five cents per copy, or sent by mail
on receipt of six cents each.

BEADLE AND ADAMS. Publishers.
98 William 815., N. Y.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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