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Price,
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No. 57

 

 

The Silent Hunter;

The Scowl Hall Mystery.
BY PERC‘E-FST. JOHN.

CHAPTER I.
assumes m wrmno'r.

AN old owl that had been blinki and staring,
(1 its sleepy watch, in the deep ho low of an an-
cient ch in company with a. rare brood of hom-
ed young—little gobhns of the woods—was beginning
to wake up and prepare for its night’s adventures
the more readil that for some time its peace ha
been disturbed y the noise of certain daring birds
of day, which, as evening drew in, came near and
began to settle down on some of the topmost boughs,
there to roost for the night. A jay, a twrtte
blue-bird, and several noisy cawing crows, h
waked the owl, which peered out with its great gog-
gle eyes, as if to be quite sure that it was night
and a goodl time for owls to wander.

The beec stood on the very e of a small
open s ace, almost circular and 9. out twenty
yards length and breadth, beneath the leafy
and m cent arches of a vi 'n forest, not
in m as from the Scioto and 'o rivers. In
the ays of which we s eak there were tangled
thickets and spreading rees, and Indian tracks,
and the lairs of panthers and wolves, where now
are cities; there were Indian ams where the
plow now passe' and there were battles and
skirmishes where fair ladies now ramble on foot,
or on Na ansett steeds, in perfect safety.

And yet t was to a certain extent inhabited,
though the 10 -huts, plantations and block-houses
were situa at a considerable distance from
each other.

The night had hardly set in, the owl had scarce-
ly taken its de arture, the wind had but ust
ceased its lulla g to the wearied universe, w en
out burst upon t e blue heavens the bright eiful-
gages of the moon and of her tiny twinkling

dmaids the stars{ shedding over the whole
scene a beauty an a radiance, a devotional
calm and a loveliness, whichare beheld nowhere
but in those choice bowers where nature sets us
her tem le amid flowers and (green leaves, an
where t e crumbling bark an pith of es fall
unheeded to decay uplon the richly fert e soil,
enriched in turn y t e falling leaves, the aged
tree, the too-ripe acorn, and the triangular beech-
nut.

The open glade, which some sudden whirl of
wind had swept of its leaves, was now by the
light of the moon made clearly visible to the eye
and a little bubbling sprin was distinguished
bursting up in its midst, w ich, falling away to
the south, was lost beneath the leaves that had
been piled up like a mimic snow-drift in the cor-
her.

This was the Blue Spring, the source of which,
a little further on, was a small stream, flowing
beneath a long and matted arch of overhanging
trees all the way through the forest, until it fe -
to the Scioto and was utterly lost, or so commin-

led with its more huge associate as no longer to
fie distin ished.

And w at is this that comes with stealthy ste
and s10w, gliding like the host of the old we -
ers in the Wilderness, be d the ancient beech-

tree?

It is a human shvape, or something that has as-
sumed one of the lder and more terrible forms
of humanity, whic without a sound, without
noise of footfall, wit out step as it were, comes
floating over the surface of the earth, peering
cautiously through the trees, hearkening for the
humming—one would think—of the low-worm,
if human ear could detect such soun , and fear-
ing an enemy behind every tree, a hostile savage
under every rojecting, leafy bough. At last, as
if satisfied t at there was no danger, the mys-
terious stranger advanced into the open glade,
kee ing, however, still within the deep shadows
of t 6 trees.

Had there been an eye to see and take in all the
wondrous eifect 0 that scene, it would indeed
have been struck by the place and the man in no
common way.

 

It was a tall Indian, in his war-paint; and as the
moon fell for an instant on his face, it might have
been seen that he was far more handsome than those
red and untutored savages usually are. It was a
stern face, as far as such a thing can be in one with
certainly not more than twenty summers on his
head; but mouth, eyes, nose, chm, all combined to
make him as comely and majestic a s cimen of
God’s greatest handiwork as is often ound, even
amid the luxuriously brought u , those who temper
refinement and luxury with rdy exercise and
abundant nourishment.

His face, too, a peered under all the painful disad-
vantages of that ndian painti which the ingenuity
of the savage aborigines had evised, to denote not
only a man’s peculiar tribe, but his mood of mind,
his temporary occupation, and the very ob ect with
which he prowled through the shadows of e forest,
or lurked in the deep and romantic glens of the
woody hills.

The warrior who stood in the open glade of the
forest wore moccasins le gings that reached from
ankle to waist, from t e as down all bun with
frin e, while over his shoulders was cast a k d of
bla et-cloak very richly ornamented. Various

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trifles hung from a collar over his chest, which was
strangely tattooed with a hand clutchinga knife.
while his head, which was covered with hair, con-
trary to the usual custom, was adorned by several

eagle-plumes.

is side hung a glittering tomahawk, a long
knife whose hideous uses are well known, a shot-
pouch and wder-horn' and in his left hand was a
rifle, on wh ch he leaned, as he slowly and deliber-
ately took in every feature of the scene. His ierc-
ing lack 0 es seemed to dart into every noo and
cranny of t e lace; his ears were erect, and he evi-
dently listen with all the usual keenness of the
child of the woodland hill and plain. At last he
seemed satisfied, for he leaned carelessly on his gun
and uttered a few faint imitations of the owl’s well-
known hoot.

Another form glided through the trees along the
trail by which the Indian had come, and in two min-
utes stood by his side.

The new arrival was much shorter than the In
dian, and his b, step and manner marked him at
once forawhi man. I-Ie wore high boots instead of
moccasins, leg ngs, a handsome unting shirt, and

 

a cap of beam while his weapon was a rifle. On

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his back he carried a large knap-
suck, a novel thing to see strap-
ped to the shoulders of one who
appeared on the war-path. He
stopped carelessly forward until he
stood nt‘lll‘ the Indian.

” A lovely spot, Uustaloga, and
one I could sit down and sketch
with all my heart,” said the white
man, gazing with earnest look at
the small, open clearing, and the
bright heavens that lay an azure
sea above the tree-tops.

“ My brother loves much to see
the forest tree on his book,” re-
plied the Indian, in a softer voice
than in general belonged to his
race; “and his fingers make the
)aper look like the oak and the

eech. Custalo a is a wai’rior;
but when the he chet is buried, he
looks at his white brother and
smiles. But it is night, and the
wolf prowls in the woods; my
brother has a scalp, and he would
not like to walk home to the

block-house and the White Roses _

with a bare head.”

“ You‘ ve llll uncomfortable way
of talking, red-skin,” said the oth-
er, passing his hand uneasily over
his head, as if to be sure his nat-
ural covering was all right; “still
if youliad not spoken of Amy and
Jane, I think I should have squat-
ted down and dashed off that clear-
ing. It’s mighty tempting, Eagle-
Eye."

“ M y brother is a great medicine,

and he can make a piece of paper
look like a leaf, or a bounding deer,
or a girl’s soft face—but he is very
wise, and he will look round in the
Woods and watch, when Red-Bird
and a hundred Shawnee warriors
are thirsting for his blood.”

The young man, whose sunbumt

skin and wild garb did not conceal
a leasant handsome face, clutch~
ed) his rifle and looked warily
around.

“I’m not a man to be easily
skeered, Custa, and that you know.
I have hunted, and painted beast,
bird, and flower, up and down,
within reach of these vagabonds
more than once; but the mention
of Red-Bird and a hundred of his
painted Shawnee imps, is enough
to make a man creep about in his
shoes as if he were earful of rais-
ing the ghosts of the forest-trees.
Isay, then, to cover, in the name
of heaven. I would not vs a
chip-muck’s tall for bot our
scalps, if we were circumvented
by that noted rancal."

“ My brother speaks like a brave.
When his enemies come like the
falling leaves of the force which
no man can count, he wil hide,
that in the morning he may watch
for the time when he may fight
like a man. Come.”

And the Indian left the open
glade, turned the oak, after oblit-
erating even the faintest sign of a
trail, and entering a thick, short
bush that seemed to grow out of
the trunk of a huge tree that had
fallen three years before, stooped
down and concealed himself he-
neath the dense, overhanging foli-
age, in all these acts being faith~
fully followed by his white com-

anion. They did not speak, they

ardly appeared to breathe; and
the whole scene sunk into the same
calm which had so long prevailed.

Custaloga was a young Indian,
who, having on account of his
youth been much taken notice of
by a white family under peculiar
circumstances, had repaid their
kindness by a single-hearted devo-
tion which was the admiration of
the educated and thoughtful, but
the scorn of those rude bein rs who
had learned under terrib e and
ghastly teaching to treat the In-
dian as a wild beast. Custaloga
had been taken prisoner when
twelve years old, having been found
skulking round a house durin r.a
hot contest with the red-men. ls
captors had kept him for some time
a. regular prisoner, until mutual
confidence being gained, he was
allowed to roam about on parole;
and had, with a readiness which
was singular ins Wyandot, acced-
ed to the wishes of his friends to
star at certain time with them. His
bargain had been that he was to
hunt, shoot, and roam the forest
It will, on condition of his return-

‘ ing to be nsefiil to his iri'en

 

ing at stated periods to Cane-Brake
House, as the residence and block-
house of Judge William Moss was
called.

Strange to sa again, Custaloga,
called by the ndians Eagle-Eye
had become as obedient as a chil
in the hands of Amy and Jane
Moss, the lovely daughters of the
settler—at all events, in many
thin s which were strange and new
to his race. He had actually been
so far persuaded as to learn to read
and write.

The people of the district mar-
veled much, and told the judge he
was nursing a serpent that would
bite him sorely; but the jud e had
nothing to say when his good . ary,

who 'had since died, or his dear

Amy and Jane, willed a thing.

Still he was often uneasy, and -

became truly alarmed when Cus-
taloga disappeared for a whole
year, and was believed to have en-
tirely departed. He shook his head
and hoged no harm would come
of it, w ile Amy and Jane sorely

rieved for their lost et—for one
they had be un to loo upon with
warm frien ship, and whom they
earnestly believed they had pluck-
ed whole from the fire.

One evening they were sitting at
their last meal beneath the shad-
ow of their 5 ron block-house,
talking of the ads rs oi the col-
ony, and of the war waging with
certain tribes of the Indians, when
a canoe floated up to alittle wharf
on the river, a single man came on
shore, and up lided Custaloga
after twelve mon hs’ absence, and
took his seat at the table as if
nothing had happened. He had
beenhunting, he had been on the
war-path with the remnant of his
tribe, and had now returned hop-

ds, be-
cause there was a talk of a great
insurrection of the red- skins of
the English party.

Dick Harvey, the Painter of the
Woods, his companion on the
present occasion, was a young man
who, to undaunted cou e and an
ardent love for the life oft e wilds
united a keen relish for art—no
lbr art as studied in the towns of
the civilized parts of the world,
but art fed by the dew-drops in the
morning, by the enial sun during
the day, and era led at night be-
neath the vast, leafy canopy of
nature’s woody plains. The young
man had now been three years
huntin , fishing, and paintin on
the Oh oand its tributaries. ere
he met Custaloga, received a serv-
ice at his hand, was rsteful and
friendship thus kin ed had be-
come of a very warm character.

IIavin now briefly told all that
need be nown at resent of the
two men who lay n that dreary
ambush, we return to our narra-
tive.

For about half an hour after
Custaloga and Harvey had retired
beneath the thick and bushy shel-
ter of the moss skirts of that
rare old tree, which enabled them
to lie also deep within the general
gloom of the forest, not a sound
was heard save the whis cring of
the wind, the rustlipig o the tree
tops, and the faint ppling of the
little stream below.

The silence was however, bro-
ken at the end of that period in a
very marked manner. A man came
running through the woods for
some distance, stamping, crushing
boughs beneath his feet, and in
eve way exhibitin a. complete
wan of caution qui e foreign to
the habits of a true frequenter
of the wilderness where in those
days men scarce y spoke above
their breath, or trod but with the
terrible caution of a panther, or
the peculiar stealth of a tiger-cat.

In a few minutes the noisy in
truder stood on the edge of the
open glade.

“Goll !” said the stranger, II
powerfu and middle-aged negro,
“ oily! Yah! vahl ldeclare I’s
out of wind. hat de meaning
dat big red-skin make do ‘polnt-
merit yar? Dis child cold. Him
hear dc ole ja , pick up sticks for
de ole man urn de nigga wid.
Golly! Dis ugly place, (is dark.

Dis child no degree to dis specub-
My! What dat? I tink

lation.

 

 

Iyar de crack ob de whi ! Nol
80 me ole ’possum grin at c moon
ugly an’mal, ’possum—steal do ole
hen, suck de egg. Well, what dis
nigga down yar or, eh ? No laugh
—no fun—dis nig a mean blood—

ah! yah! yah! %.)ey tink me in

ed—dey berry much misbetakcn.
Why do young massa hit me, cli ?
G01 y! (golly! golly! Don’t hurt
dis chil ! Oh. mm 3"

“My brother talk like old woman
-—tell all his secrets—why not
silent wait till chief come?‘

The negro—Who, when struck
familiarly on the shculder by some
one who had glided like a shadow
to his side, had almost fallen to
the ground—now peered cautious-
ly over his raised arm, his knees
shaking and his face exhibiting
s ns 0 the most abject terror,
w ich slowly subsided as he rec-
ognized an Indian of the Shawnee
tr be, nearly naked, painted with
all the fantastic horrors which ap-
pertained to a warrior on the war-

path.

“ Goll !” began the negro.

“Hus !” said the savage, walk-
ing away and taking up his station
Within the inside edge of the glade,
about four tyards from the hiding-
place of e Wyandot and the
white man. The ne ro, thus
warned, immediately di the same
and seated himself alongside the
red-skin, who calmly tilled his
tomahawk- pipe and began to
smoke.

Several other red-skins now came
gliding in with the same cautious
step, until fourteen were collected,
all of whom seated themselves in
the same wa , lit their pipes, and
commenced eliberatel y to smoke.
At the same time, and at some
distance, two warriors stood erect,
each near a tree, having taken up
this position to act as scouts while
the others deliberated.

A dignified pause ensued, and
then up rose a warrior of middle
age, in all the paint and panoply of
war, covered with medals and sil-
ver ornaments, and holding in his
hand a short gun, which shone
brightly in the moon as he moved
it to and fro.

He extended an arm, and pointed
to the east, speaking in his own
dialect, with which ie negro was
sufficiently familiar to understand
the general drift of the matter.

“ Ages ago, from the far-ofi‘ coun-
try under the sun, came the Long-
knives, a people of men without
hearts, with fiery bows and arrows
and very fond of land. They h
a fire-water which was very hot,
and which warmed the poor In-
dian, but made him ill and killed
him by-and-byl But the Indian
was a fool; he loved the drink of
the ale-faces better than his an-
cien hunting-grounds; he drank
lscadaywabo .
men, while he was dead with drink,
made him sign away his lands.
The red-skins, the children of the
Manitou, awoke, and they found
themselves without land. Wei
the forest was large, and they wen
away and buried themselves within
its shadows, leaving a long way
between them and the pale-faces.
But one morning the white men
came crying, more land, and the
took it; and they told the re -
skins not to hunt, but to hoe the
ground like squaws; and some
cunnin men among the men from
under tie sun made friends with
the red-men and disarined them.
Every day they ask for more, for
more land, and they take it."

The speaker stopped, leaned
his un against a tree, rested one
han on his chest, and held the
other on high, and then continued:

“Where are my people? The
leaves of the forest are red with
their blood: there are no beasts
for them to hunt; they will soon
starve; and the pale-faces will
have all. But the red—skin is a
man; his heart is the heart of a
warrior; his hand is like light-
ning; his feet like the running
stream which leaves no mark; his
eye is like the eagle in the clouds—
let him dig up the hatchet, let him
start on he war-path, let him
come down like the whirlwind, and
the wigwams will be filled with
gladness.”

and the Sheemookv

 

 

. He then amid an unchecked
murmur of applause, explained
that a general feeling existed
among the Indians to have a simul-
taneous risino‘ of all the red-men
against the odious whites—that an
early day Would be fixed for the
explosion, and that, as a good
omen for success, there was pre-
sent a ne rro in the service of one
of the w itcs, who was ready to
deliver into their handsa fort xvi-ll
supplied with arms and ammuni—
tion, and many rich treasures, on
the sole condition that, in addition
to a fair share of the plunder, he
was to have all his own people
spared and the white women—the
mlen he gave up to them, one and

“Ebbcry word true," said the
ne ro, risin as the other ceased;
“ is child 0 it too—him hinin
ydah’toder side de mout’den.

ah! yah! yahi”

With this grim attempt at
oratory the negro sat. down. "

All the warriors present sub-
scribed to the terms offered by the
negro, and then, after some brief
arrangements, and after appoint-
ing a meeting between Red-Bird
and Jonas, the warriors drew their
cloaks round them and retired the
way the V came; and in ten minutes
the gla e was as silent and abun-
doned as ifit had never been dis-
turbed by the presence of these
grim instruments of death inthe
worst and most fearful form.

Full a quarter of an hour passed
before even a rustling was heard
in the bushes. Then the Indian
cautiously raised his head, peered
round into the gloom, listened,
peered round again, and then
crawled forth like a snake, follow-
ed by Dick Harvey. ‘

“Well,” said Dick, i a low
whisper, “ if that ain’tasltvloody a
conspiracy as ever was hatched in
half an hour. That horrid nig rer
—-old Spiky Jonas too—won‘t I
kick his shins—the skunk, the

pie-cat, the ’possnm—I’ni up to

im new." , .

“ Ugh !" interrupted the Indian,
laying his rifle on the hollow of
his arm; “Custaloga is hot—his
tongue is parched—the words of
Red-Bird were like fire—the song-
birds of the cane-brake must be
saved. Custaloga will drink,‘ and
then he will talk with his white
brother.”

The young Indian advanced in-
to the open gladc, stooped, drank
a deep draught out of a ourd he
carried at his side, and t ion seat-
inghimself drew forth food, which
he handed to Harvey.

“Eat' we shall leave along
trail behind us before morning."

“You intend going afito the
block-house first? as ed the
painter, anxiously.

“ Most danger there—the White
Lily of the plain is hid in the
wood—the block-house is bi r
ever body sees it, and there is one
insi e to open the gate.”

“True, red-skin—snd as I 31
ways do say, I am in your hands;
I‘ll go through lire and water for
either Amy or Jane Moss.”

The Indian pressed his hand
warmly, and then they ate in si-
lence. When they had finished
they drank again, stood up, and
then Custaloga led the way into
the forest, with the air of amen
who had a lonr and dangerous
trail before him,}through, to all ap-
pearance, a trackless wilderness.

 

CHAPTER II.
THE BLOCK-HOUSE.

IT was a lovely spot and a lovely
morning. Nature had made it
beautiful, and it could not be said
that the hand of man had in any
way taken from the native charms
of the place. The advent of hu-
man beings may sometimes Spuil
the outward appearance—it gen-
erally gives animation and motion
to what, still and dcfltlilike, wants
an attribute of beauty.

A belt of tall thick woods skir-
ted on three sides alarge clcarin 1*,
partly natural, partly the handi-
work of the pioneers of civilian-
tion. as might be seen by the
charred stumps and the cultivated
meadow. and fields that were

 

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The Silent Hunter.

3

 

 

 

 

richly ripening under the influence
of an autumn sun. There were
half-ripe cornfields, an orchard, a
few meadows near the river, a

‘haystack of last year, a garden

fenced round with some show of
care and taste—the whole occupy-
ing at least two hundred acres,
cleared, cultivated, or preparing
for cultivation.

Butalittle time before it had
been a virgin wood, where not an
ax had eVer been heard, or au ht
of the white man known, save he
crack of a terrible rifle in the
hands of some daring hunter.
And then several “ broad-horns”
had come, and axes had played
their part, and fire had assisted
and log-huts had arisen. But
such is man! The 10 -hut was
soon discarded, and t e double
house had taken its place, while
u y for
.3: distant thwart... .....

ranged.”

By an effort of man’s industry and
ingenuit a spot of useless desert
had, in act, become a pleasing
abiding‘placc, and the center 0

what soon would be a bustling
neighborhood. And when we re-
member what the earth was given
us for, why should we regret the
loss of some wild beauty of scene,
when in its place arise huts by
the moss-covered rock cottages
on the slope of the hili, corn in
the field, fruit-trees round the
h”. ises and everywhere abundance
and happiness for man? Such
was rising here on the banks of
the Scioto river.

But the principal feature of the
whole scene was the residence of
the owners of this farm, in what,
in the days of which we a eak,
was a thinly-peopled district, on
the outskirts of civilization, infest-
ed by the wild Indian with whom
its owners had to do battle at one
time or another for every inch of
ground. In the days when the

[story of that time shall be writ-
ten as ancient history, few will be-
lieve or credit the stories of what
is called the dark and bloody
ground of that place, where once
wandered, in their panoply of paint
and war, the wild men of savage
heart, who only gave up their ter-
ritory after fearful struggles; few
will understand or credit any more
the history of the hardy white
ioneers who first be an to con-

t wit them the r exclusive
right of hunting in the vast prime-
v woods of the mighty continent.
The dwelling, or collection of
dwellings, was inclosed by a stock-
ade or line of palisades. These
palisades were formed of quartered
oak, which had been cut in the
nei hborin woods, ten or twelve
inc es in d ameter and fifteen feet
high, includin the portion sunk
in the soil, wh ch was aboutathird
of the whole len th. Outside the

earth had been anked up, thus
formin a ditch, which, without
much ifliculty, could have been

filled with water, had the calm
existence which these wanderers
had hitherto met with warranted
this precaution.

The alisades, we have said
were 0 oak, the smooth side of
which was set outward, and the
whole stren thened by stout rib-
bers or wa ~pieces, “pinned to
them.” To the left, toward the
wood, was a gate of sufficient width
to ive passage to a w on, and
wh ch served to admit t e cattle
at night. This was now, however,
securely fastened on the inside,
those within the pallsade having
sufficient respect for their own
:iafety not to neglect this ’preeau-

on.

()n the fourth side the place was
defended more by nature than by
any fortification from the hand of
man. The palisade at each end
jutted out into the river about
half-a-dozen yards, and rendered
crawling round that way difficult.
There remained a possibilit of
danger from the river itself. ere,
however, thick and sharp stakes
had been stuck in the ground,
very close together. forming a
kind of clma'uz dcfrise, which was
not without its advantages, seeing
that behind them laysturd watch-
dogs of the wolf and 8t. ernard

 

breed, that would not fail to give
the alarm before any enemy could
make an entrance that way. In
the center of the water-line of de-
fense was a kind of wharf, not
more than ten feet long, which
was quite open to the river on or-
dinary occasions, but could have a
barrier erected in a very few min—
utes. This was guarded day and
night by the two lar est dogs of
the troop, animals hat were so
attached and devoted to their mas-
ters as to feel no sympathy even
for the blacks of the establishment,
who cordially returned their ha-
tred, transferring their affection to
a certain livel cur dignified with
the name of urk.

Within this fortification, which
in those days was much needed,
there were several buildings ; none,
save one remarkable in appear-
ance. There was a very neat and
well-built residence, one story in
hight, with a covered walk in
front, which occupied the whole
left fron e of the space within
the palis e. Behind this, as well
as to the right, were out-houses
and dwelling-places for the blacks
and for the humbler white depend-
ents of the family. A garden, in
the case of the more aristocratic
habitation, filled with flowers
chiefi ' in bloom, ran along nearly
the w ole frontage of the location;
that before the department de-
voted to the no roes and servants
being compose of more useful
“stuffs” than the beautiful orna-
mental products of the “ master’s
plot," as it was called. A wide

ath, well kept and rolled divided
be two, and marked the clear
difi‘erence that existed between
those who were born to command
and those whose lot it was to
obey; a difference, as far as the
whites were concerned, very much
narrowed by the issue of that
contest which had been raging
between the mother-country an
her half-emancipated colony now
an independent and free nat on.

In a most conspicuous place,
betWeen the two parts ofthe exten-
sive farm‘buildin s which Judge
Moss had though Proper to erect,
for some reasons 0 his own, so far
awa from what was then called
civi ized settlements,stood abuild- i
ing which was the admiration—in
fact, in some instances, the en -~
of the whole border for m es
away, wherever its re utation had
spread. It was a lock-house,
erected for the defense of the farm
from the inroads of the red-skins,
whose wi rwams and fires were at
no rreat istance to the west and
nor h.

About twenty—eight feet square
in the basement story, it was thirty
in the story above, which thus
projected over the one below—a
plan general] adopted in all Am-
erican block- oases—with a view
to defending it the more easily
when at close quarters. Few In-
dians would venture to assail the
doors and windows of such a build-
ing, when its inhabitants could
fire directly down upon their
heads. The materials of this s 1-
van fort were, as would naturaally
be expected in such a locality, i
wood legs, a foot in diametei
ruédly squared, and not only bound
together by an ingenious system
0 dove-tailing, but by mortar
carefully poured in wherever an
interstice was observed. Thick oak
shutters, solid wooden bars, a
smooth and shelving roof, too
acute to give long resain -place to
any fiery missile, comple ed, with
several loop-holes, the outward
appearance of a block-house
which, though it had never ye
been used, was not likely to be
long before its value would be
appreciated, if the rumors from
the frontier were true.

It was the summer of HUG—or
rather the fall of the leaf was at
hand, the summer having nearly
passed away; and within a few
days hints and scraps of inform-
ation had reached the ears of many
in that neighborhood—those of
the Big House almost alone ex-

epted—of a harassin and de-
structive war with t e Indians
having commenced; a war made
all the more fearful by its being

 

conducted by whites who had
deserted their homes and kin to
league with the red-skins. The
brutal massacre of W oming—
with all its hideous de ils, was
far from being forgotten, though
ten years had elapsed since it was
perpetrated. As yet, however,
he events which happened on
the beautiful plains of he Susque-
hannah had not found imitation
on the Scioto or Ohio waters. But
within a few weeks facts had
come to light which spread alarm
and terror through those new set-
tlements, which, while the fierce
struggle was going on between
Eng and and Con ress below, had
escaped the devas ting curse of
war, and now, when eace was de-
clared, was to be ited by its
‘errors. But Tecumseh, though
very young, was already at work
organizing the tribes, and several
encounters between some of the
hardy and darin trappers and the
red-skins had ken place, espe-
cially those trappers who, havm
suffered in other places, had vowe
deadly hostilit 0 every thin in
theshape of an ndian. Onew ole
family, not ten miles distant, had
been an rised and utterly destroy-
ed; the yandots were out near
Wheeling; Mr. John May of Vir-
ginia, traveling in a fiat-boat on
he Ohio, with Charles J ohnstone
his clerk, Mr. Jacob Styles of Vir-
nia, one Flinn and two Miss
emings, had just been shot, with
one of he females, at the mouth
of the Scioto river, the rest being
carried into hopeless ca tivity;
while the massacre of Big ottom
had just become known throu h
. the escape of the two Ballards, e
sole survivors.

But here all was still and calm,
and any one standing on the
opgosite side to the block-house,
an looking at the peaceful scene,
womd never have im ned that
events of such a fearfu character
were taking lace so near this
picturesque art. The Scioto
swe t calml by, wide, still, and
shal ow; an though to the west
it turned sharp round, and brou ht
a projectiOn of its bank wit in
hit feet of the block, it was gen-
era ly about sixty or seventy feet
across. The banks were most
wholly shaded by trees on this
side, and a little up the stream
several logs lay in the water,
having fallen there naturally, or
having been cut down and left to

rot.

The dawn had not streaked the
sky many minutes, when the
clatter of hoofs was plaiul heard
in the distance, and a l, bon
horse came in sight of the bloc
itself, though it and its rider, or
rather riders, could not be seen
from that building. As if they
had no wish to be discovered by
any one who might be on the look-
out, the horse was suddenly reined
in, and the two beings that had
clung to his back lea ed off, and
stoo erect side by si e.

The first, the one who had been
on the saddle, was the negro we
have already alluded to; the other
was an Indian.

He was, however, no common
red-skin, and in even those wild
settlements would have excited a
thrill of horror in any white man
or woman who had suddenly con-
fronted him. He was an old man
of considerable stature. His face
was painted in part white, that is,
the mix and the forehead, up to
Thefe e hair be n. This was
daubed with red oc er. A bunch
of feathers hung down from his
scalp-lock, while over his mouth
and chin he had painted a red hand.
His nose, which we have described
as lpainted white, did not in reality
ex st having been hewn ofi' in a
drunken brawl. The place where
it had been was painted. Crow-
feathers formed a muff round his
neck, with wampum beads. His
arms were painted and naked. but
he wore lgggi , skunk-skin moc-
casins, a rty lanket, and had a
rifle, tomahawk, owder-horn, and
scalping-knife. e looked aspec-
ter. '1 mummy of his race under
the degradin influence of the fire-
water whic had so materially
assisted in weakening his people.

 

“Yahi yah!” said the negro
shaking his fist at the block; ‘ali
berry fine and out big dash now.
Berry soon make him laugh 'nod-
der side ob him mout.”

“Ugh!” exclaimed the Indian
drawinga lon breath, as if glad
to be release from his awkuard
position on the horse’s back—“ got
mox- win?"

“ Iii-s, Massa No-Nose,” said the
black, handing his ourd to the
red-skin, who put it his lips and
drained a drau ht which showed
how accustome he was to the tier
liquid. “Now dis child ’ab 0
nebsessity to leab you. Massa
Bi -Nose him sobby him du ty."

he Indian, who was an outcast
from his tribe recently returned
at the sound of the war-whoop
nodded and stalked away as i
further conversation were useless.

“ Dis child him distrust dat
feller,” said the black to himself;
“nebber mind; him keep a berry
sharp obserwatory on him."

And with this sage remark he
advanced to the very edge of the
stream,aud hailed the block house.
A short pause ensued, and then a
stir was to be noticed; two young
blacks moved down to the water’s
ed e, a flat-bottomed boat pushed
oil? and in ten minutes more the
whole three, with the horse, were
bein ferried over the stream to
the House.

The udian meanwhile advanced
up the river and disappeared.

About a quarter of an hour
later, two other men came in sight,
both evidently wearied and sore-
footed. They were Custaloga and
Harvey. They moved slowly along
the trail, until they came to the
place where the horse had stopped
and the negro and old Indian had

alighted.

‘ Wagh!" said Harvey, seating
himself unhesitatingly on a log.
“ That varmint has given me a run.
My! I shall never get my wind
again. Oh! won’t I pay that nig-
ger out .9 If I dont scarify his

lack hide my name ain’t Dick—
that’s all.’

“They were two and one a red-
skin," replied Custaloga, looking
on the ground.

“Two and one an Indian—now
that bea me all toleather it just
does. How do you know ."

“There’s the foot of the negro
—this is the moccasin and the
trail of a drunken Indian. Come.”

“Ouf!” said Dick, rising with
a grunt, “ but pitch ahead; though
I am dead bea no Ingine as was
ever made shall see me pull up.”

He rose, looked at his rifle, and
followed in the footsteps of
Custaloga, who was already step-
ging quietly in the trail of the

hawuee, facetiousl'y named No-
Nose from his want of that neces-
saryor n, which is generally con—
siderefa to be as ornamental as it
is useful. The footsteps were easi-
ly traced to a grove about two
hundred yards above the block-
house. At the ed e of the small
island of timber ey halted and
listened. Nothing could be heard.
Custaioga peered, for some time,
into the thick shadow cast by the
trees, without his face exhibiting
an emotion. Then his features
an denly lighted up, and as sud-
denly changed to an expression of
deep dis net, as he turned to Har-
vey, an without a single word
mimicked the sleeping of an in-
toxicated man.

He then handed his rifle to his
companion, drew a thong from his
person, and entered the wood With
all the calmness of one who was
taking a stroll in a familiar street
of some town of the settlements,
leaving Harve standing like a
statue, withou motion, scarcely
breathing in his anxiety. Kneel‘
ing down, however, he presently
caught sight of the Shawnee, who
was leaning w‘th his back against
a perfectly still, his head bow-
ed on is shoulder. Not quite cer-
tain that this was not pretense,
Harvey slowly passed his rifle
thro h the bushes, and took de-
libera aim. Then he saw the
form of Custaloga gliding from
trunk to trunk, until e paused he-
hind that against which the Shaw-
nee slept.

 

4

Beadle’s Dime Library.

 

 

 

The thon was round him in an
instant, an his arms pinioned.

“ Come,” said Custaloga, aloud.
“I have wandered in the forest,
and l have caught a skunk.“

Harvey caught up his friend’s
rifle and darted through the bush-
es, never stoppiiur until he sunk
exhausted in front, of the hideous
marauder, who, unarmed and tied,
gazed at his captor with stupid
sottish surprise. He had traveled
all night with the black, stoppilntg
to drink and rest the horse seve
times, and, overcome by rum and
fatigue, had neglected the usual
precautions used by his race, and
paid the penalty.

“ Now, Custaloga, is that a
Shawnee? If he is, he’s an 11 Her
one than ever I see‘d. I coul lift
his hair myself—the dirt , loping
scoundrel. Is that one o the war-
riors we are afeard of ?"

“Did my brother ever see the
wild horse of the prairies?” asked
Custaloga, who always adopted
his most figurative style of speak-
ing when in presence of any but
his most intimate friends.

“I conclude I have—why ?"

“ When the wild horses see one
that is weak and useless, they fight
with him and drive him away, un-
til he becomes strong and his mane
ll thick, and he can bound over
the rushin stream. When the
rtorks won (1 ill); to the east—to
the. country w ence comes the
sun,they meet and try their wings;
those that can not fly Well are
driven away. When a Shawnee is
a squaw, his tribe take thon s.and
drive him away. This is .iusk-
wash. His people saw that he
was a squaw and loved flreswater,
and thev sent him to make potti-
coats for the women of the pale-
laces.”

“Now, that's straight up and
down, and as clear to my mind as

reased lightning, old hoss,” said

ick, whose lan ruage was very
much that of his avorite compan-
ions, the trappers. “But why
have the varmints taken him
bae ' 9”

“ ’ he faces of the Shawnees are
darkened ; they can not see; the
have taken a skunk for an eagle. ‘

The eye of the old Shawnee
flashed lightuin as he looked
hard at the ot er Indian, and
seemed to regain something of
his consciousness.

“Ugh!” he exclaimed, with an
accent of the most rofound as-
tonishment—“ Custa oga l”

“ Muskwashl I am Custaioga,
and I have hunted with my father.
But my father has drunk of the
tire‘water of the pale-faces, until
he can not see a friend from an
enemy, and No-Nose has joined
the men of his tribe to light the
Americans. Muskwash has drunk
rum until it makes him forget.
When have his tribe rained by
fighting the le-faces? ‘he hatch-
et has been uried, and the white
man hunted there, and the red-man
here—why has the hatchet been
dug u ? Custaloga has lived with
thep e-faces, and he knows them
--they will come, and they will
kill the red-skins, and make fields
of their hunting-grounds.”

“Wagh l” exclaimed the other,
rousing himself. “ The pale-faces

are th eves—they steal from the
redvman his forests—every moon
brings them nearer. Where are
the red-men to go? The eat
Manltou gave us these pfiirlns.
Shall we not defend them ?’

“ M uskwash lylvour son hears you
and lau he. T e pale-faces were
quiet. he old white head,” point-
ing to the big house, “ never took
a scalp. He comes here to live
and hunt like the Shawnees. He
sees that there are many deer—
enou h for him and the red-skins
—an he and the red-skins were
friends the ipe of peace was
smoked, the atchet was buried.
Why has a black snake crawled
between the white head and his
friends 2‘"

The glance of the drunken in-
dian was ferocious, and at the same
time full of a wonder which, had
he been a grave warrior, he would
not hive betrayed. llcsnid noth-

ing, however, allowing the two
young men to unfasteu him from

 

the tree and bind him ail-ssh, with-
out a word or a struggle. They
then advanced to where the fallen
logs lay, and Custaio drew from
an admirable cache of is own mak-
in a canoe sufficiently large to
ho (1 them all. They motioned
the Shawnee to enter, and, when
he was seated, followed, and struck
out into the stream toward the
block - house. They no ion er
spoke but addled warily casting
uncertain g ances at the orest on
the oppOSite shore, which they
knew to be so big with dan er to
themselves and those whose uter-
ests they appeared to have so
warmly at heart.

They soon glided to within a few
yards of the wharf, and were push-
ng aside the ferry-boat to enter a
kind of harbor, when a loud, hear-
ty, and somewhat authoritative
voice hailed them.

Custaloga bounded to the shore
beside a stout, portly, but severe
man of about fifty, whose hi h
forehead, white hair, and simpe
but elegant costume, appeared to
announce him at once as Judge
Moss. His chin was somewhat
heavy, and his air cold, but he was
still a handsome man—one would
have said in the very prime and
force of his manhood.

“Jud e, be is but one of five
hundre devils now raging in the
woods. When Bi Bottom, with
its sixteen rifles, as been razed
to the ground, it is time for the
Big Block to prepare Secure the
black who was out tonight. He
is the traitor who is to open your
gate to the red-skins."

“Mv childl mv Amy!" ex-

lclaifmed the judge, shaking like a
08.

“'Must be brought home ” con-
tinued the Indian, who, with his
friends of the block, spoke very

simpcly.
“ erciful Heaven!” cried the
fudge, clasping his hands; “ and
, that left all to come here, that
I mi rht have naught to do against
the o (1 country that gave me birth,
nor the new one I had adopted.”

Custaloga listened with an air
of some surprise, but the glance
vanished as he looked uneasily
around.

“Where is the black man ?” he
asked.

“In the kitchen, eating ” re-
pllied the judge, almost mechanic-

al .

H Have the Shawnee taken to
the prison-room in the block,”
said Custaloga, who then moved
raiidly away toward the oflices.

ell ac uainted with every art
of the arm, the Indian gl ded
alon without noise, and soon
Itoo by the door of the kitchen.
Lookin in, he saw the black sur-
roundc by the whole sable com-
munity, eating and talking with
all the importance of a traveler
after a journey in a fir-distant and
unknown land.

“Now you just ieab dis child
some time to eat. Tink a nig a
no hungry? Him tell he obser
but gib him time. You Gosh, just
you cease dat fun—eh, what hab
you dah? Behind me, eh? Now
none ob your nonsense."

“My black friend has been in
the forest—did he see an red-
skins ?” asked Custaloga, vane-
ing close to him, when he noticed
that he was discovered.

“Golly! _ollyl Wah on come
from, eh, assa Cnsta?’ said the
negro, starting.

From the Blue Spring, where
I saw many red-skin warriors, and
one black traitor. Move, and this
gmghawk ends your wretched

e.

With these words, Custal
caught the terrified negro birth:
collar, waved the sharp ax over his
head, and drew him away to the
block, leaving the others in the
kitchen hudd ed up in a corner, in

rent alarm and sur rise at what

ey had seen. At t 0 ate of the
block they met Judge oss and
Harve , with the Shawnee in safe

custo 

“ (lo ly l” said the ne ro, as he
gazed at the late compan on of his
ride.

“ I am a magistrate. and as such

 

 

I. have a great mind to try (you
both on the spot,” said theju ge
who, from the words of Dick, had
gained aknowlcdge of all that had
passed. “ What has made you
want to betray me, you black ras-
cal?”

The negro sullenly looked on
the ground and made no reply.

Custaloga opened the lower
room of the log, and then led the
way to a small room in the corner,
into which he thrust the two cap-
tives, after tying them in such a
way that their escape appeared im-

ossible. He then fastened the

cor on the outside and left the
block - house, which he further
committed to the uard ofa stout
youth, by name Bill Harrod, who
detested the negro, and, indeed,
despised his whole race, thou h
the other blacks in the establis -
meiit were excellent, faithful, and
attached servants. He then, as
was the custom when he resided
at the block, washed off his paint,

at on a coat, linen, and other ar-

cles of dress, and stood erect, a
handsome but tanned frontiers-
man.

“ Now then, Caste," said the
jud e, affectionately pattin him
on gie shoulder, “I can tin time
to thank you for your intentions,
for your bold and earnest devotion,
for your long journey this night.
I can never reward you; for where
could I ever find the price to pay
such a man as you ?”

A proud but covert smile played
round the Wyandot’s mouth, and
the ex ression seemed to tell that
the ju e could easily reward him
if he liked. Before, however, the
observant Mose could catch its
meanin , it was gone and replaced
by the ndian‘s usual calm look.

“Give no thanks,” said Custa-
loga, “gou are my friends here.
But the lg house is not full—Amy
must sleep to-morrow with her
father and sister.”

“She mustl she must!" ex-
claimed Moss, eagerly, while his
whole expression changed to one
of care and anxiety. ‘ How is it
to be do ?”

“Wh as the Fair-Hair gpne
to the row’s Nest?” asked us-
talo musing.

“ lara, the wife of Walter Har-
ro she who was her foster-sister
is s ck, and hasayoung babe; an
Amy would not be crossed, but
went down to Crow’s Nest to stay
a week or ten days until the wo-
man is strong. I wanted her to
send up Suky, but she said that no
one was like a sister."

“Good,” said the young Wyan-
dot, his whole face beaming with
intelligence and delight, and, as
usual when excited, mixing up in
a strange way the two educations
he had received—that of the woods
and that of civilization. “Amy
good girl. Custaloga bring her in
safe or die.”

They were entering the break-
fast room, where Jane Moss, as-
sisted by a negro girl about six-
teen, was making coffee and see
ing to the proper arrangement of
the table, which almost groaned
beneath the exuberant plenty

Jane Moss was not more lian
sixteen herself. She had small
delicate features, a rofusion o

olden locks uncon ncd and un-
ouched by powder, soft, blue
e es, blooming cheeks, a little,
tny mouth, tiat showed small,
white, regular teeth, a pretty
round chin, and such an air of
home, of gentle, almost infantine
simplicity, that strangers had of-
ten mistaken her for a mere prett
doll, especially when her beaut -
ful sister, the admiiation of the
whole country, was present. But
those who knew her, knew that
Jane was not only graceful but
useful, prett but ood, and s-
sessed of a und 0 sense an an
energetic will which she inherited
from both her father and mother.

“Good-morning, pa,” she said,
runnin up and k ssing him before
she not ced that he was not alone.
“ All i” she exclaimed, retreating,
“ Custa, is that you? and Mr.
Harvey too? Upon my word, we
are favored this inoniing. Grace,
go tell Flora to put on some extra
pounds of venison and bear’s meat

 

for Mr. Harvey, who, when he
comes from the woods, generally
has not eaten for a week.”

“ Miss Jane,” replied Harvey,
5 eaking without twang or vulgar-
l —the Eccentric Artist was only
77 id in the woods, where he loved
:o be a trapper in appearance and
ian‘ruage—“I am indeed hungry,
for have been traveling all night,
when I should have been in lu-«l,
with no other idea in my head tha n
that of servin one who can we
nothing in me ut my appetite and
my rough habit.”

“ Nonsense, man; be not so uio~
dest. No one—if I am the person
served, as I fancy you mean iii(‘ to
understand—can appreciate better
your power of limning. I new:
saw a more natural bear than that

on sent me a month since, wvre
{he front paw not a little too
large.”

‘ That was a hasty error,” e: -
claimed Harvey, blushing; “ but
it is not of painting tiia I now
speak. Things of more moment
have brought me here with Custa-
loga, from the Blue Spring in one
night on foot."

‘Is there sign of huntingbeing
good, and would you take us up to
see the Indians of Chillicothe d rive
the deer? I am ready,” laughed
the merry girl, pointing to a slight
rifle hanging a ainst the wall, with
which she had een taught to shoot
without a tremor— in this, like
many women of the frontiers, who,
thanks to this terrible accomplish-
ment. had saved their little (nu-s,

“Hush, rl,” said the judge
who with ustaloga had listene
to the exquisitely modulated voice
of the irl—the one with the dear

ride 0 a father, the other with the

nder affection of a brother; for
as a brother indeed did Custaloga
feel to Jane. “ Hush, girl. llar~
vey came not for any idle amuse-
ment, but to save our lives and
scalps from the bloody heathen.”

“ Amy l” exclaimed the girl,
faintly, the roses leaving her check
so quickly, they seemed never to
have been—“ Amy l”

“ Custaloga will fetch her," said
the youn Indian, quietly; “ he
knows pat s none will follow. To-
night, when the sun hides the
wicked and the good, he will go.”

“Alone?” whis ered Jane, in-
voluntaril y glancmg at Harvey
with a timid and anxious glance.

“ What am I made of, Miss Jane .9"
asked the Eccentric Artist, re-
proachfuliy. “ When I discovered
the intentions of the loping thieves
of Shawnees my first word was
for Crow’s Nest. But Custalogu
said ‘ the Big House,’ and I, like a
school-boy, followed. Somehow
or other when he says a thing, I
do it. To-night he sa s ‘Crow’s
Nest,’ and to Crow’s est I go."

“ And you do well, Mr. Harvey,"
exclaimed Jane, heartily, as she
shook the Indian by the hand—
“foilow my red brother, and you
will never do wrong.” _

“ Thank you, Miss Jane," said
the Indian, with a slight tremor-
“if all were like you, the wori
would be a happy place."

Jane blushed to the temples in
this reference to a subject which
she too well understood. But Cus-
ta did not ursue it.

“Eat,” c said, quietly, to Bar.
vey, “ and then lie down. We have
3 ion journey. The sun will set,
and rise before it ends.”

The Eccentric Artist did as he
was bid, and about half an hour
later the two wear wayfarers rest.
ed in their beds, w iie Judge Mo“
went round, and, explaining the
arrest of the negro and the capture
of the .lndian, set the whole of the
men in the block on the alert.
Rlfies were brought out and clean-
ed, sentries appointed, and the
whole farm assumed the character
of a place in a state of siege. Hur-
rod, as the most experienced huu.
ter in the block, started into the
woods as ascout. His orders were
to beat the forest cautiously in all
directions, and return at night, to
re ort what he might have seen.

carcely had he departed when a
couple of horsemen rode up on the
opposite bank and demanded to be
ferried over.

“ My soul Heaven be praised!"

 

5»

l _

 

.4
if

 

 

 

 

_ begins to diw'w him much.

 

exl luhned the Judge, whose whole
aim-Lions and thoughts were cen-
im-ed on his children—andtheu he
midi-d, carelessly, “that is Burton
u! Scowl Hall with him. A good
ride and a stw in: arm. I fear Amy
Sip.
make haste :lmi ferry your young
master ovur. and keep your tongue
quiet. mind."

“ Ens, mused—Sip him nebi‘er
say word—he too much like ’coon
— )ress you--”

The black pushed off rapidly as
he s oke, and in ai‘ew minutes the
bloc ' garrison was strengthened
by the presence of Charles Moss
a keen sportsman for his age. an
Squire Barton, a jovial, darin‘r man
of thirty-live, whose rifle, ring-
down, was celebrated some fifty
miles below this settlement, where
he only visited occasionally, tho’
deeply interested in those who
dwelt in it.

 

CHAPTER III.
A SNAKE IN THE ems.

YOUNG Moss and Squire Barton
were welcomed to the block, not
only as an accession of force, but
because it was likely, coming from
a long hunting party, they might
know sometlnn of the events
which were taking place on the
frontier. They, however, shook
hands with the judge with such
carelessness and so much jollity
of manner that the old man look.
ed first at one and then at the other
with startled surprise.

“ Have you seen or heard nothing
of the bloody red-skins ?" said he,
anxiously.

“ Nothin , m dear sir,” replied
youngr Char es l oss, heartilg.

“ Red-skins i" exclaimed quire
Barton, with a sneer; “ I‘d eat all
in this part of the world.”

“ Then you had better begin with
the one who is prisoner in the
block,” said the judge, gravely.

“A red skin in the block a pris-
,oner !” repeated the son, more ear-
nestly.

“ Some boasting fool of a W an-
dot, or a follower of your ark
friend, Custaloga," again put in
the squire, who always spoke of
Indians with a sneer.

“ Ay! ay !” said thejudge, shak-
ing his head, “’tis the custom of
youth to scofl‘and doubt. The red-
skln is a scout of the Shawnees
and was captured by Custahimsel ,
who overheard a plan last night to
attack and destroy this—my poor
dwelling.”

“ That Custa will lead you into
trouble some of these days judge.
I say, never trust a red-skin, and,
above all, never believe him. ’

“ Squire Barton, all in this set-
tlement know the misfortunes of
your house; for this reason, I ex-
cuse your eneral dislike of red-
skins. But usta speaks the truth.
Had I doubted him, I have the cor-
roborative evidence, as we say on
the bench, of honest Dick Harvey,
and the negro himself did not deny
the fact.”

“ What negro?” said young Moss,
anxiously.

“Spiky Jonas, my son,” replied
the judge moumfu iy. “ I know
not what lhave done to wound his
i'eclinL'S, but the black had given
us up to the slaughter."

The son turned away with a
highicned color toward the break-
fast-ruin, whence now issued
Jane, who greeted her brother
heartily, and the squire with a for-
mal politeness which was very
mm-h the practice of the day.

“ It seems, dear Jane,” said the
young man, smiling, “we have
come in time. Where is Amy ?
’Tis strange she is behind."

“ She is up at the Crow’s Nest,”
replied Jane, casting down her

I eyes. '

“Good heavens, and on are all
so still!" cried Squire arton im-
petuonsly. “If there are Indians
in the woods, she should be fetch-
pd home without an instant’s de-
uv ’

“ She will be fetched home by
Custa and Harvey," said the judge,
quietly.

“Pooh! But how long is it
sinu- lliey started?” asked the
other

 

" They sleep. When the night
comes theyw llstart; they travel-
ed for seven hours in the forest
yesterday even, and ’tis but right

hey should restore their weary
limbs. Besides, Custa says that
the ni ht trail is the safest.”

“I ave no doubt of it, judge,
not the least," said the squire-
“ but as you will. Since we mus
wait,I am for accepting Miss J ane‘s
hospitable offer of breakfast. We,
too, are famished men, who have
traveled through the woods all
night, and though neither Indians
nor mad artists, are weary and sore-
footed.”

“Then come in and eat,” said
the father, pushing his son affec-
tionately before him. “ I am right

lad to welcome you, my boy.

ould to God that all those I love
were here likewise !"

The whole party were soon in
the breakfast-parlor, where a hot
and smoking board greeted them,
pretty Jane having, on the very

rst sound of an arrival, ordered
every thing to be replenished. The
two travelers sat down at once, and
for some minutes nothin was said
while the wayfarers satisfied the
keen appetite acquired in the
woods, by an eager attack on the
viands so plentifully supplied
them.

Young Moss, who was not more
than twenty veers of age. was a
very admirable copy of his father,
though somewhat taller, and with
an apparently more open and frank
brow. He wore an elegant hunt-
ing tunic, a shirt-collar very wide
and turned over, an ornamented
horn and knife-case, and carried in
his hand a small, 1‘ ht rifle, recent-
ly imported from urope.

Squire Barton was a man about
five and thirty, or more, one of
those men who, by shaving off
every particle of air upon the
face, contrive to assume a perpet-
ual juvenilitg. He wore short,
curly hair, w ich shaded not his
fore cad, but exhibited every par-
ticle of it to view. It was a low,
white forehead, kept thus fair by
a cap which was almost always
drawn over his eyes. His eyes were
the feature that struck most ob-
servers; they were so cold and
chilly-looking, and yet were keen
and piercin , without, however,
one spark o brightness, one flash,
one solitary change of expression,
at all events that ordinary man
could tell. As the female sex, when
judging a man's personal appear-
ance, generally are first struck
by his eyes, no woman was ever
known to smile on Squire James
Barton. A miserable man must he
be on whom woman never smiled.

His checks were thin, his mouth
small, concealing a row of teeth
white as ivo ,but somewhat sharp
and long; w ile beneath this was
a small, pointed chin, where nature
had placed a thick heard that James
Barton never allowed to rest with-
out attack from a sharp razor.

A plain ill-favored man was J amel
Barton the S uire of Scowl Hall,
on the hankso the Bus uehanna;
a man of wealth, not on y in land-
ed estate, but in lar e sums of
money invested in 0 British
funds, which in those (1 s, despite
the new republic and e lo alty
of the people to the noble e itlce
founde by Washington and his
comrades, gave him great and
marked consideration.

And yet, as it was not the wealth
he so notoriously enjoyed that
influenced young Moss, many per-
sonswondered at the constant com-
panionshi of the fiery and impet-
uous youth with the cold, sneer-
in squire.

fi‘he fact was that Squire Barton
was to his friends the most heart
of mortals and the most enial
companions. He dearly oved his
glass, and could set the table in a
roar. Then he was a keen sports-
man, knew how to track ‘coon or
panther, to crawl upon a herd of

eer, or hunt them with the fiery
pine-knot at night. He could find

is way at any time throu h the
trackless forest, and had me alone
and unharmed more adventures
with Indians than Boone or Fle-
hart. All this was a ower he
knew the force of, and brought

The Silent Hunter.

I

 

5

 

 

it to bear upon young Moss with
great success.

And then he was suitor for the
hand of Amy Moss, the lovely el-
der daughter of the ju e, and,
though she was not yet eighteen,
he had been so four years, and was,
too, an accepted suitor. It was
rumored, however, that, though
the young girl had accepted him
at fourteen, she showed him much
less favor now, and did not even
accept his resence and his address-
es willing , though she did not
turn him away, because it would
have pained her father.

In this way, then, Squire Barton
was a frequent visitor at the house
of Judge Moss, where he layed
at back ammon with the ather,
hunted ears and deer with the
son, went boating with the girls,
toward whom he was so humble
and so gentle, that they could not
under any pretense be harsh or
rude to him. Squire Barton had no
difficulty in persuading both Amy
and Jane of his sincere and devoted
attachment; for that which is true
is so eloquent, it speaks trum et-
tongued for itself; and Squire r-
ton sionately loved Amy, and
had or Jane all he tenderness one
feels toward afavorite and cherish-
ed sister.

The breakfilst party was cheerhl
eno h under the circumstances;
and on, when it was over and the
squire had ke t up a tire of banter
for a while wi¥h merry Jane, he in-
timated his wish to rest—a wish
warmly seconded by young Moss.
A lar e room, so arranged that they
coul start from it at early dawn,
to follow the chase without dis-
turbing an one, was always ready,
and there ey went. The young-
er man, without any hesitation,
jumped into bed, and n a few min-
utes was that asleep.

Not so Squire Barton. He drew
a chair neardtllrie window,i which
was open, an ht ng a p pe, be-
gun to smoke mfidng all the time
at the sentinel who had reco '
him, land appeared to be th

de'tlap y.

0 following was the account
Harrod always gave of what fol-
lowed, an account substantially
true in every particular, though in-
volving no explanation: of subse-
quent events. He was smokin ,
to while away the time, his bac
leaning against the block-house
door, and the squire was smoking
too. Presently, his tobacco ran
out, and after cursing his ill-luck,
he was about to putaway his pipe,
when the squire spoke.

“Harrod, ’ sa he, “Isee our
pipe is out. Sommlne,and1 ave
no more tobacco here. I do not
like to wake young Mr. Moss orI
should 0 round—but I’ll keep

w ile you go. Ask Miss

ane for mg ouch; it is on the

breakfast si e oard. Leave your
musket against the door.”

The sentry afterward freely con-
fessed that in so actin he was
wrong, but still he conce ved that
there could be no danger in agree-
ing: so he laid down his musket
w ich he was about to take with
him, and went round for the to-
bacco-pouch, which, after consid-
erable delay, he found, but not
where the squire had left it. He
then hurried back and found the
squire whistlin , with his back to
the window, h all safe mi
unmoved, and no a sign of any
change Then he and the squire
smoked a (pipe, after which Mr.
Barton sai he was sleep , closed
a?! window, and appea togoto

Nothing more passed for twenty
minutes, at the end of which time
he was relieved.

About two o’clock in the after-
noon Harvey came out of his bed-
room, ready dressed for the expedi-
tion of the ni ht, with his gun in
his hand, wi which he walked
into the ornamental garden and
begin to clean and Relish it up
wi t vity. t certainly
wasa ttle d rt from two or three
days’ outlying the woods; bl“

then that was the work of a (inat-
tsr of an hour, and Harvey e

polishing away with his soft lea -
or for more than twice that time,
and Whlstlcd. as if to keep up his

I

v
i
i

 

spirits, a bar n-om some popular
ditt of the day.

Ify the gentle reader has ever
been in love, he will understand
why Harvey stood patiently polish-
ing his gun-barrel, looking at the
pan and brightening it up a dozen
times, when we explain that he
stood beneath a latticed window,
at which he covertly glanced every
minute or so, until his color high:-
ened and his eyes flashed as two
wavy ringlets shook behind the lit—
tle white curtain, and then Jane
Moss might have been seen taking
her seat near the window, with
some work in her hand.

“ Is that you, Mr. Harvey ?“ said
Jane, in a tone of well- affected
surprise; “I had thought it was
Harrod whistling to pass the time
while mounting guard over the
prisoners.”

Harvey looked somewhat ag-

'eveé and amazed at being mis-
gken for Harrod, being too sim-

le in love to detect the artifice
By which pretty Jane Moss con-
cealed her having been drawn to
the window by a knowledge of
the artist’s presence. Like many
of those whose brains are kindled
by the fire of human genius, the
Eccentric Artist was utterly will»
out guile. His reply partook 1!
this feeling, then, and pleasure
both.

“ I thought Miss Jane too quick
to mistake big Harrod for one so
insignificant as myself, or rather
me or big Harrod. But the after-
noon is hot, and under the shadow
of this wall it is pleasanter than in
the house.”

“Is that meant to excuse your
own tres ass, Mr. Harvey, or is it
a direct nvitation to me to come
out of my cell .9”

“ I should not presume to invite
Miss Moss to share such dull conr
panionshi as mine; but if the

oneysuc e and roses have any
charm for so keen a lover of the
beautiful as you, I should advise
you to come out and sit on your
old seat," said Harvey, timidly.

“If Mr. Harvey has not quite
foggotten the vpurpose which first
m e him a itor to the block
his old pupil will come out and
show her work for the last month,
unless Mr. Harvey is so intent up-
on polishi his gun into a mirror
to admire is sweet countenance
by, as to have no leisure."

“Dear Miss Moss,” exclaimed
the delighted artist, “have you
then been at work, and have you
really pursued our studies? Pray

ardon me if spoke not of it be-

ore.”

“ I will excuse and pardon if you
are ver good, and don’t find too
many suits,” said Jane, as she
withdrew from the window.

“ I protest—” began Harvey, but
Jane was gone. “ Was there ever
so sweet and fascinating a creature
in this world?” he added to him-
self, withasi h. “Ah, me! what
is the use 0 one like me, an or-

han, half educated, with nothin

ut my gun and brush to depeng
upon, looking up to such as she ?
It is clear lunacy. But she is so
lovely, so gentle, and so good, I
can not be p it. The savage bear
in the woods may fall dorm and
worship the good and the beauti-
ful if he likes, and no one blame."

But here she comes to check his
humble soliloquy- and with a
cheek quite pale with emotion, he
hastened to meet her. Jane was
herself as timid as a fawn, and
feigned to be intent upon her pic-
ture to ye herself a countenance.
She lai it on the seat and sunk
beside it. But all her joyous man-
ner was gone. She was grave and
“nest 1

“Mr. Ham y," said she, when
he had ventured to seat himself
about a foot away, “ you and that
noble Custa are about to enter up-
on a dangerous journey. Your ob-

ject is a sacred one—to fetch my
sister home. Heaven will bless
on for the deed. But be not reck-
ess of danger. We expect you
back todefend our friends here.”
“And lease od,wewlllcome,"
replied arvey, solemnly. “Who
would not die to defen you and

your sister ?“ ,
“ You are very chiwhous said

 

6

I
S

Beadle’s Dime, Library.

 

Jane, with a faint laugh. “ I know i

that Custa will stand by us to the
last, but we have no claim on Mr.
Harvey.”

Oh, the \vaywardness of woman’s
heart! If Jane’s real thoughts
could have been known.

“ I know not what I have done,"
replied the young man, sadly, “ to
make you doubt me; and there is
some truth, perhaps, in the words
that you have no claim on me, if
you mean that I am not a relative,
nor an old friend; but, Miss Jane
Moss, I do believe that no old
friend Will be found to show deeper
gratitude than I will for the kind-
ness 1 have received in this house.
I am not a boaster; but time will
show."

“Thank you,” said Jane, more
warmly than usual; “ but these are
dangerous times, and many will de-
sert when bad times come. But I
did not tell you, my brother and
Squire Barton are just in. We
have then two good rifles, I be-
lieve.” v

“ Two as true rifles as ever rung
in the forest,” exclaimed Harvey,
“even u) in old I'xentuek with
Boone. am right glad to hear

your brother has come—I wish I
could say as much of Squire Bar-
ton, but I agree with Custa in this,
and like him not.”

“Custa likes him not!" said
Jane hurriedly, while a blush suf-
fused her check. “I knew not
that. Why does he not like him?"

“I thought you knew it," re-
plied Harvey, quickly,“ orI should
not have mentioned it. He has
never told me, but as he conceals
it from you, though I do guess it,
I will not betray his secret.”

“ Not even to me ?” said Jane,
coaxingly.

Harvey looked at her with a
glance of surprise and a flush on

is check quite crimson.

“ Not even to on,” he contin-
ued, “though leaven knows I
would rather tell you any thing
than any one else."

“Custa loves my sister better
than suits his color," said Jane,
quite coldly now.

“I care not what his color is,"
said Harvey, warmly; “but this I
know, that the girl who wins Cus-
ta’s heart has reason to be proud.
But Custa loves your sister scarce-
Iiv as well as he loves you—he is

eeply grateful to you both, but
he does not love Amy as you sug-
gest. If he has any choice, it is
you he likes best, for he speaks
oftener of you—and it is natural
as you are the more beautiful of
the two.”

Timid Mr. Harvey! You can
find a way of your own, though,
of saying things.

“ Mr. Harvey,” said Jane, blush-
ing as red as the rose close to her
feet, while she gazed too at him
in unieigned astonishment, “you
must be mad. Amy is the most
beautiful girl on all the borders.
I am surprised to hear you talk of
such a doll as I am beside Amy.
But cnourh of this. I did not
clearly understand, this morning,
your stor of the meeting in the
woods. f it will not weary you,
pr?i tell it again.”

arvey had half prepared a sol-
emn protest agiinst . ane calling
herself a doll; but his speech was
ingeniously cut in two, stopped
and utterly destroyed by this in-
terruption; but whether or not
Jane intended so to do, is one of
those feminine secrets, one of
those instances of true female in-
tuition and instinct -— generally
are, lofty, elevating—which we
ave no right to inquire into.

Harvey asked himself no ques-
tion, but began his story, which
he told with all the frankness of
his heart, but with much also of
that picturesqneness which is the
peculiar province of the artist.

Ie was so often questioned, had
to be so minute and particular and
was asked for so many exp ana-
tions, that time passed away most
rapidly, and Jane was summoned
to attend the supper-table an hour
before she expected, the regular
midday meal having been dispens-
ed with. The picture had never
once been thou rht about.

“Thank you, i r. Harvey ‘ said

 

l

the mischievous girl; “if it’s on-
ly half true, it’s worthy of the
days of chivalry, and Spenser
might have written another Fairy
Queen about it.”

So speaking, she hurried away,
followed by the young man, quite
overwhelmed by this sudden out-
burst from one who for two hours
had listened so attentively and
shown such deep interest in his
discourse. They reached the sup-
per-room, where they found none
save the attendants, and the judge,
who had taken a siesta.

“ Where are the squire and
Charles?” asked the judge.

“ Still sleeping,” re lied Jane.

“And Custa i”? said r. Moss.

“I left him reading,” observed
Harvey.

“ Call them, then,” continued
Judge Moss, “ for supper is ready,
and these brave lads must soon
start.”

A negress went as she was told
and in a few minutes Charles and
Squire Barton entered, Custa glid-
ing behind them almost unnoticed.
The whole company at once sat
down to their meal, which was of
the usual plentiful description,
and for some time little or nothing
was said; there was a kind of re-
straint on the company, which all
felt, though none ac nowledged
it. The greetin between young
Moss and the In ian had been si-
lent, though cordial; but Squire
Barton did not attem t to disguise
the bitter sneer which curled u on
his lip. But Custa looked at im
vacantly, as if there had been no
such person in the room.

“ Custa,” at length exclaimed
Judge Moss, playing uncomforta-
bly with his nife and fork, “I
{inow’that secrecy is an Indian vir-
ue—

“ Ugh i” said Custa, who affect-
ed unusual adherence to his red-
skin habits and manners when in
the presence of Squire Barton;
“ did a pale-face ever gain any
thin by talking on the house-
tops 3”

‘Not much, Custa; but I am a
father, and naturally anxious to
know your plans, since they affect
so much the safety of m child."

“ The gi‘a -beards of e whites
are wise an brave men; but they
have hearts as warm as a woman.
If the stricken hemlock would
speak with Custa, let him say the
word. We shall have supped soon
and Custa and his white friend will
smoke the pipe of peace, where no
roof is above, save the blue sky,
and where none may hear but the
trees, which have no tongues.”

“Go, father dear, with Custa,”
said Jane, gently; ‘ go and smoke
the calumet with our brave friend
and give him from yourself and
me a thousand kind wishes for our
dear Amy.”

“And tell her that if I do not
come,” exclaimed Charles, impet-
uousl , “it is because I am not
suflic ent of an Indian to follow
Custa—at least he thinks so—while
some, too, are needed here.”

“ Charles Moss is a good warri~
or,” said Custa, risin ; “ but few
feet make a small t .”

“And conceited people never
like to be ruled," muttered the
squire.

Custa sed out of the room as
if there ad been no such erson
in existence as the squire. Ie was
followed by the judge, who lit his

ipe and took his seat beside the
gain, on a bench under the din-
in -room window.
he night had come on suddenly
and the whole place was wrapped
in deep darkness. The moon did
not rise until late, so that the trav-
elers would have several hours of
ni ht before they had any fear of
hating betrayed by that luminary.
They could not see more than a
few yards. The dim outline of the
water’s ed a and of the distant
trees coul be distin bed but
faintly and indistinc y yet Well-
detined to the practic and keen
eye of a woodman.

Custa, who had brought his rifle
into the arden began quietly to
load it. 0 had cleaned it some

hours before, ere he had taken up

a book.
H  ”    

1
l

i

 

 

alone with the young W andot,
did not hesitate to mani est his
deep anxiety, “ what mean you to
do? Can I be of any use .9’

“No!” re lied the Wyandot,
solemnly; “ ut trust to me. Miss
Amy shall rest by her sister's side
the day after to-morrow, or Custa.
will be dead.”

“I know your devotion, myste-
rious and inexplicable as it is,”
said the judge; “but oh, Custa!
excuse a father’s anguish. If the
Indians are roused, I have every
reason to dread the worst. Do you
ho e 2’"

“ Custa has found salt and meat
on your board," con ‘.inued Custa,
solemnly; “he has slept in your
house, and the fair girls have
tau ht him wonderful things—to
rea in a book—and Custa knows
that all the pale-faces are not Wick-
ed. Let the white-leaved oak then
be lad—the smile of the fawn
shal be seen in the house ere the
third sun has set.”

The judge took his hand. and
was about to reply, when the In~
dian drew his hand away, clutched
his rifle, leveled it, aimed at the
very edge of the palisade, and
fir

ed.

“What is it ?" exclaimed the
jud 2, while the whole mass of in-
divi uals in the block rushed out,
Jane, Harvey, Charles, the squire
and all the hunters, block and
farm assistants.

“Go look who is in the block-

' house,” said the young Indian, as

he calmly reloaded his rifle; “ you
will look and none will be found.”

Harro , Harvey, and two others
bounded toward the block-house
with waving torches, opened the

V door entered, and then came rush-

ing forth again with wild and pars-
sionate gestures.

“The nest is there, but the
hawk and the crow have fled,”
said Custa, quietly, he not having
moved from the spot where they
had left him.

“ They are gone " replied Har-
ve , furiously, “c can gone—and
yet the doors were all fast.”

“Who is the snake ?” asked
Custa, quietly.

The whole group shuddered and
crowded u closer to the Indian
as the fearful truth enforced itself
upon them that there was a traitor
in the camp. None spoke for an
instant, and each man or woman
looked at his or her neighbor with
a glance of awful meaning. The
demon of suspicion had taken up
its abode in that charmin resting-
place, by the waters of t e pleas-
ant river, and within echo of the
nia'estic forest trees,

’i’he still night, the gloom, the
sighing breeze, the vague darkness
on the opposite bank, the roba~
ble presence of enemies, an those
enemies the loping Indian, with
rocking scalps around his waist,
his ear attuned to such music as
the cries of dying children, the
shrieks of the victim at the stake
the wild, passionate entreaties of
mothers asking mercy for their in-
nocent babes, carried a rlpang of
horror to every losom. he ruth-
lessness, the inhumanity, the glo-
rying of the Indians over the mas-
sacre of the whites, the awful
scenes so common on the borders
—-homes pilluged, whole families
destroyed, or when young, carried
into captivity worse than death—
were things familiar as the dawn
of day to those on the outskirts
of civilization, however little note
may be taken of them by the mor-
slist or the philosopher, re retting
that the red-skins are fal ing like
the leaves of the tree before the
wind, ere the are ripe and ready.

The voice 0 thejudge first broke
the silence of that panic-stricken

grou .
“There is a snake, Custa ” he
said, in accents that tremble with
agitation and alarm; “there is a
snake in my house—a Judas, a trai-
tor, who eats of in bread and
drinks of my cup. an et has sold
me. Woe unto him w en the da
comes that his sin is discovered! ’

“ The time has come,” said Cus-
ta, soleniul , “ that the Dove must
be sought or."

And he turned to Harvey and

 

“

whispered a few words in Delaware
—a dialect both understood.

He then moved silently away,
walked to near the water’s ed e,
sat down ona log close to the riv-
er, and gazed fixedly at the o po-
site forest. He sat, however esp
in the shadow of the stocks e.

“ Custa says,” began Harvey,
“ that if you would rest safe this
night, you will let two sentries
mount guard together, each man
treating the other as if hewere the
traitor. ’

“ His advice is good and shall be
followed ” said the judge. “Woe
is me i would rather have iven
them a bag of dollars and a less-
ing, and sent them away to tell our
number and weakness, than have
this curse upon In house. But
Custa is right, and it must be.”

“ He says," replied Harvey,
“ that the dogs—”

“ Good heavens l” exclaimed the-

jnd e, “the do s never barked.”

“fi‘he negro ed them, and they
never bark at those who come Mm
within—and he bade me say the
do 3 will still keep the water—
100 you well to the stockades.
Harrod we all know, and it would
be well if he scouted outside. Cus'
ta says that he could see every inch.
of the line if he lay where the-
grave of his mother gives a shad-
ow on the plain.”

All shud ered, for the eased
the awful motive of the In ian.

“The Indian is about right,"
said Harrod, solemnly ; “that is.
jud atical and ’cute—it’s just, I
thin , and proper, seeing nother
he nor no man can tell who the
traitor is—leastwise he‘s right—he-
means right and up and down this:
Bill Harrod ’ud never lie close to
his mother’s grave if he meant any
sly Injun artifyces.”

“ Perhaps, honest Harrod he did‘
mean all this,” replied Harvey;
“but he did not mean any thing
harsh. When things have come to
this ass, a man must be careful."

“ usta is right, and Bill Harrod‘
is the man as says so—there is a
precious, creeping, crawling snake
somewhere about,and that’s a fact.
This child wud just like to see his'
fangs, that’s all—he’d extract ’em
in a coon’s whistle, or a bear’s 'ig,
which is moderate time. It es
me, too, to be taken for a low sar-
pent as never went no hi her in
creation than a sink-hole; ut I‘m-
your man, judge; whin you’re
read , I am.”

“ ou shall go, Harrod ” said
the judge; “and though would:
assoon suspect my own son—yesr
I say it, Harrod, my own son—my
duty just now is to act as if I sus-
pected everybody. But I should:
like to say one word to the Wyan-
dot.”

All turned to the log where last.
they had seen him; but not a trace:
or si n of him was to be discover-
el‘, e had disappeared so mys--
tcriously that none could explain]
his departure, except b some wild:

enc like that wh ch adenabled.
t e S awnee and the black to es-
cape from the block-house.

Again there was s hush and 8.x
whis er, and then the crowin of
s coc was distinctly heard, a an.
hour of the night when cocks do-
not usually crow.

“ ‘Tis Custa,” said Harvey, with
a low laugh. “I am but a white»
man, and yet I must join him as
mysteriously. Stand back and let.

me o as he has told me.”

T e bold artist took his un,.
bade adieu to all, and lids up-
close to the palisade. A on this

they saw him 0, with the s pof
aghost, until e was close to the-
water. He was seen no more un-
til about five minutes later, when-
a canoe was noticed floating along-
the stream, apparently without an .
human agency, in an opposite d -
rection to that by which the fugi-
tives had disapp
instant it was invisible—hid by the
heavy loom cast by the tall trees
upon e slow-moving waters.

“God bless them!” said the-
udge, fervently, “and may they

ring me back my child."

“ God bless them !” sobbed Jane
of whom, with all the solemn and-
stately inien of an indian warrior,,
Harvey had avoided taking leave.

 

 

cared. In another

 

-7.“

 

 

“T

 

 

 

“God speed them i” repeated
(‘lnirles and all the rest, save the
Munich who shrugged his shoul-
Hvrs and turned away, after an-
i..-iiin-iiig his intention of watch.
l'ig all night with young Moss in
tin: top room of the block-house.

llarrod took his rifle, called a
companion to his side, shouldered
his arms, opened the postern‘gate
and sallied forth to that mound
where the grave of his mother
stood up from the surface of the
plain, a sad and solitary memorial
of the first and only death in that
locality.

 

CHAPTER IV.
THE cnow’s NEST.

BETWEEN Big Muskingum and
Duck Creek on the Scioto, about
twenty miles distant in a straight
line from Moss House, was asmall
log-hut. picturesuuclv situate in a
Woody bottom, and known to the
few who were aware of its exist-
ciiec as the Crow’s Nest. The log-
hut was situated in a clearing, the
work of one man‘s patient indus-

try.

The forest had, not long :efore,
covered the whole place. But a
horderiiian had come, taken a lik-
ing to the locality, and soon, before
his quiet and indomitable energy,
the spot had assumed quite a new
and life - like aspect. He came
alone, away from a part of the coun-
try which to his mind was too
thickly peopled, because a trail led
direct from his house to a nei h-
hor‘s ten miles off. And there 8
camped by himself, and next mom-
ing the sound of the ax was heard,
and tree after tree fell before the
woodniau‘s heavy blows. Many
days and Weeks did he continue his
labors, until two hunters who had
bad hick, and one of whom was
wounded, came that way. And
the solitary woodman ave them
food and the shelter 0 his tent;
and when they were both recover-
,ed, they paid him back by several
days of hard work1 and at the end
of that time, a so id log-hut ap-
peared, where before was onlya
Collins-«fl mass of felled trees.

Then the trappers went away,
and the woodman was again alone.
lie piled up wood in great quanti-
ties for fuel, and then the ground
being yet licavil incumbered, he
burnt all the sm wood. and made
that wild forest dell up new plea-
sant and comfortable. his done,
he laid n his few tools, shoulder-
ed liis r'r e. and went his way.

It was a little while ere he came

back, and then he reappeared in the
clearing one mid-day, leadiiir a
horse, on which was mounts a
Woman with a child in her arms.
The WUlIlaU was fair and delicate,
with a mild and gentle expression
which was strangely in contrast
with the bulk of the hunter. He
wasnezirly six feet high, with red
hair and sandy whiskers, and a gen-
eral jolly expression of counten-
ance. Fun and good-humor wen
all, in fact, the world in general
rave him credit for; and yet in
rutli lie was a man with a large
heart-a heart commensurate with
his bulk, and full of generous im-
pulses and warm feelings.

She was a cheerful and smiling
thing hy.naturc, though asliadeo
melancholy sometimes stole over
her soft and well-formed features;
and though she did seem a frail
and tiny mate for one so huge,there
was a glance from one to the oth-
er which seemed to speak of ear-
nest :n‘l‘ection and real happiness.

’l'ln-i r story is told in a sentence.

lie was awandering youth, who
never would be confined to the
limits of a town. It might have
ilw‘ll the vast expanse ofthe illim-
ilabie prairie, the unbroken extent
()iiill'l'nt, which make America like
no other land, had given him ideas
of locomotion and travel such as
induced Boone and other ioneera

to go far beyond the Bett ements. ‘

lie this as it may, he did travel,
and young as he was, became a
mighty hunter, wandered u) to
the “'ii‘icl‘lless round Green River,
and followed the chase even up to
the Pilot Knobs.

'l‘ail. handsome, nierr', lirht-
behind he was welcome bac to

 

. \

his native village in the settle-
ments with hearty good-will, every
time he came down to sell his skins
and procure powder and shot; all
the girls especially—and somehow
girls will admire tine, handsome
men, which is annoyin —always
looked upon the return 0 the hun-
ter with singular delight.

He was a merry fellow and loved
a dance. He was the man for a
“ regular frolic,” told odd tales
about knotting panthers’ tails
through the bun -holes of barrels,
and being carrie up-liill fora mile;
gave his partner a kiss “ like a
crack of a cart-whip,” and did any
thing, in fact, which youthful spir-
its and “corn-juice” prompted.

Wild and hamm-scarum as he was,
he was known to be good in heart
true, honest and manly. And yet
it was strange that Clara Barking,
the minister’s daughter, should
notice one so rude; and yet she
did. It was at a frolic where she
went to look on a “pikeruik,” as
the hunter said, where everybod
brought “suiithin’-some a lic
of meal, some a punkin, some a
’possum, some a few dried apples,
some ood teeth and a skin chock
full 0 fun.”

Clara just came to look on; but
he declared she was the prettiest
girl in the room, and, though her
silk did outshine “homespun,”
and were “ fancy doings ” as good
a girl as an ; and, desp te herself
and her 01 aunt, made her dance,
and indeed stuck close to her near-
ly all the evening afterward whis-
pering, in his good-humore way,
all kinds of nonsense; and three
wegks afterward they were mar-
rie .

The old minister shook his head
and wept in secret, as Well he
might, could he have foretold the
future; but he was too consistent
and simple a Christian to say aught
against the hunter because he was
humble and magi, when once he
saw that poor ara‘s heart was
wholly Won. 80 they were mar-
ried, to the extreme surprise, and
in some cases not only the prodi-
gious astonishment, of certain
young ladies, who had considered
the hunter’s attentions as rather
particular.

The hunter now made a compro-
mise between town and country
life. He no lon er wentawa alone
up into the r-distant stricts
where he could hunt for weeks
without meetin with a living soul;
but he built h mself a hut in the
unclearcd country, which, proving
handy forcalls and visits, he finally
transported himself to, the place
we have already described and
which he facetiously called the
Crow’s Nest.

He was now bringing home his
wife.

“’Twlll be a nice farm," said
Clara, cheerfully, though she could
scarce repress a shudder, poor girl,
at the deep and mysterious forest.
beyond which lay, at no great dis-
tance, the Indian town of Chilli-
cothe; “ ’twill be a nice farm,

‘ Walter when the ground is sown;

but is it not rather near the In-
dians ?"

And she casta timid glance at
the child of a year and a half old
in her arms.

“ Now, Clay/H ” replied the hun-
ter, “ ou docsn t mean it. I’m a
mean wn teapot if Idon’t know
what is right and what isn’t. This
log is located splendid. You’ll
have too many friends up here soon.
It ain’t above twenty miles from a
house. Solet’s lift you and baby
off—so ho! wol and I’ll fetch up
the tra s.”

He lifted them off ently and
kindly, and then wen -awa to
where he had left a boat, ta ing
the horse with him. He soon re-
turned with a load, and then an-
other; and before night the but
was furnished, a fire blazed on the
hearth, the horse was staked where
he could feed at will, the watch-
dogs were chained to the two cor-
ncrs of the log, and “ Wally," ashc
called himself, had the sat sfaction
at last of owning a house in his
own st is.

On tie morning on which our
narrative takes us to the Crow’s
Nest, great changes appeared.

The Silent Hunter. ‘7

 

    

'7

 

The log-hut had been much im-
roved; several creeping plants
ad been sown and had risen rapid-

ly,and now hung in green and flow-
ered festoons overt e windows; a
garden had been laid out and fenc-
ed, which Clara had herself" culti-
vated, while by dint of large fires
pcrseveringly applied, many of the
stumps ha been burnt away anda
small field thus formed, which ex-
hibited a goodly stock of pump-
kins, potatoes, and other Vege-
tables, while corn had been lanted
round other stumps at a different
part of the clearing.

A little stream came rippling
down into a pond near the door—-
a tiny stream, indeed, which had
been guided by hollow logs from
a s ring at some little distance:
an near this were ducks and geese
and fowls, while a cow and sevu-al

igs gavea still reater air of com-
ort, and asettle look to the place
which was quite cheering.

And there on a bench, not far
from the door, under a bower of
hops and hone 'suckle, sat one who
was even brig ter and more beau-
tiful than nature itself, in all its
green and gorgeous array.

About the middle hi ht of wo-
man, she would, had s e been a
little older, have been majestic.
But she was so young and there
was such an airy grace about her—a
ghrace of sweetgirlhood, that charm

at lingers so long on some, one
could not grant her majesty. Ra-
Ven hair clustered over a brow
very pale, not from illahealth, but
some constitutional characteristic
while her deep, black eyes, that
floated as it were in a bath of soft
and warm light, overshadowed
with their lashes checks as white,
mouth as lovely, and chin as beau-
tifully carved, as if Phidias had
modeled her, and Pygmalion given
her life.

The expression of her face was
smiling and sweet 'ust now, for she
was teaching a child to read; but
all who knew her, also knew well,
Jane alone excepted, that her brow
could frown, her lip curl, and her
whole face exhibit disdain, pride
and haughtines to a de rec that
many had foun painfu
But now, as she tossed back her
curls—she had taken ofl‘ her straw
hat-and laughed and rattled with
the child, and palate with a pre-
tended frown to the big letters in
the spelling-book, who would ever
have dared to say that she could be
haughty ?

And this was Amy Moss, with
the child of Clara and Walter. She
was giving it a lesson, to keep it
still, while the young mother and
another babe, but a few days old,
Laytquiet within the shelter of the

n

Presently she rose.

“Willy, dear,” said ,Amy, “go
pick some flowers for mamma"

“ Yea, Am," re lied the child.

And Am w ed quietly and
gently to t e lo -hut, making no
noise, entering he house so ten-
derly that scarcel any save the
quick ears of a sic ‘ person could
have detected the sound.

“II that you Amy 2‘” said Clara,
in a whisper. hey were relatives
and school-fellows.

“ How are you, now i"

“ Sick at heart and faint. Where
is the child ?"

“ Pickin flowers for you, Clara,
dear ” ' Amy, offering some
cooling drink.

“God bless yow Amy !-—I feel
very ill today. ould that Wal-
ter were backl I do not think I
shall get over this; something
warns me to be ready togo. How
ion the child tarrics l”

“ bade it go, that you might be

uiet,” replied Amy; “and now,
lara, none of those silly fancies;
on are yet weak and low, which
s natural; but no talking.”

Clara looked ratei'ully at the
beautiful girl, an then closed her
eyes. Am turned to the fire to
replenish i .

As she stooped, she heard a faint
shriek, and rose at once erect. The
mother had heard it, too.

“Willy has fallen and hurt him-
self,” she said, but so quietly, to
please Amy, one could see she did
not think any serious halal alone.

indeed. .,

 

“ \Villy," replied Amy, moving
to the door, wliicli,wlicn she reach-
ed, she stood still—motionless, as
if turned to stone.

The beautiful boy, not yet quite
four years old, was held by the hair

in the hands of a tall and savage-
lookiiig indiaii, '-\ ho l‘ulsmi his
tonializiwk to (iilri! EN 'rv'uil!‘ out.
Two bounds, and Amy Wll> by his
side, and had caught the at in his
hand.

The warrior turned sharply round
and stared at the lovely apparition
with unfeigned surprise and un-

ualitiedadiniration. Fortunately

or Amy, he was young and a chief
who had seen smut-thing ol' the
whites—one remor“ lc~< an" "mi-l
to the men, but generally kind to
the women.

He laid the child gently down,
and allowed Aniy to catch it. to her
arms without any anger. He even
seemed much struck by her gci.
tie and almost maternal tender
ncss. A wild cry of anguish made
Amy turn round, and niakea dash
toward the hut. But llic young
chief restrained her.

“My prisoner—stop here—go
there—scalp,” said the Indian,
clutching her arm.

“ Oh, let me go—save the moth-
er of this child—quick—saw her,
save hei !” shrickcd Amy.

But the warrior held her tirrn,
and by menacing and fearful ges-
ture stillcd the child’s cries, while
a fearful tragedy was being enac ted
inside the hut.

Clara had seen the bound and
the startled, terrified look of Amy.
Unable to bear the agon ' of sus—
)ense, she had crawled from her

ed her little squalling innoeent
held by one hand, and, holding
onto the wall, had reached the
door. Here she sunk on her knees,
as she saw her poor Willy swung
in the ma rli hand of the savage.

“ M chi (1! my child l” she mur-
murc rather than cried.

At that instant a crowd of war-
riors came yelling round the house
in all the hideous panoply of war
and death. One wretcli saw at a

lance that Clara was no prisoner
or them, being too likely to harn-
per their march, and with a malig-
nant 'ell— Can we continue!
Indee , we must. We relate an
event common, ordinary, of every-
day occurrence, during the early
days of the settlements on the
Ohio; an event which, if rlossed
over or softened down, wi leave
our narrative incomplete—a narra-
tive which, few characters except-
ed, and some dates crowded to-
gether, is strictly and historically
true—with a malignant ycll caught
the baby by the feet, and dashed
its brains out against the wall.

It was a tigress, and not a wo-
man now. She rose with super-
human strength to her feet, step-
ped back, clutched a pistol from
the shelf over the table, and shot
the Indian tlirou rh the heart, as
be rushed to seize an ax that
caught his fancy. She then fell to
the ground, and was immediately
scalped by one of the band.

The death—instantaneous and
unexpected, the ball having reach-
ed the heart—of one of their num-
ber, roused the Indians to frenzy,
and out they rushed to wreak their
fury and revenge on Amy and the
wretched child. But the warrior
spread his hands over them and
motioned them away.

The Shawnees, unable to kill
and slaughter the prisoners ofthcir
youn chief, Black Eagle, or, as he
has since been called, Tecumseh,
turned round in search of some
other prey, and such was their in-
furiated state that, forgetting all
caution, the began shooting the
fowls, out o sheer wanton rajrc.

A cry from their chief calledathe
whole party round him.

“ There are pale-faces in the for-
est. Will the young men bring
them down to see one of their
wigwains in our hands? Go—you
are boys.”

And motioning Amy to rise, he
turned toward the forest. The.
warriors, who were nine in num—
ber, sullcnly followed, after last-
ening the dead body of their com-
rade on the hack of the horse, and
driving it Vlth the pigs and COW

 

8

Beadle’s Dime Library.

 

 

before them. This reckless expo-
sure of their trail betrayed extreme
confidence or dee design.

Amy looked at t e hut with fixed
and glazed eyes. Her face was
rigid and without expression, her
mouth open,while her hand clutch-
ed the quivering form of the child.
She knew that all was over in the
hut; she knew that that babe she
had dressed an hour before so ten-
derly was gone; she had seen Clara
fall, she had seen her scal cd, and
yet herself was spared. he even
rose mechanically, took the child
I3) in her arms, and slowly follow

the Indian.

“ Mammal mammal” cried the
child stru ling.

“ Hush— am your mother now
—hush, or the man will beat you,”
said Amy, wildly caressing the
babe.

By much coaxing, and by her
own wild and incoherent manner
alarming the child, she stilied its
cries, and soon disappeared with
the savage and ruthless warriors
beneath the arches of the forest-
all but herself lorying in the deed
of blood whic was in accordance
with all Indian characteristics.

All was still and silent for about
an hour and a half; and then, who
came whistlin through the woods
a merry tune, he usual si nal that
papa was coming home Who
was it laughed and called to his
boy to come help him carry that
fat deer, which, lazy one, he would
be lad enou h to eat?

’ is onew 0 shall whistle and
laugh no more, despite his la e
heart, his glorious spirits, and h
keen sense of enjoyment. 'Tis one
who comes to bow beneath the
chastening hand of God. Will he
acce t the sorrow meekly?

alter cast the deer at his feet

. on the edge of the clearln and

looked cautiously around. here

wasa dread of something he knew
not what, coming over m.

“ 'Tis pla ng quiet," he sai
withacolds lver. ‘Willyl Willy
3y boy. Don’t, now—no’possum

cks ’

He nevers oke, he never lau h-
ed again tha sorrowing, grlev ng
man. He had caught s git of the
dead ducks floating on e nd;
he saw clearly the trail of t e In-
dians; and with a roar like that
of some awful beast of the force
be bounded across the water an
entered his house.

He came out, bearing Clara in
his arms, and laid her on the
ground in the bright sun, and then
near her he placed the man led
corpse of the poor infant. en
he walked round the house fear-
fully, as if looking for somethi
else. But he found nothing, an

came slowly back h rd, pale,
glancin his eyes Ifllfifi; into ev-
ery thic et.

At last he started. Straight
across a lowed field was the track
of the ndian trail; and there
were Amy’s steps; and there, for
a few yards, the tiny little shoe of
Willy had left its riut upon the
ground. Then he ad been taken
up by Amy as the agonized father
conjectured from a slight change
in her step.

Then that untutored heart, wild
in many thin s as the savages who
had made his cart desolate, stoop-
ed down and kissed the imprint
of his child’s foot upon the soft
and telltale earth.

He then rose and returned to the

lace where Clara and the babe

. She was quite dead—he knew
it well. He had no ho e, none
whatever here; and as e
at the beloved form of her whom
he had prized so much that his
love amounted almost to venera-
‘iion, he gnashed his teeth, he tore
his hair, and then we t a passion-
ate a bitter flood of ears.

is head rested on his knees;
his eyes, closed flrmly, were cov-
ered b his hands; and thus he
satafu lhour. What assed with-
in his mind—whether e prayed or
whether he made some vow—no
man ever knew. But at the end
of the time he rose, and though
his face was pale, his eyes sunken
and haggard, all traces of tearshad
fled. at was over.

He turned and went into the

 

house, item which he almost im-
mediately after emer ed with a
spade and pickax. I was in the
garden, where a bed of flowers
grew that had been Slanted by her
own hand, that W ter began to
dig his wife’s grave. As he struck
the pickax in the ground, a flood
of tears n, despite all the en-
ergy of h s character, burst from
him. But he wiped them away
with his hands wildl , and then
continued his task so emnly, qui-

etllg, sadly.

ehad dugtothe depth of three
feet, and was stoopiii to lift a
hea shovelful of cart , when he
hear footsteps. He raised his
head quickl , even furiously, and
then a pe ectly flendish expres-
sion crossed his face as he met
the glance of an Indian warrior.
He made a sign as if he would
have bounded from the grave to
where his rifle lay, when a voice
checked him.

“ Wall ,” cried the artist,“inthe
name 0 God, what does all this
mean? Are you quite mad, too,
that you do not recognize Custs 1”

Walter came out of the grave
and took a hand of each, which
he shook with somethin of his
old heartiness. Then e made

si s to them to follow him out- '

si e the garden, and pointed to
where Clara and her innocent lay.

“Ugh!” exclaimed Custa, who
shook with agony as he leaned on
his rifl .

e

“ Dead and seal ed ” cried Dick.
“If some red-sk n on’t pig for
this mighty quick, I don’t ink.
I’ll give them goes in no time.”

And the artist dashed the stock
of his rifle heavily on the round.

“ Where is Amy ?” aske Custa-
lo in a low, husky tone.

alter pointed to the trail of
the Indians. The two bounded
toward it.

“ There is her foot, and there is
that of the boy,” said Dick.

“ Ugh!” re lied Custa, “she is
alive and e e for the present.
When the morrow dawns we will
be close to her. The sun will not
set in the west for two hours. We
must crawl like panthers after the
wolves.”

“ Let us come and bury the
dead,” exclaimed Dick, who, when
his feelings were much moved, al-
ways spo e distinctly and clearly.

‘ Wagh l” said Custa, coldly.

They went back to the edge of
the grave, which was now deep
enou h, and over which Walter
stoo with flxed eyes and a solemn,
earnest, sad, and melancholy mien
that was truly heart-rend n to
look at. He looked at the c ayey
mold, and he seemed to think, was
that the bed whereon Clara should
lay her snowy form ? was that the
resting- lace for her innocent
babe? wo feell s seemed strug-
glln for the mas ifiwithin him
—ha and despair. ate conquer-
ed, with all its wild, burning at-
tendants—rage, reven e, fury, the
whole horde of mar erous imps
that ride upon the most hellish of
our instincts—because it is the
most op osite to the holy precepts
of Christ anit , which men do scoff
at and deny, ecause it is simple,
not subtle; because it asks nothin
of their boasted intellect, all 0
their heart and soul.

He brou ht his wife himself to
the edge 0 the rave, after wrap.
ping her in all h s best linen and
skins; he placed the mangled babe
in its tiny cradle, and brou ht, too
his best articles of furni ure an
broke them up—for what purlpose
his friends could not say. hen
he lowered her into the grave, and
having laid her decently and en-
tly down, placed her poor chi d at
her feet, and with broken chairs
and tables he began to build a kind
of arch over her, that screened her
form from the pressure of the earth
which was to conceal her both
from man and the prowling beasts
of the field forever. The friends
stood by without giviu him any
assistance, as he seems to wishto
do it all himself. They silentl
handed him whatever he appeared
to want, and waited.

Presently he came out of the

vs, vs one harrowing look in-
finite g oomy and wild depths, for

 

so they seemed, and took up his
spad

e.

Harvey spoke then.

“Shall we assist you, Wally l”
he said, ently.

The 0 er shook his head and
began his self-imposed task with
all the usual energy of a wood-
man. The earth sounded hollow
as it fell on the hoarding of boards,
and the two com anions, white
and red-skin, shud eredas its dull
echo came to their ears. for both
knew and esteemed her whose gen-
tle spirit had once inhabited that
mortal fabric. The Crow’s Nest
had been their favorite resting-
place during their hunts in the
woods, and there they had always
found a hearty welcome, a bed and
flper, from the kind hostess, the

nister’s dead daughter.

The grave was soon filled, anda
tall mound marked the spot where
rested the body, the soul being
elsewhere in God’s keepin 0
Clara Barking once, then ‘lara
Harrod; niece by marriage-ties to
the judge, and sister-in-law to the
honest sentry of the block, wife
of one of the most celebrated char-
acters in American border history,
Warren Hanson.

The rave was finished (grits,
and the unter moved away his
house from which he brought out
a smail barrel of min owder. He
tilled his horn qu 11 and then
he buried the rest about two feet
deep, close to a charred stump.
This done he went back and set
fire to his in: by pilin up all the
furniture in a heap w th ha and
grass. As it blazed up he re t-
ed to some distance and seemed
determined to see the utter de-
struction of his home ere he de-
parted. He stood leaning on his
rifle, gazing vacantly at the flames
as they rose and fell, crackled and
splurted in the warm air of that
autumn day.

It was a terrible scene to view.
That morning the clearing had
been redolent of life ; that man had
left it to hunt the wild deer of the
forest, with a happy, joyous smile
upon his honest face; and his wife
had whispered low that he was to
take care of himself for his Clara’s
sake and for that of the innocent
babe and dear boy; and Walter had
laughed, and bade Amy Moss scold
her for talking so weakly of dan-
ger where there was none—and
now the hand of the destroyer had
swept away all that made that lit-
tle spot a thing of beauty and a
thing of joy—t e soul had aban-
doned it. and naught was left but
the outward frame, without ani-
mation, without life.

And the well-dried log-hut burn-
ed on high, and the flames rose fu-
riously, and the blaze burst forth,
and here crawled like serpents up
along the roof, and here roared in
the chimney and the flowers dried
up and perished in an instant, and
smoke beat down about the fields,
and Walter Harrod leaned on his
rifle and laughed a wild, savage,
horrid laugh, that was painful to
h

car.

“He will be ready soon,” said
Custa, in slow tone—“ the panth-
er is savage, the wolf creeps, the
snake glides, the rattle - snake
stin ; but the white man will
be ercer than the panther, more
sly than the wolf, more silent than
the snake, more deadly than the
deadliest thing. Every crack of
his rifle, a red-skin will die.”

“You me about right, Custa.
He’s awful riled and cut up; he’ll
be on the trail of the varmi-nt in
no time. I pity the red-skins he
fiesta—they d better be dead, that
s all.’

“ The Great Spirit has taken
swa his brains," said Casts; “he
is li e child learninng walk. We
must guide him, or e will fall in-
to the trap set for the black bear."

“ He must stick to us awhile—
but he’s making signs to us," re-
.)lied Harvey, who, followed by
Custalogaa approached him.

He sa own, s read some pro-
visions motione to them to eat,
and di the same himself, after
swallowing a horn of potent com-
juice, which few men in these days
could have stood without wineing.
But the trs pers and backwoods-
men were ways accustomed to

e

 

 

drink spirits undiluted with water,
and in very large quantities. Ab-
stinence was unknown in those
days; when some men drank h e
quantities, they were the dru -
ards; some drank in moderation-
they were called sober and tem

perate.

Neither Custaloga nor Harvey
refused the offer, and for some
time the trio sat in gloomy silence
Then that man, alter Harrod,
the 81mm HUNT uprose, shook
himself, and made sign that he was
about to follow the trail of the In-
dians. His friends made no ob-

ection. All looked to their rifles,

elt for their knives and then away
the went along the wide open
trai which seemed to lead toward
the Indian village of Chillicothe.

They had now entered upon a
task of extreme difliculty, danger
and doubtful issue, one that re-
quired the exertion of all that acute
perception and that indomitable
cou e which mainly led to a suc-
cessf end the enterprises of those
bold men who did the work of civ-
ilization on the borders of the early
settlements. Harve having pro-

osed, and the Silen Hunter mak-
ng no objection, it was considered
accepted, that Cnstal was chief
of the expedition. e at once,
therefore, assumedthe lead. They
moved in Indian flle along the
clearln —Custa first, then Harro
then arvey, until the reache
the western extremity. en they
all turned round and gave one sad
look back at the scene, after which
they in advanced, and were
soon u terly out of sight beneath
the leafy arches of the forest.

The hut smoldered, the sun
shone, the dead slept, while the
domestic fowls flew away scared
and frightened - and that which in
the mornin had been a little
earthly para e, a picture of joy
and pure delight, was now a scene
of desolation, decay, and death.

But about a quarter of an hour
after the departure of the three
avengers, a solitary Indian strag-
gler came out of the woods,
with a sin ar expression 0 sur-
prise and erocious delight at the
scene, and then striking the dou-
ble trail, plunged again into the
Egon: cover of the forest, on the

me ate track of the white men.

 

CHAPTER V.
m summ- m'raa’s 0am.

Tim trail was clear and obvious.
There were the marks of the In-
diaus’ feet, of the irl’s moccasins,
and the hoofs of t e loaded horse,
of the cow, and the grunting drove
of ‘pigs, that stragg ed every now
an then as they went along, and
were driven into order or goaded
to advance at the pain of a lance.
They were able in this way with
so sure a. track, to proceed with
considerable activity and ease, the
more that the route was a beaten
trail which the Indians were wont
to use on their many friendl visits
to the Crow's Nest, where h therto
they had been received with ex-
treme friendliness by the heart
woodman, who had often hunte
with them, and even fought with
them, when quite a boy, against
their hereditary foes.

The trod u on the trail then,
one r anot er in deep silence,
until the wind be n to sigh over
the trees, the goom to collect
overhead, and the forest began to
assume that mysterious and solemn
appearance which is always pre
sented by extensive woods on the
first approach of night. It was
about a quarter of an hour before
dark that they came in sight of a
stream, one of the tributaries of
the Scioio river.

“ Hist i" said Costs to his com-
panions, who were moving list-

essly on, Harvey admirln with
the eye of an artist the c an as
produced on the leaves b ghe
crepuscularli ht, the Silent unt-
er moodil re ecting on the past,
and br ing on the future.

All three stood instantly like
statues, though a tremuloua ner-
vousness shook for an instant the
stout frame ofHarrod. Then they

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

9

 

 

' The Silent Hunter.

 

gazed curiously where the finger
of the Indian ointcd to a small
column of smo e rising from the
water‘s edge. They again advanced,
but no longer on the trail, having
concealed themselves beneath the
deep shadows of the interior of
the forest. In another instant they
saw that it Was an abandoned fire
and they immediately emerged
freely into the small open space
by the banks of the stream. All
three instantly son rht the trail on
that side first, an then on the
other, by wading. But all trace
of the whole party was gone.

“This is Indian devilry with a
vengeance,” said Harvey, angrily.
“Have they spirited her away, or
have they hid in thetrees ?”

“Hist.” re lied Custa, “there
are cars in the crest. Look at the
stricken pine—he has no tongue—
he is silentas the tall tree of the
forest that rocks the humming-
bird to rest, and sin no lullaby
that can wake the ec oes."

“If he ain’t got a tongue, and s
locrum is inconvenient to him,”
continued llarve , smiling, “he
has got eyes—loo , he has found
something.”

Harrod was on the other side of
the stream near the fire, and when
the joined him they found that
he led discovered the bones and
some small parts of the cow which
had been slu htered and in part
devoured. T 1c horse was also
immediately afterwards found,
just behind the bushes, croppin '
some grass, and so hoppled thati
could not go far away.

“ Ugh l’ said Cus oga, in alow
whis er.

“ his is the queerest start I
ever saw. I uess we’ve got an
ounce of dust 11 our eyes, or we
can’t see for the dark. I suspect
thglay are just hid close by.”

ea,(ilie Silent Hunter shook his
in

“ Water is soft, and earth is
hard; but the earth leav a mark
and water shows no trail.’

“ That’s it," said Harvey; “ they
had canoes—by m, they must be
in force. They ve slummucked
the pigs and the cow-beef, and left
no mark.”

“In the morning we will rub
our eyes and see clear ” replied
Caste; “ they have ut t e plunder

' and prisoners in t e canoes. and

have walked. ‘But they are not
coons; the will not deceive a
Wyandot. nthe morning we will
find their trail.”

“ I an pose you are about right,”
said arvey, “and that we’re
bound to wait. But this is a hot-
tish place for a camp, I conclude,
Custa. My scalp kind of crawls
at the idea of sleeping here."

The Silent Hunter made a sign
for them to follow him. They
clearly understood by his manner
that he had a better lace to show
them, and they be already, b
his directions, entered the bed 0
the river in an upward direction,
and were fifty feet froin the fire,
when he clutched them both vio-
lently, and imposed solemn silence
by a esture which was not to be
mists en.

The gloom had now settled on
forest and plain, the song of birds,
the gobble of the turkey the c
of tie sandhill crane had cease ,
and naught was heard save the low
whispering of the trees, as their
heads met and kissed, and that
m stcrious song of nature, a kind
0 low hushed, broken chord of
some fiolian harp, that often ac-
companies ln vast solitudes the
settln of the hot sun—the fall of
night eing felt almost as well as
heard.

But a step was in the forest—a
step advancmg stealthily, itis true,
but with some little want of can-
tion at times, as if the benighted
stran er were sure of finding
frien round the fire which he
saw blazin in the distance; for
the woo men had p sel
roused it from its dying eta an
made it blaze on high.

Then a dark form appeared on
the edge of the circle of light, the
very extreme edge, cring slowly
around, listening w th the ear 0f
sstartled deer. Something made
bun dart back to seek cover. but

a with trees and shrubs. _
the depths of the gully, all was

 

 

it was too late. Simultaneous  dogs here and Wm “g'ln- M.”

with the click came the sheet of
flame and the swift messenger of
death. He bounded on hi rh, gave
a wild veil: and then cll flat
near the fire. Harrod who had
done this deed, went qn etly back,
finished the unfortunate wretch,
and then came to join his com-

anions, who conversed in inaud-
blc whis ers relative to the con-
duct of arrod, which was clearly
that of a man who had bound him-
self down to a mission of revenge.

In another instant he was b
thdr side, and passin them, 1
up the stream towar what the
two hunters well knew as the
Devil’s Gull . They had implicit
reliance on he woodcraft of their
huge and fearless companion, who
knew every taming in the forest;
but still the had so often, durin
panther an deer hunts, visits
the spot, that they could not un-
derstand how he was about to use
that place for the purposes of con-
cealment.

In about ten minutes the water
began to rush swiftly by, the banks
wine nearer and nearer, they were

sding far above their knees and
then t cy stood at the mouth of
the Devil‘s Gully.

The night was dark, but, their
cycs'now growing accustomed to
the gloom, they could distinguish
the principal features of the scene.

0 banks of the river were now

suddenly girojected upward to a '

hight of fty feet, about half the
way up precipitous rock, with a
bush desperately clin ing here and
there, the other haf a shelvin

mixture of earth and stone dotthfi
Below, in

dark; even the silvery thread of
water that in the day when the
sun dived down to cool its rays in
the ve caverns of the n ht,
might e seen runnin sw it‘lly
alonr, could now only 6 hear ,
rumhhng, rushing, dashing by like
the waters of a s uice.

Herve could not restrain an
eXclamat on. 9

“This is almighty rand l" he
said. “I guess they on’t host
this in the island.”

“ Come,” re lied Gusts.

Harrod had isarpeared.

“ Hillo l where is he i” exclaimed
Harvey. “He ain’tcarried away
by the water, is he i”

“Come,j’ said u;
“ there is atrail in the sw ft water.
Let your hand never leave the left
rock. The eyes of an eagle could
not see—we must feel like moles.”

Harvey obeyed and found by
keepin his ban glidin along
the rec ‘, that he thus wa ked on
a lcd c, that was scarcely cove‘red
by t e water, which swept furi-
ously by, deep within two inches
of where how ked. They moved
in utter darkness. They saw noth-
in but the rock the muched
w their hands; t ey heard
nothing but the swift current to
their right.

Harvey was advancing, still
wondering when all this groping
in the dark would end, peering
forward to try and catch a glimpse
of those who preceded him when
sudd nly his hand slippc from
the amp, cold rock onto what ap-
pearcd stubble, and he heard the
voice of Custa by his side instead
of before.

“ Wagh " said the Indian, whose
manners, anguage, mien, actions,
were one continual struggle be-
tween his sav e and civilized
instincts, those of childhood and
those of manhood—“a beaver in
a dam, a fox in a hollow tree, an
otter in a hole ueVer made such
Ioacheas this. Wu rh ! it is good.”

A torch which 0 Silent Hun-
ter now lit with his tinder-box, re-
vealedto Harvey the nature of the
place. It was a niche in the rock,
about fifteen feet high, ten across
the month, and as many deep,
overhung so by the two banks
that even a fire could not betray
it, while even in the daytime
smoke would have been dispersed
are it reached the summit of the
tall trees.

“It‘s a rare burrow—a reg’lar
fox’s hole. I expect man an old
four-legged red—skin has one the

 

It's beautiful. This is your old
noise, when you came up here
afore there were any settlers in
these parts.”

Harrod bowed his head.

He had fixed the torch in a piece
of wood which had been cut and
planted for the purpose. He left
the two friends to do the rest,
though he showed them a hole in
a corner, where there were wood,
deer-meat, a ug, and some skins.
Harvey and usta quickly made a
fire and cooked their su per, which
having finished—in 'th s passively
imitated by Harrod—they lit their
pipes and prepared for a “big

k" on the duties they had to
perform—duties which did not
affect them in an equal de ree;
for what can equal, what beglike,
the earnest solicitude of a sion-
ate lover, whose mistress in the
hands of such ruthless beings as
the?wlld savages of North Amer-

ca

And Custal a, the brave and
devoted Wyan ot, did love Am
with all the wild ardor of his ha -
tamed nature—loved her too,
without be e, without ture
without an i ea that his love could
ever be aught save a dream—and
thus, perhaps, had his affection
risen to the gleater hight, as it
was invested 'th a melancholy
and sadness which tohis wayward
nature but half conquered by
education, was not without its
charm. .

Custaloga loved Am , the am-
anced bri e of Squire ton, for
whom he had an instinctive dis-
like, which, however, had never
manifested itself as yet in any we
save that already escribed. Hz
ignored his existen e.

Amy saw this and wondered.

But her secrets we are not privi-
leged to reveal until the day and
hour when she avows them her-
self, and deprives them of that veil
of obscurit gnd doubt which we
may not rs se, even the h, from
the journals, notes, and le tors be-
fore us, we have already mastered
the Watery.

“ hat is Harrod up to?" whis-
pered Harvey; as soon as he had
loaded his pipe to his own satis-
diction.

Cnstsloga looked not to the
right or left, and yet his eagle eye
had caught the outward character
of his occupation in an instant.
He was whittling.

In his hand was a long piece of

inc-wood, which he was striving
brin into shape with his hunt-
ing-kni 6. After some labor he
succeeded to his satisfaction, for
he ceased and proceeded to bore a
hole through one end, through
which he afterward passed a
tho He then, with a grim and
allergy smile, out one notch.

All this while the two friends,
who were thinking over their
glans, had watched him in silence.

at as he cut the notch Harvey
gave a cry of suigrise and horror.

“It’s a tally, usta. Hundred
thunders!” cried he, “what a
mole-eyed, one-eyed gunner I am
not to have seen it afore. It‘s a
tally, and that notch is for the first
Indian. Why that stick will hold
a matter of two hundred.”

“On the waters of the wide
lake ” said Custa, holding up his
hand toward the north, “the red-
skins wear a bead for every scalp.
Our white brother cuts a mark in
a little bit of wood. Carry it
about like the little gods of the
priests.”

“Bah i” said Harvey, “ not our
priests; you will confound the

atrium with us.”

“They all worship the same
Father,” replied Custa, in a low
tone, talking rather to himself
than to Harvey; “why does one
man say one thing, one another f”

Custa si hed. As et religion
had not fu ly touched his heart.
He understood Christianity to a
certain extent, and yet the faith
was not in him, though Amy and
Jane had both striven for years,
aided by Clara’s fhther, to open
his eyes.

The Eccentric Artist made no
reply, not wishin to enter u n a
topic which h often in need

Il

 

heated arguments between them.
fie smoked his pipe with re
doubled vigor, and gazed with a
mysterious awe at the bereaved
husband, whose kindly nature and
warm heart appeared to have ut—
terly fled before the fierce, un-
tamed passion of revenge.

To speak to him he know “as
useless now while the night of”
sorrow and "wrath was on his rivlll,
concealing all that was bright :nzd
good on earth, and prompting him
only to deeds of darkness.

“ Harvey," said Custaloga,wlwn
he had smoked his calumct pipe
in peace for some time, “ my heart
is very sad; the singing—bird is
safe in the Wigwam of her father;
but the queen-bird is silent in the
lodge of the Shawnces.”

“She is, Gusts,” replied liar-
vey, moodily, “and must be got
out, if we fight. the whole tribe of
din catamounts."

“ .Iy brother,” said Custa, affec-
tionately, “is a brave, and not a
boaster; he talks of fi hting a
cloud of men, but he ocs not
mean it. The Shawnce villages
are as many as the weeks of the
year, and each village has more
warriors than there are days."

“Then by all the b’ars in Ken-
tuck, what is to be done ‘3” ex-
claimed Harvey, impatiently.

“ When a fox sees a fat partrid e
in the grass he does not fly at it, ‘
because he has no wings; he
creeps and glides, while the birds
nestle; and though they do fly, he
is quicker than they, and runs into
the woods with his prize.”

“ I understand you, Custa; you
are up to some devilry vou learnt
among the Wyandots. Well, well
it's your natur’, Costa, and I
won’t gainsay it. Besides, in the
woods it’s right—I know it is.
Indians ain’t re iments, and for-
ests ain’t regu ar battle ~flelds.
What do you ropose?’ ,

The young ndian rose to speak.
There was none of the semi-edu—
cated gentleman about him now.
He was all red. He laid down his
calumet and his rifle, and assumed
all the dignified mien of a chief
and a warrior. The two white
men looked at him-Harrod va-
cantl and listlessly, Harvey wrth
that eep earnestness, that strong
affection, which, by some strange
instinct, the secret of which he
little knew, he had always felt for
Custaloga.

“The Shawnees are women.
There are beasts in the forest, and
birds in the air, and fish in the
streams, and warriors in the great
hunting-ground under the settm
sun; but theyare too lazy to.hun
the forest, too idle to shoot the
bird, too stupid to fish the stream,
too cowardly to fight with men.
There are a few lon -knives in the
woods, men who ma e themselves
wigwams, and row corn to make
themselves their bread, and hunt,
and fish like red-men, domg them
no harm. And the buried the
hatchet, and smoke the calumet
of peace with the Indians. But
the Shawnees are skunks—they
shake hands with the right arm,
and kill with the left. They have
come like red foxes, and they have
stolen the (ucen bird"-—hcre_he
spoke fierce , and then his vome
sunk to a mcfimcholy softness that
was quite musical in its deep, mel-
.ow sadness—“they came like
cowards, like skunks and pole-
cats, and they have killed a woman,
and the little pappoose that could
not walk, and stolen the little
bounding-deer, the son of the

e-face with the large heart.
file, are gone, like beasts, to
burrow in their holes. But men
are behind. Let them look, and
they will gaze on warriors ; one of
them has already seen the face of
abrsve.”

And he bowed gracefully to
Harrod, who, however, made no
I

‘Tho great heart is weary; the
friends of Costa need rest. Let
them lie in the cache tonight, and
follow on the trail when the sun
1 hts the earth. Custa Will go

(glalhere tot" asked Harvey.
quickly.

  

io

Custaio a then developed lib
plan, whlc was simple enou h.
There was an Indian
about nine or ten miles ofl‘, and
thou h in a straight line, the way

was iflicul yet one used to the
woods coul o and return in a
night. Cus oga believed from

his intimate knowledge of the
tribe to which Tecumseh—the
young chief who had saved Amy
~belonged, that the prisoners
would in the first instance be taken
to that place, as the nearest, and
also because it was close to the
village of Tecumseh himself, who
doubtless would claim Amyas his
rize.

“ But how do you know it was
Tecumseh at all? ’ said Harvey.

“My brother is very quick of
eye, but he is not an Indian, born
in the woods. Can you read the
little marks on a book i’"

“ Well, Custa, what a question;
you know I can.”

“And an Indian can read the
print of a foot,“ said the warrior,
with a rim smile, as he saw the
pun bu could not check it.

“ ow for an Injun to make a
§ilclike about the print of a foot and

e print in a book, is mighty
jueer " put in Harvey; “ wouldn‘t

ane aurh and show her pretty
teeth. S e’d say six years’ study

had done you good, too.”

Custalo remained silenta mo-
ment, as l ashamed of his weak-
ness, and then continued his ex-
planation in the same dignified
and solemn manner in which he
had commenced it.

He proposed to enter the village
under cover of the night, trusting
to his skin, and discover, roaming
about, whether Amy was reallg
there, as this would materially ai
their plan the next day. He un-
dertook to return before daylight
in‘ti'r'rli‘? £0: a shorrit asst; id H

s paguy s y, as ar-
‘vey, moodily. “I don’t like i
Custa. A pgretty kettle of fish
you et too .”

“ will not be taken," replied
Custa. simply.

“ I know you won’t—but you’ll
be worse," continued Harvey,
suiklly.

“Custa will not be scalped—he
hasl long legs,” said the Indian,

a n.

“ You promise that? Now mind
—if you are found, you’ll make
tracks and run.”

Custa made signs that he would,
and then began taking off every
particle of dress that ooked like
an assumption of civilized arb.
In an instant he stood almos in a
state of nature, an soolo for a
tunic beginning at his wa st and
hanging to within four inches of
his knees, and his moccasins,
being his whole dress. He then
took from his hunting-bag) the
necessary materials, and egan

inting himself with rent care.
Iarrod, however qu ckly tock
the matter out of his hand, and
finished him off so perfectly, that
Harvey quite starts .

“I wouldn't advise you to let
Amgjsee on,” he said, gravely.

“ gh, ’ replied Custaloga with
the deepest guttural sound he had
yet uttered.

“ You know she don’t like you

in any Indian fixings—but in that '

she’d hate you.”

The oung warrior looked very
grave, ut made no reply. lie was
ready, and standing up, his rifle in
has , his horn and shot-pouch
hanging from his naked shoulder,
he said a ulet good-by, and pre-
pared to epart.

“ Nonsense, I'll come down the
gull‘yi‘ with you—”

“ he night is very dark, the
stones are slippery—stay—the red-
skin warrior will ro alone.”

“ Wiliful and o stiiiate like all
his race," said Harvey to himself.
“ Ah me! it’s a risky thing, a very
risky thing. The lad must be in
love with Amy.”

And thus roused, his ideas took
another road, and soon led him on
to think of Jam'; and once direct~

ed into this (-2 not, he lost all re-
collection of w . my thing else, and
sunk irtn «mt wi‘ dint-:0 rim-7n

visions of love and hope and )0
which wane mmetimes in meat-5i

.-__.-.._.

 

solitude of night, whether we be
in down-beds, or on the hard rock
or grungy earth, with nau ht above
us ut e canopy of hen en.

At last Harvey fell asleep, but
he did not sleep long, for when
his eyes 0 ened again, the tire
burnt still rightly, and Harrod
lay in so (ice and heavya slumber
that he cou d scarcely have re-
plenished it. Harve sat u , lita
pipe and his though turn rig to-
war the young Indian, he be u
to feel extremely uneasy. at
he had undertaken he knew to be

rilous in the extreme—one of

ose Indian artifices, which sue-
ceed sometimes from their extreme
boldness and audacity, but which
are attended with an amount of
danger and diflicuity which make
them rarely used, or only in ex-
treme cases like the present, where
the feelin s of the actor impelled

him even the ver e of rashness.

Harvey d a the else or
with pity. He lay still now; is
stormy sions his fearful sor-

rows, he re rets, his anxieties,
his burning esire for vengeance,
all at rest; and perhaps—who can
say t—some sweet and eheerin

dream of the dear ones, some so

vision of the night was his, givin

to his soul some of that pleasan
rest which the bod I derives from
cessation from lab .'

“ He sleeps— oor fellow, I must
not wake him ’said the artis

ently. He alwa s liked tha
earless spirit, the warm-hearted
though Wild hunter. “ How hush-
ed and still this place is! Ah,
what is that f"

He leaned down carefully in the
dark shadow of the rock, clutch-
ing his rifle, as a heavy body was
clear'l‘ly; heard above making its
way rou h the bushes. On the
opposite a de ofthe gull the bank
rose about twent fee precipi‘
tously, and then s oped back—an
inclined plane, covered by shrubs
and trees. Through these some
body of considerable weight had
a pearedtoslide, and then stopped
cibse to the edge of the cliff.

Harvey peered cautiously up—
it was brig t moonlight now—and
raised his rifle, expecting every
minute to see the glaring eyeballs
of an Indian looking down upon
them from that h ht. The noise
continued, the bus as parted, and
the head of a panther, that had
scented out, with his keen and
horrid instinct, the presence of.
men, came looming outin the pale
moonlight.

“My.” muttered Harve , and
then without a moment’s eeita-
tion, he fired.

A roar, a yell, and thena boun
roclaimed that the savage beas
End fallen, or made a sprin at
them. Harvey instinctively rew
back to clutch his knife. The
smoke of the gun revented his
seeing any thing at rat, and then
he beheld the panther, which,
wounded and bewildered for an
instant, had missed its aim and
fallen into the river, preparing for

another spring.

The fierce, untamed brute, the
only approach to lion or tiger on
the American continent, glared
wildly at Harvey, and hung out
his horrid tongue‘kfust as he re-
pared for the fa spring. he
artist shudder an dropping
his n stood wi his back the
w , his long, keen huntln -knife
presented at the beasgrzhe andle
resting on his chest. e nther
gave a low whine, wagged ts tail,
and advanced its pews onto the

e of the niche.

his moment was fatal, for at
the same instant a dark, shiny
object swung in the air, and a
huge and ponderous American ax
came down with irresistible force
on the cranium of the beast, which
stunned, its head split 0 n, fell
back with a savage cry an was car-
ried away by the rushin stream.

“ M i ’ said Harvey, rswing a
long reath, “ that was a sledge.
hammer hit, I don’t think. Herr
I‘m much beholden to you. Idi
feel mighty skeered—tlnit fellow
would have eat me up slick. Well,
{‘mi're off again, are you? You

ke it uietl ex ct. i don't.
1 mean to ill“ tat “i! it'll

Beadle’s Dime Library.

 

 

And taki onl his knife, Has
vey dmenggd on the ledge, and
be an groping his way dOWn the
gulf, which was a little more
igli than in the evening, under

,the influence of the moon a

cold, and quivering rays, that rop-
ped here and there through the
open space between trees and
boughs. He advanced the whole
length of the gully before he saw
any at of the unfortunate brute;
but t are at the mouth of the
~avine it lay by the bank, motion-
1&98, still, quite dead. The tre-
mt :dous force of the wood ’s
ax, "fielded b such an arm,

caus ‘ death 0 be instantaneous.

“ It ‘ mighty tall brute ” said
Harvey, ho now was am e trap-
per—“a n.. 'hty tall brute. I ex-
pect that skin will make a fine rug
or Miss J ans—so, lest the wolves
should tearl which umd beapity,
I’ll just skin t on the spot.”

And he did. He drew it ashore,
and there, regardless of danger,
laughing at the wolves forgetting
his own lesson to Gas oga, for-

etting that the ioping and mur-

erous Indians were a out, he sat
down, and never stopped until the
skin was quite clear of the car-
cass. Then, and only then, he
started on his way upward to the
nichtlsl, carrying his prize in tri-
um

e laid it up safely, and then,
somewhat tired of his strange
occupation, he went soon to sleep,
and slept so heavily, that nothing
disturbed him not even the howl.
ing of the wolves, as they fou hi
and gorgfid themselves over 0
bodyof e dead panther.

 

CHAPTER VI.
m raoc’s non.

Mamwnru: events were also
where taking place, which are so
essentially necessary to the proper
understanding of our narrative
that we must eave Custa to per-
form his journey, the inhabitants
of the block to grieve for Amy,
and she heuelf to continue on her
way with the indians, while we
introduce characters who will
have much to do with the elucida-
tion of events, and the clearing up
of the mystery which attaches to
a very large portion of our narra-
tive. The early events of our
etc have however, been, in
rela ion to incidents, so rapid that
we have not been able to turn to
what may in the outset appear
asubject of minor interest, but
which will in the end be found to
be absolutely necessary to the un-
derstanding of what follows.

At some distance from the
Seioto river, up toward the hills,
hitherto chiefly frequented by wild
traipers and men of the woods,
by ordermen, and by a race of
some bandits left by the war,
horse-stealers, cow- thieves, and
others—about three hours’ hard

— ride from the Moss, and an equal

distance from Scowl Hall—was a
shant , log, or farm-house, which
had 0 tained, from the locality in
which it was situated, the name
of the Frog’s Hole. It was noto-
rions by name to most of the wild
bordermen—had been used as a
place of refuge by runaway ne-
groee; but was chiefly the rendez-
vous of the abominable race of
White Indiana, or renegades, who
played so infamous a part in the
war, and who, as outlaws and out-
casts of societ , were com lied,
when they wis ed to meet or the
purposes of conspiracy or amuse-
ment, toselect some s 0t where
the were safe from e honest
wli to men : from the Indians they
had nothin to fear. Here it was
that the sp es, too, of the British
army were wont to quarter during
the war; and here might often be
seen Red-Bird the Shawnee, Simon
Girty the ex-American, now the
bitter enemy of his countrymen,
whom he had betrayed; Captain
Peter Druyer, a Canadian, once in
the service of England, now a
wanderer; and here, during the
war, the celebrated Captain Du-
quesne had often organzied his
e editions.

small and beautiful glen, with
v. s and lamb uni aims bursting

 

from its fertile sides, conducted
the waters of a pleasant stream
into slittle pool or lake, which
after barring up the entrance 0
the valley again fell away to the
west, and by a windin course
aincd the Scioto, and t on the
hio. A path round this pool
led by a number of steps in the
rock, to a rustic lodge, opening on
to a platform, upon which Was
built, leaning against the rock, a
house of somewhat antique up
pearance for that part of the
world. It was built partly of stops,
and partly of wood.

It was a uaint old building, the
inn of the rog’s Hole. Forabout
five feet from the ground it was
of stone, moss-covered, and fast-
ened together b plaster. Then
rose a wall of anks, supported
on the inside an the out by beams
of wood that reached to the first.
story, which was a kind of loit,
made use of as bedrooms, and to
be reached only from the outside
by means of a adder. The house
was longer than it was deep or
high, extending some distance
along the rock, and showing such
a Godly row of chimneys as to
ho§d ou alpromise of plenty with-
in. And p euty there was for those
who had money to pay, as Ralph
Regin was a man who respected
his customers, and took care they
should want for neither meat nor
drink in his house. There were
barns, and ribs of beef, and legs
of mutton, and fowls, and turkeys,
and corn-cakes and hominy; but
whence they came was another
thing—a question, however,which
none of the visitors ever asked.
And there were whisky and Hol-
lands, and brandy in profusion;
and whence these came all knew.
for few who frequented the house
but aided in bringing up a supply
of flery liquid, which sometimes
brought more wretched Indians
about the place than was agreeable
or leasant.

he platform, when the bridge
was crossed, circled round tic
house on the side of the pool,
which it towered over by some
thirty feet—a steep and rocky des
cent of great difliculty, and which
never would have been attempted
in the face of a resolute enemy.
It was, however, here that water
was drawn up by a bucket, which.
hung over the part where the pool
was shallow, and showed the gold-
en sand at the bottom bright and
sparkling. .
0n the evenin of the day be-
fore Amy Moss fe i into the hands
of the ruthless gang of Sliawuccs
it is that we introduce this place
to the notice of our readers. It
was a leasant evening, and the
rich ti e of sunset fell with deep
low on the mossy walls of the
inn, and illumiued the face of a
irl who stood beside the bridge
ooking down with thoughtful
mien upon the plain below. She
was about nineteen—a tall, hand-
some girl, of rather bold and de-
cided mien, as if accustomed to
rude life and the companionship
of rough men, especially those
who frequent inns and grow bois-
terous, maudlin, or ferocious over
the demon drink, which, let a
man’s prejudices be what they
may, is an awful master to get
complete hold of a man.

She had bright, sparkling eyes
and white teeth, which she was
rather fond of dis layin ; and she
wore a bodice like a Swiss girl,
and short woollen petticoats, and
red stockings- the whole neat and

aunty and ascinating—a little
Igiawel, in fact, of a Dutch picture.

er character will better appear
from our narrative than from any
description.

“Father,” said she, suddenly,
in a cold voice as of one who
spoke that word from necessity
rather than choice, “there is a
traveler crossing the dvke "

“ Who on airth is it i’" replied a
thick voice from within.

“Well, I don't know; i think
it’s Ezram Cook, the peddler-mer
chant.

“ My 1” said the other, coming
out and shading his eyes with his
hands, to catch the figure of the

H} We:

 

 

 

 

 

G'UV. 'u—‘rvvw<‘

 

 

 

 

 

 

y.  ,_-___ U.

 

 

 

The Silent “Hunter.

 

Hls eye fell first on the deep
foliage of the forest, which could
be seen mellowing away into the
far distance, golden and sparkling
beneath the setting sun; then it
came down to where the trunks
and roots of the trees were left in
deep shade; and then it settled
upon the ti‘glll‘L'Qf a man moving
along stea ily on a horse with a
smafixymck.

“ ell, it is Ezram Cook, I do
declayre; he’s been up selling and
collectingr in his money, I expect.
Martha! thar’s one with a mighty
good craw coming to supper. So
you‘re a-lookin r out for him, are
you? Ile won t come here to-
nirht.”

‘his was said in a half-sneering,
half-anxious tone, as if the speaker
hardly knew how the listener
might take it. He was short,
thick-set. and powerful in make,
but every thing in him was un-
gainly. lie wore a dog-skin cap
close over his low forehead, which
formed a perfect pent-house over
little round gray goggle eyes, that
were forever moving i'esfllessly
about, as if afraid each instant of
lndians, or constables, or some
thing terrible—lie could hardly,
perhaps, say what. lie wore a
thick beard over chin, face and
upper lip, so that “me could be
detected of expression, save where
his thin lips, (‘itlrcd over his pro-
jecting teeth, gave a savage and
brutal expression which iichr
failed to strike all beholders. He
wore a great loose blanket coat,
corduroy trowsers,and huge,lieavy
boots made for contending with
mud and swamp; and his name
was Ralph Regin. He had once
been hostler at Scowl ellall, years
before. but, detected in a theft,
had left it. and never been seen
again, until one memorable occa-
swn, hereafter to be described,
when the negroes said they saw
him lurkiiig about the premises.

A terrible murder had been per-
petrated about the time of his dis-
appearance. An inoffensive Dutch
settler, with a very pretty wife and
child, and pessessing, it was well
known, considerable wealth, had
been murdered near his home
down by Wheeling, and his lo '-
iiouse fired, and his wealth, faini y
and furniture destroyed with it.
The tire was so tremendous in its
sfl‘ect,that when there came neigh—
bors from the nearest station, it
was reduced to a pile of ashes,
and was ever after left a memento
of a terrible and mysterious tra-
gcdy.
“ I know better than you,” said
the girl, after a pause. “that he
will not come tonight. His beauty
will not be here."

“I reckon not; it ain’t likely'
the boys ain’t up yar yet, and I
don‘t conclude one or tu will like
to go down to Crow’s Nest. liar-
rod ain‘t no chicken, I know.
He‘ll tit.”

“ Of course he will, and I hope
he‘ll kill the wretehes. What
does he want with this work?
She is to be his wife—”

“Wake snakes and walk chalks,
my pretty Kate,” said the ugly
innkeeper; “not so sure—”

“What mean you ‘3” exclaimed
the girl called Kate, clutching his
arm.

“Well, don’t be so mspisll. It
seems she don’t convene to him
just as much as she used; she’s
kicked once or twice; she don‘t
'ike to break off, and jist right
away, but she’s riled him a few.
[lowsomdeven he knows she don’t
like him."

“Why, then, will he persecute
her? Why will he not give her
up? He must be ineaner and
baser than an Indian.”

“You women is so mighty
quick. She’s rich, and my! ain’t
the W’tfnl—fiif‘il eyes. and sieh .
skin; she’s about the smartest gal
in these parts."

“ Ralph Regin," said the girl,
advancing close to him, “ what is
the meaning of all this? Why am
I tortured thus? Did you not say
she never should be his, and that
I should be his wife? Speak, I ask
on?"

“Don’t hollo!‘ I ain‘t deaf; I
wish 1 was. Lox! a cataniount’l

 

 

nothin’ to a ’ooman. Well, I did
say so, and the mole-eyed varmint
shall, tu. I’ve sot him a riddle.
S’pose I say s’p0se {IT—and the fel-
low laughed—“ s’pose some few
of Injins war to be afore them
spekilators, ch ‘2”

“ What mean on ? Give her
up to the bloodthirsty red-skins ?"

“You’re mighty pertiklar, you
are. But they ain’t toe kill her-—
not by no means. She’ll fetch ten
thousand dollars, she will and no
mistake ; and I go halves.“

“ But what is the use of all this?
He’ll be angry, and that will not
serve me." ,

. “ Kate, now du tell, what on
airth makes you like that var-
mint 5’” said the other, imploring-

y.

“Ralph Regin—for I can not
and will not call you father—will
you ask why the wind shakes yon»
der trees ? Will you tell me why
the panther will come to one par-
ticular plaCe to clutch his prey
despite all dan er? Will you tell
me why the ird clings to its
mate, and the chicken runs to
seek shelter near its mother? I
can not—I only know that I love
him. He is a bad man—a bold,
bad man—but I knew not this at
fifteen; and then he said soft
words to me, and his eyes looked
love, and he smiled, and his voice
was gentle, and—and—I loved
him. What then that I know he
loves another—that he would wed
her, and not me? I can not alter
it. I hate and love him both.
New love is uppermost; but hate
may be one day, and then~—"

“What then?” sneered Ralph
Begin.

“Never mind; here comes the
poddler.”

“ llillo! Leave the old boss in
the stable, Mister Ezram; he’ll
never run up thyat ladder; that’s
no horse-thieves up yar.”

The peddler made no reply, but
took his horse into a stable at the
foot of the rocky stairs, and after
a few minutes returned with his
bags, pistols, and a somewhat
heavy portnianteau, which Ralph
assisted him to carry up the steps.

“ Evenin’,stranger,” said Ralph,
pretending not to know the ped-
dler, who had never been up there
before; “jist in time for supper;
come doon country i’"

“Well,” replied the other, a
down-east Yankee, “I are ,- I ve
been doin' a considerable slick
trade; got in the browns mighty
well. Sold yup considerable figure
ui- watches and chains; lad to yar
supper is read , 'cause in famish-
ed and tired.‘

They had now reached the top
of the steps. Kate was looking
hard at Ralph Regin, in whose
eyes, even in that twilight, she
thought she detected a strange
expression.

“ Give me your bags and let me
show you a room,” said she, ab-
ru tly.

he stran er started as he gazed
on one so air and neat, and his
countenance assumed an expres-
sion of satisfaction as he followed
her. They passed through a room
used as kitchen, dining-room and
tap-room, went up seven steps to
the door of a room which Kate
threw open, and in this the trav-
eler deposited his goods. When
he had done so, the girl, who was
bustling about in rather an an rry
way, as if this kind of work is-
gustcd her, pulled the key out of
the door and gave it to him.

“ There are many travelers here
sometimes, so keep the key of
your room.”

The peddler started, but the face
of Kate was so calm and careless
that he took the key, made no re-
mark, and went down-stairs

The room was lar re and airy.
A large fireplace, which admitteo
of benches within its ample di-
mensions, was occupied by a huge
iron pot and a turkey roasting.
A woman of about fort , some-
what stout, handsome sti l but for
a wild and savage expression was
preparing the evening meal. A
dresser covered by abundance of
crockery, a bar filled with colored
bottles, a huge table, several chairs
and stools, guns, hams sides of

l

 

11..

 

 

bacon hanging round the walls,
with two wmdows and many doors,
com leted the scene.

“ guess that smells fine,” said
the eddler, rubbing his hands.

“ hat kind 0’ hvin’ have you
had lately, then?” asked Ralph.

“Nothin’ solid or pleasant-
birds and dry jerked beef.”

“Poorish. Well, it’s better
farin’ yar, so turn to; we’re all at
home. ’

All sat down—the woman, who
had black hair and eyes, and tawo
dry finery, and a coral necklace,
and a watch, and a dirty lace cap,
at the head, Ralph Regln at the
end of the table, Kate and the
pcddler opposite the tire. The
sup er was plentiful and well
coo ed. There was liquor in
plenty, and the eddler, who was
very weary, ate his meal in silence,
swallowed a horn of corn—juice
lit his old pipe, and stretche
himself on a beach by the tire.
Kate helped to clear away, and
then sat down also, and took up a
book—a strange thing up there,
and yet there were many in that
house, for Mrs. Regin had been
almost a lady once, and had, de-
spite crime and guilt, educated
her child up to a certain time.
Kate now wanted no assistance,
and one who wished to obtain her
smile, often bro ht her such
books as he thong t would suit
her taste.

Presently the eddler-merchant
rose, yawned, sa d he must start
“ airly,” and takings light, wished
all good-ni ht, and went to bed.
Kate. who ad never turned ovei
a singie .eat of her book, and
who had been watching every mo-
tion and look of the man who
called himself her father, also lit
a candle and went to bed. Her
room was beside that of the ped-
dler, but on a level with the
kitchen.

“Now, Martha,” said Ralph
Begin, in a low, hushed voice,
hissed forth from between his
teeth, “that eddler’s box is full
of dollars an watches. He must
slee in the pool."

“ o more murter,” replied the
woman, sinking into a chair, and
hiding him from her with her
hands.

“ ush! the girl may be listen-
ln l"

And Ralph rose, crawled across
the room, but stopped as he heard
‘iliate singing merrily at her win-

ow.

 

CHAPTER VII.
rim INDIAN VILLAGE.

WHEN Custalo left his com-
panion in that w 1d gully of the
woods, he be n his journey with
all that caution and circumspec-
tlon for which his race have so
long been widely celebrated. His
ear drank in every sound, he trod
the woods with the lightness of a
fawn, his feet scarcely stirred the
leaves and twi s which covered
the ground, an his arms were so
held as to avoid all chance of con-
tact with the tiees.

There was somethinv singularly
solemn in the aspect 07' the forest
through which the red-man glided
noiselessly, stealthily, as a snake
does through the tall prairie grass
or the thick under-brush. For
some time his path led through
the thicket that skirted the side
of the stream. This, however, he
crossletd at the first convenient
oppo unit and lun red dce in-
to the forestitself? It iiow became
truly a matter of wonder how he
gui ed himself, how he found his
wag. All was darkness, gloom,
an night There was notasound
to tell that nature was not dead.
Not an owl booted, not a wild
beast was heard to roar; and the
gentle sighing of trees in theli ht
air that prevailed, was all tiat
told that nature still lived and
ruled creation.

_But Custaloga moved along
With the unerrin instinct ofa
woodman, one of t eflrstfeatures
of whose woodcral't was to find
his way where no man else could
guide himself. When one has
iecome in some de rree accustom-
"d to the forest and: the prairie, it

 

is singular with what case he pene-
trates in adirect line through wilds
where there seems no guide.

But the mess on the trees, the
pebbles in the path, the color of
the bark, the twinkling of a star,
the point of arock, are indications
to the hunter as sure as rigli-irrist
or road. As, however, Custaic-za
proceeded, he slackencd his in c,
until at last, he paused, loi-in-d
round, and then seated hiiiiscii‘ :it
the foot ofa tree. lie Was now on
the summit ofa gentle slope, \ci‘y
thickly wooded, but with scarcely
any; undergrowth of bushes.

ustaloga had rested himself
for about live minutes, and had in
that time gained breath and consid-
ered the course now to be adopted.
He began by hiding his rille behind
a tree, whence he could easily
snatch it, but where, from several
trunks being together, no one
could very easily see it in passing.

He then lay flat on his face, his
ear to the ground. The change
from the stillness of night in that
gloomy thicket to what he now

ward, was very singular and strik-
ing. Ileseemedquitesurrounded
by busy life, by some pilulllus‘lilu-
orial life, through which ilt' could
ear murmuring,wliispering, buzz-
ing, but which he could not see.
The gentle wind which prevailed
came up the slope, and brought
with it sounds of warriors rravcly
talking, of maidens laughing, of
women scolding, of,dogs growlin
overa bone—all the usual mani-
festations, in fact. of Indian life.

“Ugh " muttered Custaloga,
whose Wyandot caution had served
him well.

Generally speaking, it would
have been quite safe for the In—
dian warrior to have approached
the camp of the Shawnees at that
advanced hour of the night with—
out many precautions, thc Indians
not being in the habit of sitting

up much after dark. But, on the'

present occasion, something out
of the common doubtless made
them more than usually excited,
and Custaloga at once made up his
mind that it was, as he had expect-
ed, to this village Amy had been
brought, and that the warriors
were tellin r the stories and narra-
tives of tieir adventures while
smoking their pipes over the cam p-
fires.

Having gone so far and learned
so much, the Wyandot was not a
man to retreat without making
sure of the fact he was so deeply
anxious to know, and by which he
intended guiding his future pro-
ceedings. Instead, therefore, of
retreatin when he discovered
that the ndians had not retired to
the shelter of their wigwains, he
merely determined to act with ex-
treme caution and circuinspcction,
clearly, however, showing, that
he did not intend to retreat. He
now kept nothing on him but the
small breech-cloth of the Shawnee
warrior on the war-path, fastened
his hunting-knife in his belt, tight—
ened the thongs of his moccasins,
and began quietly descending the
slope toward the village. It was
a position and an hour which
would have sorely tried the nerves
of any, save a borderinan or an
Indian.

He had advanced a hundred

ards before the voices, which had

een so plain above when he lay
on the round, became again an-
dible. e now seemed a vision
of the night, so solemnly did he
stalk on toward the edge of the
clearing. In a few minutes he
stood as near as was consistent
with safety to the indian villagre
of Wya-na-mah, a kind of outpost
of Chillicothe.

A large, natural opening in the
forest, where an arid soil or some
accident had prevented the thick
growth of trees, or wmch in days
gone by had been cleared, had
been selected b’ the Sliawnees
for their town. bout thirty wig»
wams had been arranged in menu-
circle round an open grass-plot,
much worn, however, and stubbly;
and behind these a rude stockade
was visible, which also extended
round in front, leaving only two
entrances to the village, Which

were guarded by hungry dogs.

 

 

-i.erc were two tires on the
9 en lot in the center, round one

wh ch about twenty warriors
were collected, while as mans
women and girls were congregate
near the other.

It was a wild and singular scene.
Around, the dark and gloomy
forest; above, the sky, now illu-
mined by the rising moon' and
there, the conical hate of the
terrible red-skins lyin still and
yet marked in the moo ight; and
their owners, those grim and
ghastly warriors who during that

ay had wrought so much evil and
done so much mischief—mischief
never to be forgotten—sittin
there like peaceful citizens in the r

leasant homesteads, talking,

ughin , chattering thus at even-
tide, wi hout any of that gravity
and soiemnity assumed at times
for a purpose. It was truly a
subject for the pencil of a Murillo
ora Claude. And the merry mg
of girls, and the sedate an s
women, were, with the children,
the dogs, and the other little
addenda of the scene, singularly
picturesque.

Cnstalo a stood in the deep
shadow o the trees, about thirt

ards from the fire around whic

e women were congregated. It
was evident, from e stockade
being, in some instances, built
close up to the trees, which thus
could easily have afforded den or-
ous cover to the lurking foe, at
the Indians considered themselves
tolerany secure up in Wya—na-mah
or that they trusted chiefly to
their scouts outlying in the forest.

And Custaloga looked in vain
amid that group of tawny girls and
bowed an chastened women, for
the form of Amy. His quick and
piercing eyes wandered every-
where around the camp, but not a
sign of her existence could be
seen in any direction, nor of any
, thing else which that day had been
stolen from the Crow’s Nest, the
property of the Silent Hunter.

Still, from a few words he was
able to distinguish, he was satisfied
that Amy was concealed in one of
the huts; but his determination
was so great to be certain of this
fact, tha utterly disregardin all
ideas of anger he determine to
enter the camp itself before he de-
ptarted, and satisfy himself upon

is point. The manner of Custa-
lo was not at this instant that
0 an Indian warrior. He seemed
rather one of the children of the
pale-faces, so impatient did he

appear.

at with a shake of the head he
kept down the rising feeling of
boyish impatience which had
moved him, and stood close to
the tree which afforded him
shelter—so closely, indeed, that he
seemed (part and parcel of it. He
appeare a statue, not a man; so
motionless, so upright, and yet so
graceful was his mien.

He listened to the talk of the
girls, he heard the gnttnral tones
of the warriors, the bark of the
do over their bones and then
an denly he started, despite his
self- ossession, as ahowiresound-
ed rough the forest—a wall, a
howl of woe, uttered by one ion
practiced in such screeching.
deathiike pause ensued, the war-
riors were all silen the rls
laughed no more, as waitc for
the explanation of this noise.

A woman came staggerin from
out a wigwam,her hair disheveled,
a tomahawk in her hand and ad
vanced, still howling and wailing
toward the warriors, who rose to
receive her with a marked polite-
ness which would have done
credit to the most civilized society.
Iiaving reached the group, she
halted, and was immediately in-
ciosed b the circle of women,
who kep at a respectful distance,
still near enough to hear distinctl .
Custaioga himself felt inclined
advance ; but he contented himself
with gliding forward to another
tree, and then stood still, leaning
{inward listening with rapt atten-

on.

“ Cosama was a brave—~no hunt.
er " she began, “ever made his
w gwani warmer, or kept it better
supplied with meat—he was never

' thces is here,” said this

 

the last on the war-path, his cry 

was always heard on the battle-
field; his wife and little ones were
happy for they knew the husband
an ather was a brave. And where
is Cosama now i' Is his voice
heard at the council-fire to-ni ht?
Will his cry ever wake the ac oes
in the forests sin? N 0. He went
forth, on the rst day of the moon,
to fight the sneaking ale-faces,
and yesterday he fell n 0 an am-
bush, and the great warrior, Co-
sama the brave, the Quivering
S ear, died by the hand of a squaw.

ahl The wigwam of Rice-stalk
is empty; no more shall the voice
of Cosama bid his woman go fetch
the me in the forest; no more
shal his be run to meet him on
the edge 0 the wood, and learn
to be a brave at the sound of his
voice. Cosama was a brave, but he
died by the hand of a s uaw. A
woman of the pale-faces in on-
der tent, a-pappoose is by her do;
they are al vs, and Cosama is un-
avenged.”

Cnstalog‘a shuddered, clutched
his knife and drew back for a
bound. His eyes glared, his form
seemed to swell, and one would
have said he was about to doroek
less battle with the whole tribe.

 

CHAPTER VIII.
m man. or a men's.

Tun widowed squaw is ever an
object of ity amo the abor-
igines, pa culari 1 er husband
was a brave and ell on the war-
path. But she whose form now
stood before the camp like an aven-
ger, with tomahawk upraised
and face distorted with passion,
was the wife of a favorite, for Co-
sama had been anoted warrior and
looked forward to the day when
the tribe should honor him as a
chief. Hence the plows: of the
spgeal for the sin ter of Amy
an the child woul prove hard to
thwart, as Custaloga only too
well knew, and in that instant of
peril to the pale-face prisoner the
noble savage had gathered his
strength as apanther justready to

spring.

Bu awarrlor moving quicklyin

her th, arrested her steps, and,

seiz ng the tomahawk from her
rasp, left the woman powerless
or harm.

“The white girl of the pale-
warrior,

lacin his hand In nhis heart;
‘her e is very ear. Let the
widow of Cosama be still; she
shall have other victims to immo-
late on the grave of her brave be
fore the moonisout. Goithe name
of Cosama lives, though his s irit
has gone to the Manltou; an we
all know he was a brave. ’

The squaw bowed her head and
retired to her solitary tent, to
mourn, with her little ones, the
death of their only stay. And who
shall ea , des ite their ignorance
and ben lgh state how much a

r ch d of the forest mourns

e beloved partner of her joys
and sorrows, when death has taken
him awa i He isa rude master
and but ittle of a companion to
the red-skin squaw ' but the posi-
tion of husband an wife is oneso
nativer beautiful, that not even
the savage modes of wild life can
destro the sacred character of
the all ance. We well know how
tenderly a wife will mourn for one
who durin life has not been all
he should a; an in her station
and her walk in ii e, the Rice-stalk
had found Cosama a good and
affectionate husband.

This interruption ended the
watching for that ni ht; the wt»
men, girls, and chi dren retired
at once to their wigwams, the
warriors whispered among them-
selves an instant, and then, one
after another they glided away to
their several homes, and not more
than half an hour elapsed era
every thl lay in profound and
solemn s ence. The dogs even
ceased snarling and rowilng as
they gathered round t e entrance
to the camp.

(histologa now commenced his
dangerous and arduous enterprise.
it was one which required much

Beadie’s Dime Library.

 

. :.T._y_

 

time and the most acute caution

and patience. An Indian sleeps
with his ear read for the slightest
strange sound, is hand within
reach of those weapons he
knows so well how to use. The
young man then trod, with slow
and noiseless step, back into the
wood, the way that he had come.
At the distance of twenty 'ards
be halted and remained per ectly
still, listening for about a quarter
of an hour. Nothing conveyed
an idea to his mind that any of the
subtle savages suspected his pres-
ence, and were on the watch. He
accordin ly turned to the left and
advance in a somewhat circuitous
direction, until he believed him~
self near to that part of the camp
where were confined Amy and the
child. He then faced the vil e
once more, and advanced with t a
most stealth of steps toward the
wigwams. n five minutes more
he was within a yard of the stock-
ade, which was very rough, but it
was six feet high in this particular

lace, and the danger consisted in
ts ving wa under his weight,
an thus by e noise giving the
alarm.

A tree stood close to the stock-
ade. Itwasatail birch, and its
boughs hun over the cam right
between tw wigwams. y is
means Custaloga determined to
enter. The boughs were about
ten feet from the round, but this
was no great culty, and the
Indian was soon up amid their
branches. Then he tried the large
bough which hung over the camp,
shook it gentiyto see if it were
sound or rotten, discovered thatit
would fully bear his wei ht, and
be an slowly to crawl aong it
an ii in a few minutes he was ri ht
over thee t where he inten ed
to descen .

He listened once more; for now
the least error would endanger the
success of his enterprise.

Not a sound came from the

camp.

He clutched the boughs with
both hands, droppled one leg, and
prepared to fall. he impulse was
momentary; he quietly resumed a
crouching osition on the boughs,
looked bac to see what chance
there was of regaining the forest,
and waited.

An Indian warrior stood » about
ten yards distant, his face toward
him, his ear apparently drinking
hi every sound, his whole mien
and position indicating that he was
listening with profound attention.
He ap red sa isfied at last, gazed
vacan ly around, and re-entcred
his Wigwam with all the careless
manner of one who is perfectly
convinced that there is no danger
to fear.

Still the young Wyandot waited
another quarter of an hour, and

then slowi slid off the bough
hung by two hands, an
dr0)ped.

e was in the enemies’ camp,
and, if discovered, completely 11
their power.

But despite all his caution,
Custaioga knew no fear. His mys-
tery, his se eat-like mode of
proceeding, h 8 slow and deliber-
ate mode of action, were meantto
insure success, and not solel to
save his own life. Had the wi ow-
ed squaw been allowed to wreak
hervengeance on Amy, he would
have bounded over the low palisade
in front of the camp, and defended
the white irl against the whole
village Wig] his single arm and
knife. .

He now stood erect, iistenin
oncemore. Heheard nothingbn
the hard breathing of the tired war~
riors with certain nasal sounds
which proclaimed some of them
more than usually heavy sleepers.
He then moved forward alon the
wi am which contained my,
angwlooked deliberately in at the

oor.

A ray of moonlight, ierc
throu h an orifice above ige dots},
fell f on the form of the sleeping
girl and child. There she was, her

eautiful hair hanging in clusters
round her face and shoulders, her
face very pale unnaturall so in
the shadows of the moon, er lips
parted and moving, her arms as

 

circling the happy child that slum-
bered, all forgettinlg and dreaming
it was by its mothe s side no doub
arded by the dear arm of her who
ad loved it so well. A pile of
skins formed their bed, while one
was partially thrown over them.

Costa was almost tempted to
enter un remopiously and awak-
en her,when he shuddercd all ovr r,
as he saw lyin across the doorvruy,
wrapped in s ins, an old womnu,
who, from her supposed sleepless-
ness, had been appointed to gmml
the entle prisoners. Another
consi eration restrained him —
the fear of wakin the child; and
then a infui ness came over
him as e reflected on the mortal
aversion Amy would be too likely
to display on seeing him in his
war- aint.

“ hy was Iborn an Indian?”
he muttered,” he looked with rapt
eyes on the beautiful picture be-
fore him.

But he felt that this was a time
for action, and that if he would
ever gaze on that lovely girl again
in life, he must proceed with his
duty. He was assured that she was
alive and uniniured, while her
exact position was a valuable dis-
cover , which would almost insure
her ii erty if he could leave the
camp quite undiscovered. He
paused an instant, however, to
reflect, and then came to a resolu-
tion which he felt in the de )ths
of his heart was wrong, butw ich
he determined to carry out. This
was to inform Amy of his presence,
and of the efforts made to release
her. Creeping, gliding, holding
his breath, he went round to the
back of the Wigwam, where the
head of the gir lay, and slowly
stooping down began to. carry out
his plan. He drew his knife, and
calmly and deliberately cut a
small hole in the side of the hut,
which, exce t the framework, was
of skins. l e then put his mouth
to the orifice.

“Amy,” he whispered, close to
her ear.

The girl quietly and slowly open-
ed her eyes.

“ What is it, Jane 1’” she said, in
a murmuring tone. She thought
herself at the Moss,with her sister.

An instant undeceived her.

“Amy ” repeated the voice, lna
low, timid whisper.

The girl made a si 11 that she
heard, and then slow y and deli-
berately hummed the child to
sleep, as if it had been waking.

The Indian’s heart bounded with
delight as he noticed this evidence
of caution, the result of his own
teaching.

“ ’Tis ; Custa. Be easy; friends
are near; you have been saved to
be the wife of an Indian—"

Amy gave such a glance of un-
mitigated disgust t at the poor
Wyandot almost fell back with the
violence of his emotions.

“ Do not refuse him," he con-
tinued, in a melancholy whisper;
“ but ask time. Before you can do-
cide friends will be near.”

ll‘he grateful smile that crossed
the lips of Amy was balm indeed
to the young man’s heart—he who,
when speak ng to her, gave up his
figurative dialect and made himself
I pale-time in his talk.

“ Be cautious and hope," he
again said.

At this instant the old worhar:
raised her head slowly and can-
tiously, but not so slowly and can-
tiqusl but she was observed, for
Amy . oss began again to sing the
lullaby which before had hushed
the babe to sleep. Custaloga, too,
took the hint, and rose with ex-
treme care from his kneeling pos
ture, and pre ured to depart. A
moving soun within the but made
him start, and retreatin r rapidly,
he lay flat on the grouu close to
the palisade, justas the old Wo-
man appeared behind the Wigwam
and peered about.

She saw nothin , however, and,
muttering about eve-struck fools
wanderin round the hut of the

le-face girl, she returned to

or rest.

Custaloga gave her time to fall
gain into a soothing sleep, and

en rose to iii-part. iiut it up.
peered he had stayed too long,

is.

 

 

 

and that his departure was not to
take place so easily as he originally
(“Ci-cctl'll.

‘\ ti‘nit in Indian courtship
\' hit-h at any other time might
\cry much have amused him, was
Low destined to make his posi-
t...n one of almost hopeless dif-
i‘mnltv.

The young warriors of the tribe,
when seeking the hand of a youn
girl in marriage, will rarely, '
cver, manifest their affection open-
ly, or converse even with the Ob-
‘jcct of their love in the presence
of others. Stolen interViews are
then the only opportunities given
to the lover who would whisper
soft nothings in a woman’s ear.
’l‘hesc generally take place at
cventide, when the girl goes down
to the spring to fetch water, or
pretends to do so, which is much
the same thing.

When, however, this opportu-
nity does not offer, or when the
young warrior has been absent
some time, he seeks an interview
under the circumstances, detailed
in our narrative

Custaloga distinctly saw a can
warrior, about nineteen, 1 an
powerful beyond the usual ratio
of Indians come forth from a wig-
wam in his left, and advance to-
ward the slumbering fire with a
slow and measured step, not as if
he sought to hide his movements
but the emotions which raided
his actions. He halted eside
the embers, stooped and picked
up a small stick, li hted at one
end, which he place between his
tin rers, so that the hot coal was,
as it were, in the palm of his hand.

He then deliberately advanced
toward a large family Wigwam,
where slept a father and mother
and several grown-up daughters,
and entered about a yard within
the doorway. He then stoo ed
and by the aid of the bit of lig ted
wood selected the precise spot
where la ' the ob'ect of his afi‘cc-
tions. c then eld the wood in

‘the palm of his hand and blew it

ently, so as by its lurid light to
s now his face to the maiden of his
heart.

He then rose speech being an-
necessary, an came with the
usual dignified walk into the open
air, rc-approached the fire, and sat
down upon a log smoking his
pipe. Ina few minutes the In-
dian maiden came tripping lightly
along the round, and took her
seat eside t ie young warrior,whol
alter a short time iron to mas-
culine solemnity, yielded to the
still small voice of nature, and
began chatting' and Whispering
like any other over in any other
part oi the world. He whispered
and she giggled, be pressed herto
fix the happy day, and she said
something merrily sarcastic about
his not yet having earned the
right to have a wife; and so the
time passed mirthfully, swiitl to
them, and there seemed l ‘.tle
. chance of their leaving oil their
interview until morning dawned.

Slowly, indeed, did the hours
pass to Custaloga, who at flrstim-
agincd that the amorous confer-
mim- wrilllll histbnta fewminntes.
He soon saw, however, that the
affectionate pair would laugh and
giggle until the rosy sun came
bursting forthto chase the ray
dawn away, when he woul be
iutally a prisoner, and all he had
learned at so much riskhopelessly
ost.

lie k new, likewise, that his res
cnce thighs seal the fate 0 the
girl and child, and bring about, in
tin-t, catastrophes of the worst
character.

To return the way he had come
was hopeless.

To attempt to cross the camp
unobserved was equally futile.

’l‘o H'qu behind the wigwams,
and when at the last one to make
a dart for the gate of the villag
was to bring the whole partyo
yttlping‘ red-skins screaming and
lmllooing at his heels, when the
uil'nir would become one simply
of swiiiness and rapidity of move-
ment,

(liistnloga determined, therefore,
to 11'} a plan which, from its com-
bined boldness and simplicity,

I

 

promised success. It was, indeed,

the only one likely to give him a
fair start.

Adoptin the careless, slouch-
ing gait o a warrior, who wanders
about simply because he can not
sleep, he left the huts as if, indeed,
he had come from one of them,
and walked along the‘path which,
leading from the central hut, ss-
ed between the two fires an led
to the ate. He turned neither to
the rig t nor the left, but his keen

erception, and a slight glance
Rom the cerner of his eye, as it
were, told him he was discovered.
The pair, however, exhibited as
yet no suspicion, though their
confidential intercourse ceased,
and they azed at the intruder
with curiosity and wonder.

It was unusual for a warrior, at
that hour of the night, to go forth,
except on the war-path With fusee
and tomahawk, without his blan-
ket on his shoulders. This struck
Custaloga about the same ins-
tant that it struck the youthful
warrior,who, however,unwilling at
his age to alarm the camp without
bein sure of what he was about,
simp y rose, motioning the girl to
wait for him, and began moving
in the same direction as the Wy-
andot. ‘

“Is one of our camp ill, or do
evil dreams trouble in brother,
that he goes out to cast hem forth
in the woods ?"

Custalo made no reply, mov-
ing onwa his head on his breast,
as t were, but feeling he was dis~
covered.

The Indian bounded forward
and posted himself exactlyin front
of him.

“ Speak! My brother is a strano
ger. Why does he leave the wig‘
wams of the Shawnee? Sure y
my brother will not walk in the
wooiis witgouttapis blari‘kelt P” l

“ am as ogaotee 0
eye,“ replied the Wyandot, fis-
ing his head.

‘ Ugh i" said the Shawnee, who
well knew the reputation of the
other as a huntsman and a shot.

They looked at each other; they
had once been friends as boys,

Custaioga havinghpassed many .

menths with the awnees in bet-
ter times.

“Come to the wi of To-
cumseh," said the young Indian,
courteously.

“Custalogs is in a hurry, and
milist go,” replied the Wyuudot,
co 1 .

“ hy does my brother visit his
old friends like a wolf, in the night,
and creep away before the morning
shows the color of his skin? An
why is my brother in his war-
paint 1’"

“ Because the Shawnees are do
—bsse, cowardly do —and k
women, and slay lit e children,"
thundered Custaloga. “Go out
of my way' a squaw yesterday
killed one 0 your best men; go—
the pale-dices will make rods and
map the Shawnee braves."

ith these words he darted for-
ward, caught the astounded red-
ikin with his two hands, dashed
him with force to the earth, and
darted up the slopovwhere his rifle
lay concealed. '

“ Ugh i” said the Indian, risin ,
while the girl slipped away in t e
conflision. ,

By this time a dozen armed
young men were round the disco‘m-
fited warrior who, ointing in the
direction of the tive remained
to ve an explanation to the rest
of he tribe of what had passed.
The but where Amy was confined
was first‘examined, and she bein
seen to be quite safe, the story 0
the amorous lad was listened to.
Deep exclamations of surprise
burst from all at the audacity of
Custalog whose friendship for
certain o the whites was well
known. None doubted the con-
nection between the Wyandot’s
journey and the capture of Amy,
whose (presence, they felt, was dis~
covere .

Wild was the fury of the war-
riors at the fact that so bold an
enemy had been in their cam and
braved them all, alone an unn-
armed. All hoped that the dozen
or more warriors who had started

The §ilent Hunter.

 

 

toca ture him would succeed, and
that their feelings of vengeance
and bullied cunning would then be
gratified by one of those fearful
rials of courage and constancy
which we shall have to describe
fully, in connection with one or
more of our heroes.

Their rage was‘ doubled, and
many times redoubled, when they,
in the morning, saw all the si
of what Custaloga had done. ng;
traced him to the first tree whence
he had watched all their proceed-
ings; they followed him to the
one he had climbed, and gave a
cry of admiration, and unbounded
and ungovernable passion, when
they saw with what cool audacity
he had entered the camp. They
raged like furies rather then men,
and were only prevented by the
avowed affection of a oung chief
from wreaking instan vengeance
on their beauteous risoner, who,
though conscious at Custaloga
had something to do with the dis-
turbances of the ht, had every
reason to believe t he had es-

caped. '

he missed several warriors, it
is true, and believed they were
chasin the bold and fearless young
Wyan 0t; but she had much faith
in his knowl e of the country,
and in that sw ness of foot for
which he was so remarkable. Be-
sides, events occurred of such per-
sonal interest to herself, that she

had no leisure to think of any -

thi else. One or two of the
scan , however came in about
midday, having given up the chase,
and about two hours later two
others came in; but their trium-

hant shouts, and the evident de-
g}: with which they were greet-
P

showed that they bmuflllt in a
onor of no uncommon port-
ance.

Amy Moss felt sick at heart and
ready to faint, and before she went
forth to see who it was, pra ed to
God for that courage an con-
stanc she stood so much in need
of an or the painful circumstances
in which she was placed—circum-
stances which wcrc now doubly
melancholy.

She was much disturbed, as she

ray by the fiendish shouts of

c In the shrill cries of the
women, and the monotonous bowl
of the bereaved widow, who seem-
ed now to see a prospect of ven-
figanca Unable to restrain her

patience any lon er, she snatch-
ed up the poor c ild and went
forth into the open air to see what

was passing.
CHAPTER II.
mum

Ssrrsmn that, as hr as the
rlwusconecrned,sll was ri ht,
ph returned to the
side, fill himself a stiff lass of
that potent corn-juice wh ch has
driven more men to crime and
falsehood,and treache and death
than even the smile o the falses
woman, relit his pipe, and looked

.stcrnly at the unfortunate Dutch

woman, who in that house an-
i‘wemd to the name of Mrs. Ralph

e n.

‘ Martha,” said he, slowly—
“ none of or nonsense.”

“What! ’ replied the woman,
clasping her hands, “vill you no
spare dis man i"

“ Martha, no more words. It is
prett considerable slick I must
as , or on toplaythc rtuous"
— eco speak likeabackwoods~
man or a plain Englishman at will
—“you—youi who helped me to
burn your first husband’s house—"

“Dis from you Ralph?" said
the woman, c asplng her hands.
“No nevere have I deserve dis!
I love ou—I alwa s did love on!
I no k 1! him—I i you do if! ‘1
am ashamed to pray; in head is
$11; (1):; vicked taua~but no'kili

“Bother i" said the ruflisnly
innkeeper; “ on knew I was
bound to kill h m."

“ Ralph, no more 0v dis; silence
—I am your slave, but do not in-
sult me. ’

Ralph paid no further attention
to the woman for some time. He
was wrapped in his own thoughts.

 

We gladly some this Opporlumt)
of abandoning the company of
one so degraded and \‘ilc, with
whom we shall sojourn as little as
possible, as such company is not
to our taste.

W'hcn Kate knew. from the re»
treating footsteps of Ralph lit-gin,
that to listen was again snfcmfor
she had listened already—she ci‘cp'.
slowly to her door, and having
bolted it on the inside, she a iplicd
her ear to the keyhole. l aving
heard all that was sufficient for
her purpose, she began her oper-
ations in a way that would have
both an rised and astonished the
wretche landlord. She fastened
her door on the inside, so that it
could not easily be opened. and
then she climbed upon her own
bed and listened. She could easily
hear the breathing of the sleeper
who lay in the room. which wan
not above, but a little more than
half-way up her bed—chamber.

The apartment was formed by
board; which had been rudely
knocked together with a few nails.
One of these, with a pair of strong
scissors, she roceeded to remove.
At the end 0 a quarter of an hour,
she had succeeded. She listened
again, but there was dead silence
in the kitchen, and the sleeper
still slept heavily. ‘

“Wake up, man!" she hissed,
in his ear—“wake up, and make
no noise.”

“ Eh ! my! whoisthere Y” mum-
bled the peddler-merchant, half 
aslee ).

“ ash—no noise ! You are but
a poor traveler in the wilderness,
to talk of watches and silver dol-
lars up in the Frog-hole! Rise,
dress, and prepare to fight or make
your escape, which you please.”

“ My racious—well I never did

—no. it’s all the same in ya
my dear, I’ll absquatulate," sai
the peddler, who trembled vio-
lentiy.
“ a cautious, then, and quick;
you can ass throu h this opening
—my dpw is evei with the
ground—” '4”

“ You ayre the gal called Kate.
In no case made and provided did
such an uncommon occurrence
Occur to mo—I war so tired, and
that saddleayre sohsrd. My! my!
goody ions!”

With these words the ddler
passed his saddlebags t rough
the aperture, then the portman-
teau, then himself. All was done
with ~ra idity, and yet without
noise. ust as they finished, how-
ever, 'the heard a rattling at his
door, an then Ralph Begin came
down-stairs.

“The ‘cnto rascal,” muttered
the innkeeper, “he’s bolted his
door. We must try the window
just now, when the gal‘s quite
asleep.” s

Kate placed her fin ers on her
lips, opened her win ow gently,

asscd out herself, handed the

aggage to the peddler. pushed
her window back, and then led
him with stealthy and cautious
step along the terrace. In an in-
stant more they were on the sum~
mit of the steps.

Beneath the moon it was a lovely
scene—one of those scenes which,
to a soul not utterly dead, must
s ask of God and His bounty.

ere was music in the trees;
there was moonli ht on the wa-
ters; the cascade tell in harmony-
the wind sighed with a tone of
love—all was beautiful but the bad
heart of sinful man, who, having
once broken the law and Heaven’s
commandment, more sacred than
all laws, never knows where to
stop. It is not wonderful that
more terrible crimes occur in the
lanes and alleys of drink-haunted
cities than beneath the forest

lade; but it is wonderful that in

e sight of His most charming
handiwork, the heart of man can
awaken to crime at all. .

“Quick, and no words; lead
your horse awhile, until the hoofs
will not sound. Go, and Heaven
go with ou—"

“Gal, will you have a watch
now Y” said the really grateful
peddlsr. . _

“ No—go l“ repeated “the girl.

The peddler rapidly demanded

I

 

_.  -.

the steps, reached the stable, sad-
dled his unwilling horse, and led
him forth alon r the path that
skirted the poo. Kate stood on
the summit of the steps, watching
his progress. She appeared like
the dew-drop on the rose in that
purple—tinted building, sheddin
sweet influence on the dark so
of crime.

Suddenly the door opened, and
Ralph liegiu came out. He start-
ed on seeing Kate; but he was not
surprised, as such conduct was
common with that wayward girl.
lie advanced close beside her.
She felt his presence, though she
did not see him.

“ Eh, gal! I reckon you’re
mighty fond of moonlight. What
are you looking a’ter, oh ‘3”

“I am listening,” said she,
turning round and facing him,
“for the sound of the peddler’s
footsteps, to feel sure that he is
safe away.”

“ What mean you, gal 5’” ex-
claimed lialph, nervously.

“I mean, Ralph Regin, that I
told the [)Cdditl‘ it was not good
to sleep in the Frog’s Ilole with
watches and dollars in his pouch;
and he believed me, and went.”

A fierce cloud of wild and reck-
less passion passed over the ruf-
fian’s face, as he felt for his dagger
or clasp-knilb—bowie-knives were
not invented—and he muttered
one of those frightful words which
burst forth from the lips of the
wicked or the sottish fool. But
he seemed to remember some-
thin 7, and turned away with a leer.

“ guess you’re a mighty clever
girl. I‘m off, though, (u bed, as
the night is considerable cold;
you’d better go too.”

Kate made no reply, but retum-
ed to her room the way she came;
and half an hour later the inhabi-
tants were, to all appearance, fast
asleep. At the time nothing fur-
ther passed between Kate and
Ralph Begin in reference to the
attempted murder of the peddler-
merchant.

Many a terrible crime in this
checkered world has been pre-
vented by such quiet, unobtrusive
interfcrence on the part of a wo-
man. Who shall say that on this
earth they are not our good angels,
leading us, when we listen to their
musical voices, to peace and honor
and greatness, truth and hope and
love? The advice of a man may
be interested; the advice of a real
woman is always earnest and true.

One murder less stained the
wide World that night, because a
woman was quick to resolve and
hold to execute.

 

CHAPTER X.
was anon son Lin.

WHEN Custaloga started to run
for the Woods, his first fliou ht
was to obtain possession of is
rifle, and thus secure for himself
an arm with which he could con-
tend against the forcc certain to
be sent after him. He knew too
well the character of the enemy
he had to deal with. to doubt that
every exertion would be made to
capture or slay one who had acted
the cool and audacious part which
he had played, in entering a camp
of warriors, and escaping thence
openly and unharmed.

Ills teeth set, his ear ready to
catch every sound, making lea
worthy of the deer or roebuc ’,
on he went, no longer attempting
.‘to conceal his presence, but cast-
ing every chance and hope upon
his own swif'tness of foot and
knowledge of the country. But
they, too, were swift behind him,
and he heard them scattering away
to the right and left, shouting,
yelling, and encouraging eaclroth-
er. liut what atl'ected him most
was the tramping sound of steps
in his rear. Un they came, and
he heard them distinctly, and
knew, top, that they were swift
of foot, and likely to run him
down, and bring things to the is-
sue of the gun in a very short
space of time.

And what is that above those
trees there, where a low gap is
seen in the east? It is the first
streak of early dawn. which in

l

 

about to flood the whole scene
with light and life.

And there stands his rifle and
his pouch behind that tree, now
not ten yards in advance. It is
loaded, and the pan well guarded
by the covering of oilskin, which
every thoughtful and experienced
hunter takes care shall be always
ready for the emergencies of the
woods—damp and rain, and swim-
ming rivers in the face of howling
and yelling enemies.

Custaloga had been running up-
hill at a pace which was perfectly
frightful, but he began to slacken
by degrees as he neared the spot
where he must halt an instant.
He looked back. There were none
in sight. though still he could hear
the shouts to the ri ht and left,
while in his rear, ollowing his
trail, which they could with their
keen eyes just be rin to see, came
the light footfall o the moccasiued
Indians as they hurried up the
ascent.

He took all his accouterments,
he put them on, he clutched his
rifle, and drew along breath pre-
paratory to falling into a trot along
the old trail, down the side of the
gentle acclivlty. At this instant
the bushes shook violently about
fifteen yards behind, and then an
Indian came bounding through the
thicket with a cry, a shout, a yell,
which startled Custalo a, so near
was it. At first he did not see
Cnstaloga. The ray light made
all objectsveryin istinct. Buthe
was the best runner in the camp
and the young warrior felt tha
such achance of diminishing the
number of his enemies was not to
be thrown away.

They were almost face to face in
an instant. The Shawnee drew up
and cast his eyes around for a
cover. A large tree was close to
his left hand. He caught it as he
seemed about to pass, and tried to
whirl himself below it. The rifle
of Custaloga now spoke, and the
swift runner fell backward with a
cry of anguish and baffled fury,
which was re-echoed by so many
voices, in such close proximity,
that Custaloga did not even wait
to load ere he a sin darted off he-
neath the frien coverof the tall
forest trees, wh ch be an to be
clear in the morning ight—the
oak wavin its deep-green leaves,
the silver ecch shining in the first
rays, and everywhere the tuneful
birds singin their matin songs,
regardless o the horrid strife
which woke the echoes of the
forest with cries so hideous and
deeds so bloody.

The birds caroled on every tree,
sending back wild sounds of forest
music mm a thousand throats to
herald that still thrill—half sound,
half sense—which accompanies
the dawn of day. where huire
timber covers the ground, and
peculiar breezes characterize day
and night.

Custaloga bounded through the
wood, regardless of sky above, of
earth beneath, his whole soul for
the moment directed to the one
great object—his life. On his cool-
ncss, coura e, and discretion now
depended his very existence. ny
were the plans, strange the de-
vices, that passed through his
brain as he hurried along; but as
yet no opportunity was afforded
of putting any of them into pm-
tice.

After the first yell of re 0 and
fury which announced the nding
of the body of the swift runner
and after the cry of triunflr an
joy which followed on the more
pleasant discovery that his scalp
was untouched, the Indians gave
forth no sound. Custaloga lis-
tened in vain, his racticed sense.
could detect nothing which could
now afford him any clue to the
mdde of roceeding adopted by
his enem es. That they would
not give up the chase so easily,
that they would seek to avenge
the insut they had received and
the death of the young warrior,
were facts with which one so famil-
iar with Indian usages was well
ac uninted.

ut ll was still and silent. Not
a scan indicatin the presence of
man could be card anywhgre.

l
l

 

'\

Peadle’s Dime Library.

 

 

Custaloga was awe-struck a mo-
ment by the sudden stillness. He
paused, he stooped, he touched
the ground with his ear. Up be
bounded, a smile of defiance on
his face. He had clearly heard
them, the whole wild and sav e
troop,eoming madly up, but wit i-
out a word, or cry, or yell, to be-
tray their presence. The pursued
man now realized that all depended
on the swiftness of his feet. He
could not hope to do battle with
so large a party.

His lan was to run until he
could nd some cover, where he
might be concealed awhile, and
until tl e Indians gave up the chase.
He also knew that if he approach-
ed within a certain distance of the
settlements, the Shawnees would,
now that their intention was be-
trayed, undoubtedly beat a retreat
lest he should give the alarm and
bring the whole mass of the whites
down upon them.

He did not make for the nlly
as he first intended. He ditd no
think it according to the received
notion of border and forest war-
fare to betray acache to thccnem ,
under any circumstances; whi e
at the same time it was matter of
great importance in the interest
of Amy not to be closed up for
any number of days in a place
where the Indians could keep
them in a state of ale e, and per-
haps finally reduce them by the
mere force of starvation.

He made, therefore, for the river
Scioto, at a place which he was fa-
miliar with, and on the other side
of which was a cache of his own,
which he had reason to believe
he might gain without betrayinrJr
it to the Indians. He was guided
only by the light and the wind.
The Wood was close and tangled,
and every now and then he had to
make detourx, which materially
lengthened his journey: But as
yet he felt no fatigue. he hunter

n the American wilds who has
had any experience an practice,
learns to go days without food at
particular Junctures; to be with—
out tire in the cold and wet, rather
than betray a hiding-place ; to en-
dure thirst, that worst of hysical
sufferings: Custaloga con (i do all
this, and more. '

0n they came like bloodhounds,
thirsting for his blood, and with
the advantage of some hours of
rest. as well as having a most in-
timate knowledge of the country
they traveled.

Presently an “opening” lay be-
fore him. It was a quarter of a
mile across—a marshy, swampy
pool rather than a prairie. He was
well acquainted with the trail
through the middle of the morass,
and had gone half-wav, when his
pursuers burst upon the (gen
space—first one, then ano er,
then two more, until the whole
band were in full view. Custalo
turned and leveled his rifle. ts
range was knbwn to be tremen-
dous, and the whole party instinct-
ively drew up. Custaloga merely

ave a loud augh and bounded at
do most rapid rate along the nar-
row and beaten pathway, a path-
way used by both man and beast
for ages.

Just then it turned and took a
curve which brou lrht Custaloga
within gunshot of the Indians.
He was for an instant actually run-
ning toward them. They fired;
but either the distance was alittle
too rent, or their aim too rapid—
for ustalo a bounded into theair
with a lou yell of defiance and
continued on his way.

In another moment he had en-
tered the arches of the. forest,
leaving the discomflted Indians in
doubt as to whether he was con-
tinuing on his way, or lying in am--
bush. They, however, soon de-
cided this. A short conference
was held, and then a young brave,
as was ver commonly the case,
devoted h mself for the whole
party. He clutched his rifle, cast
a wild glance at the dark and mys-
terioas woods before him, then
made a dart toward the cover at a

)ace and with bounds which Dick
ilarve would have certainly do-
‘scribo as “consisting of strides
of nine and a half feet to the lay."

 

The other Indiana came behind,
ready to rush, if Custaloga fired,
before he could again loa .

But no crack of rifle or gun
came from the forest to rouse the
echoes, and away burst the Shaw-
nees once more‘,‘ panting, leaping,
and yelling like a pack of murder-
ous wolf-hounds.

Cnstaloga, taking advantage of
their hesitation, was moving along
the trail, which he now persever-
ingly followed, at a more leisurely

ace. Thou hhe did not care for
it, and scarce yallowed himself to
feel that he wasnfi'ected bv it. he
did feel sli htly faint for want of
food. He new that he had at
least an hour more before him,
along such paths, ere he could
hope to reach that each: where
from long experience, be judged
himself to be able to defy Indian
lurcnuity and patience.

he wood, however now began
to be more open and clear, and
presently Custaloga caught a
iimpse of the river through the
rees. This made his heart leap
with delight, as a good swim
would brace his nerves; and,
should he gain the opposite bank
in time, he might keep the whole
party of Shawnees at bay.

, He could never explain to him-
self how it was—except that his
eyes must have been slightly dim-
med by faintness and fati rue for a.
moment—but he now ma e one of
those mistakes, slight, triflin .
mistakes, which a. novice woul
make at every instant, and that
have so often proved fatal during:
a running fi ht. He was about to-
strike the river fifty feet above-
the ford, by which alone it was.
safe to cross; the current being.
too swift and strong above and be-
low the spot.

At a lance he discovered his-
error. ‘or an instant he was-
stunned, and then awa' he went
toward the right ace, full
aware that on a minu e or so 0
time now han his life. The In-
dians had ma e up their minds
that he would cross at this par-
ticular spot, and the great major-
ity of the warriors had deter~
mined, if he succeeded in passing
this ford, to ive up the chase, as
the opposite ank was dangerous,
and their presence would probably
be imperativer needed in the
camp.

Custaloga never bounded with
such deer-like leaps before; his
eyes were starting from his head,
his whole form bathed in perspi-
ration—which made the river seem
death, asit would have been to
man ; but not to those hardy
ehil ren of nature. On he went—
the ford is ten feet from him, he
wildly raises his rifle, as from the
forest bound forth the Shawnees,
some from one quarter, some from
another, some near, some at a
distance. Nearly all fired, and

Custaloga fell flat upon his face.

Wild was the yell of delight,
loud it rung in the air, waking the
echoes of the forest, as they rushed
on, without reloading, to secure
their prisoner or scalp their victim.
But louder still was the laugh of
scorn with which Custaloga rolled
down the bank, and plunged into
the river. The Indians had been
tricked—they saw it at a glance'
and all except three or four turned
on their heels and took their way
back toward their village.

They would be welcomed, they
knew, by the laugh of the women,
while the widow ofthe swift runner
would be privileged to insult them
for sep‘eral days. But the chase
seemed likely to be endless, and
from the manner. of Custaloga
they feared being drawn into an
ambush.

Custaloga, having slung his rifle
on his shoulders, was swimming
vigorously across the Bcioto river,
which, at the ford, was consider-
ably wider than usual. Just as he

gained the swiftest and deepest'

part, he cast his eyes backward
and saw that, while one Indian
was swimming after him, the two
others on the bank were leading.
Presently one leveled his gun and
took deliberate aim.
“ anh l" exclaimed Custah

involuntarily, as he seemed to fat
the bullet in his body.

«3‘ - '

 

 

 

 

At the same Instant the other

tired, and Custaloga dived. The

in >|d experiment was successful, as

ho- as avoidin r the shot was con-

.~:-ned; but t e fugitive rose be-

 the ford, and was swept down

the stream by the force of the cur-

l ~nt. Not a word escaped his

tips; his teeth were eompresse

his brow darkened, and u though
if Amy llushed across his mind,
with some other thoughts vague

'.ll(i undefined: then he struck out

nmnfnlly for the opposite shore,

and, to his great delight, soon
touched ground with his feet.

ii is tirst thought was to examine
the position of his enemies. The
indian in the water had gained
the middle of the stream, and was
striving to reach the bank on the
eastern side of the Scioto, while
the others were also preparing to
cross, as if now certain of their
prey. The fact is, that they be-
lieved him seriousl wounded, and
sure to be capture or killed.

Cllsluloga, hastily drying the
pan of the lock of his an, loaded
and took aim at the foremost of
his enemies. A loud cry from the
Blniwnces on the shore warned
the indian of his danger. But
the crack of a rifle and a wild cry
were heard simultaneously, and
the Indian waved his arms on
high, dropped his gun, and was
carried away by the stream. Cus-
taloga looked vacantly at the body
as it came on—the Indian was on
his back floatin —while the Shaw-
nees watched e result with in-
tenseinterest. Custalo shad none
of the bloodthirsty inst nets of his
race left. He was not capable of
killing even an inimical sav e,
thirstng for his life, unnecessari y.
lie clearly saw that the one before
him was beyond doing him any
harm, and he wished to draw him
to the shore and there leave him
to die or recover, as Providence
ordained. The Shawnecs, natur-
ally enough, mistook the motive
with which he pushed out the
stock of his gun to arrest the body

‘as it passed. A low, melancholy
yell, proclaimed that they expect-
ed every momeot to see their
wounded warrior scalped.

The Indian who came floating
down the river was carried by the
current toward the place where
Custaloga stood. His face was
turned toward our hero with a
look of grim deflance, for little
did the sav e know the humane
intentions o the Wyandot.

Custaloga stood ready; the gun
was pushed out. the body was
touched by it, and came floating
slowly in. The wounded Indian
suddenly gave a low cry, struck
out with his feet, and thrust the
gun from him with the left hand,
thus impelling himself into the
current, which carried him awa
toward the rapids, where a stil
more cruel death awaited him.

The Indian had not made these
exertions to save his life but to be
spared the dishonor of losing his
scal -lock. \

“ girl" said Custaloga, with
unfeigned admiration; “brave
warrior!”

But, while regretting the mis-
take of the Shawnee, who had
eluded him to seek the rapids and
the falls below, Cnstaloga had con-
cerns of too much moment hang-
ing over him to waste any further
time on one of those deadly ene-
mies, who would so ruthlessly
have taken his life.

A loud cry of trium h, a proud
and long re-echoed ye i, from the
other bunk, roused him to action
The two Indians were upon him,
if he did not act with vigor.

iie now found himself even
more helpless than he could ever
have supposed. He was in the act
of loudin when the body of the
Shawnee rad nearly reached him.
He threw out his hand mechanic
ally, and as he did so, his powder-
horn was reversed, and every atom
cast into the stream. Custalo a,
however, was not a man to be is-
('ournged by this mischance; he
darted out for the bank, can ht!
bush in his hands, clamberc up,
and still holding his now useless
gun in his hand, made his way into
the forest on the other side, and

s

\..

 

lay down an instant to rest. He

was really exhausted with the long
and violent race.

At the end of about ten minutes
he rose, and looking round, select-
ed a well-known leaf that had oft-
en refreshed him under similar
circumstances, chewed it, and
moved leisurel along toward his
cache, where e proposed to re
plenish his stock of powder.

The day was considerably ad-
vanced, and Custan a was exceed-
ingly uneasy at who. his compan-
ions mi ht do in his absence. He
knew Dick Harvey to be risky and
impetuous, and he did not fancy
that, in any enterprise re airing
audacity, the SILENT UNTER
would be much behindhand; still,
he did not like to show himself in
the Devil‘s Gully totally unpro-
vided with ammunition.

The sun came down with eat
force upon the water and the s ore
so that Custalo a was glad to ava
himself of the s alter of the forest
skirt.

Presently he reached the sum-
mit of a hill, and looked down
upon a scene of considerable beau-
ty. It was a low, fertile bottom
about a mile across, with a small
stream running through the midst,
and hu e trees covering the rich
soil of tie valley. The were vast
old trees, some of t em—trees
older than the oldest man in the
land, older than the era of the
peopling of America by the whites.
A row of them stood before him,
and, tutored as he was in books
and poetry, the young, half-naked
sav e gazed at them for an in-
stan With pleasure.

Their gnarled, knagged, and
crinkled roots were in all cases
high out of the ground, and in one
instance left a natural-grown cav-
ern beneath,where doubtless many
a bearhad nestled with her youn ,
and man a panther devoured i
prey. heir vast limbs, their gi-
gantic bonghs, rose, it seemed,
when stand ng at their feet, to the
ver clouds, and their shadow was
wi e and long. One, a very aged
tree, the tree of many days—was
stricken unto death, and yet it was
still the sustainer of life. Cree
in things, garlands of bong
an leaves,whole “ piles” of moss,
hung down, dark and funereal.

Many a snake and lizard, man;
a mouse and re. man a toad,“
many a frog, di Cus loge rouse
as he advanced swishing before
him with a stick he had picked up.
But it was not for this he cared.
What he looked out for was the
bear,which prowled in that marshy
place, and which on occasion had
afforded to himself and others such
glorious sport. But now a bear
would have been an awkward cus-
tomer to deal with—though even
now not too much for a man to
venture on—and Custaloga looked
warily aroundfis he advanced, ex~
pecting every moment to see one
of these awkward animals rise up
and confront him.

He smiled grimly as he thought
of all Dick Harvey would have said
had he known that Custaloga was
in Bi Brake Dell without powder,
and “through a tryin’ to save
one of them cursed Iujines. It are
a dark hole anyhow—but no pow-
der to flash l—I expect then it
takes two men to see a b'ar.”

The ground was so tangled and
diflicnlt with vines and creepin
plants that Custaloga proceede

ut siowly. His ear, however
drunk in every sound, and read
every si n and feature of the
woods. n a few minutes more
he came in sight of the stream.

It was a narrow and sluggish
bayou, of an exceedin ly danger,
one character to nov1ces in the
Big Brake Dell. In almost eve
part it was so overgrown wi

ashes, creeping parasites, vines
and plants, that any one might
have walked on, unconscious of
the presence of water, and fallen
in, in which case destruction was
all but certain, the narrow stream
of water being deep. It was down
in this cool and marshy place,
where for es the sun had never

eered, the. the bears must have
ound richhiding- laces, andmade
meals of snails an other creeping
things.

The _$ilent Hunter. __

t

l

 

15

 

 

Custaloga had stepped out tom
the thick cover of the forest, and
was about to seek the bridge which
was invariably used by all who
knew the place, when, as he came
in sight of the bridge itself, he
saw two Indians—the men he
thought in his rear. but who had
come down and intercepted him
at the only place where for miles
he could traverse the Dell-pt‘e-
paring to cross the bridge them-
selves. One was close to it, the
other about ten yards in his rear.

Custaloga knew that he was not
seen, and was preparing once more
to run before his enemies, when
his senses of sight and hearing
were arrested by a scene of start-
lin novelty.

he bridge over the Dell bayou
was forme by a huge tree that
had fallen across, and from which
the passing hunters, both white
and red, had lopped occasionally
such branches as were inconve-
nient to their passage. The tree
forked about the middle of the
stream and a bongh stood up ap-
parentiy still green, though the
verdure was purclv rasitical, the
foil c falling thickly around from
a hi it of about ten feet.

T e Indian was on the tree—
astride, and pulling> himself on
slowly, the b0 h eing narrow
and too ill-shape to be walked on,
except at a run, and under pressin
circumstances. The Shawnee ha
slung his rifle, and on reachin the
ford, was in the act of raisin im-
self up, when he leaped to his feet,
and made a spring to the bank
whence he came.

A roar, a growl that would have
shaken the nerves of even many an
ordinary sportsman, at once ex-

lained the red-skin's terror. A

r was concealed under the
dense foliage, whence he lazily
poked his end. It was a huge
animal, though not an active one.

“Waghl” said the second In-
dian, levelin his gun.

But he di not fire, retreatin
instead toward the trees in whic
he was imitated by the rim. The
animal turned back, and showed
every inclination to decline any
contest; but this in no way suited
the ideas of the Indians, who,
proud always of killing a bear, saw
‘3 ithi‘iiimzomt; tclgmpiengation for

or ' n on WthJ'egard
to the Wyliiii‘dot.

Havin gainedacover the both
fired. he beast turned th an
angry growl indeed, for both balls
ha hit him, though he was onl
slightly wounded. ustaloga coul
not resist the im ulse of early
education. The In inns were load-
ing; he had nothing to fear. He
9. peared suddenly from behind
his cover, and waved his hands to
the Shawnees, who, however, con-
tinued loading.

“Hal hal' he shouted, “the
Shawnees are dogs. Look—a Wy-
andot sends his black brother to
tight for him i Go—two Shawneea
can onl fight one bear. Custa-
loia w leave them.”

nd he dived into the force
laughing heartily to himself, a
the singular event which had freed
him from the attack of two armed
Indians, with whom he would
have found it diflicult to cope,
without powder to load his gun.

As the bear made a spring to-
ward the Shawnees, the flying man
began moving rapidly down the
bayou toward the only other place
where it was fordable, and that
was the month.

As he neared the Sciotc the
characteristics of the Big Drake
Dell departed; the trees became
small, the soil became dry, until
the dull stream flowed at last over
a wide and shallow ex use of
gravel, through which . talogl
easily waded.

Here we must leave him, and re-
turn to the block-house, where at
that hour events were occurring 0’
deep importance to this eventful
history of a time and lace which
saw more tra cdies n a single
week—dam estic in their character,
it is true—than many a European
country in a year—t edies which
fully explain the hatred of Ameri-
can for the red-Om

 

CHAPTER Xi.
ma WOI xmzb \\ \numn.
CUSTALOGA no longer looked
with much anviet)‘ to hi< position
with respect to tin-'indinps: but
was overwhelnn'd wrth griet and
dread with regard to Anny, whose

long residence in the camp of the
Shawnces awakened £12le :ipprc—
hensions. He knew that her iu'zlil-
ty and youth would pl'uluitil)
secure her against any immediate

peril of life; but they Were sure to
expose hertoothcrdangers, which
the young man regarded with
much more fear. For her to be-
come the wife of a Shawnee was
too horrible an idea for him to
dwell on. He was, however, so
utterly exhausted with the events
of the night that he was hardly
able to move with the vigor and
strength necessary. lie hesitated
one moment as to whaf he should
do first, and the impulse of nature
was so strong that he felt almost
inclined to lie down. But this
was perilous. so he sped onward,
still intent upon visiting the pri-
vate cad/re before rcicrred to ere he
went to that of the Silent Hunter
and Dick Harvey, who were doubt-
less waiting for him with extreme
anxiety.

He kept at a little distance from
the bank of the river, which was
overgrown by matted bushes and
trees, his eye still glancin(g uneasily
as he went, his foot trea mg light—
ly on the ground, until he came to
aplace where there was a small
open space on the bank, near the
rocky month of a little stream.
Hereanumber of 10 5 had collect-
ed and formed a dri

Custaloga was about to descend
to the edge of the stream and
di'ink, when his attention was
directed to an object moving in the
water, which was seeking to climb
upon the logs. As he gazed on
the object, he distinctly saw a tall
indian slowly and laboriously creep
out of the water, now slippin
back, now half succeeding, unti
‘at last he ot a good hold and sat
upon the rift-logs, naked and an-
armed. It was a Shawnee, one of
those he had shot in the contest
stdawn,badly wounded and unable
to defend himself. He had lost
his gun, and had apparently drifted
down the stream on trio of wood.
He sat a picture of deso ation and
misery, dying from loss of blood
on that cold place where he had
crawled to expend his last breath.

Most bordermen or Indians
would have shot him but Custa-
loga never shed blood unnecessa-
ril . What should he do?

{Us enerous nature soon de-
cided is question, and heat once
began to ut his plan in execution.
He laid h s rifle, knife, and ax on
the bank, and then, the warrior’s
back being to him, he slowly and
quietly moved toward the place
where the Shawnee was busily en-
gaged in stanching the blood that

owed freely from his two wounds,
one in his knee, the other on his
shoulder. 80 stealthily, serpent
like, and cautious was the step of
Custaloga, that he reached to with-
in two yards of the Indian quite
undiscovered. Then the keen
senses of the Shawnee warrior
were awakened, and he tried to
rise. His head was half-turned
round, and he saw Custaloga. lie
turned, as if to plunge into the
stream; but he felt it was impos-
sible, and then moved his head to
receive the last disgusting oilice
with due and warrior‘like sub-
mission.

“ My brother is wounded; he is
like the old oak which has been
chopped by the ax of the white
man—it totters, but it does not fall
for many moons: my brother will
live,” said Cnstaloga, placing his
hand upon his heart.

“ Ugh i” re lied the astounded
Shawnee, “ usta—young head,
old heart.”

“ Warrior,” said Custa, gravely,
“your tribe has stolen away my
friend—Amy Moss, the singing
bird of the Scioto—and there is no
hatchet buried between your tribe
and me, until the sin lug-bird is
at home in its nest. ut Custa-
loga has believed in the white

man‘s God, and he will not slay an
unarmed cn= .1.

(,mm‘."

 

_16

 

“The sap has flown from the
tree, and the tree will fall—there.
is no blood in the veins of Hoch-
ela—he cannot walk—leave him to
u'ie— the vultures will oury him,”
replied llochela, gravely, yet
mournfully.

“No! Hoche a is not dead,”
said Custaloga, irawing torn linen
from his pouch, with which, kneel-
ing down, he firmly bound the
wounds, after fetching some cool-
ing herbs from the bank.

He then assisted the wounded
Indian to the shore and seated him
comfortably.

“lioehclal” exclaimed Custa-
loga, solemnly, “Custa will save
his brother‘s life—but will Hoch-
ela‘s tongue never speak to show
the cache of Custaloga ‘2”

The wounded man placed his
hand upon his heart, and, his wild
and savage nature utterly subdued
b pain, sutl'ering, and loss of
b ood, he looked at the youn
warrior with so gentle and earnes
a physiognmny, that Custaloga
hesitated no loliger.

“Come, then, ’ said the young
Indiaii,takiiig him on his shoulder.

With this singular burden he did
not advance more than two hun-
dred yards alon r the shore before
he reached a wi d and rocky little
eminence overgrown with trees,
creeping things, and brush. En-
tering within his, he placed the
Indian on the ground and returned
to fetch his arms. Then pushin
aside some bushes, a small, dar
hole was revealed—a kind of pass-
age, along which Custaloga was
compelled to pull the Indian. The

assage was about ten feet long.

t then widened a little just over
the mouth of a well of consider-
able depth, with adry, hard, sandy
bottom. A pole-ladder gave access
to the depths below. This con-
trivance was very simple. A tall
pine sapling had been cut down
and loppec‘. of its branches about
six inches from the trunk, and
then let down the well and fixed,
so that it was quite easy to de-
scend this frontier-invented lad-

er.

Custaloga with some difficulty
assisted the Indian to descend, and
then they found themselves ins
room of small and irregularly-
shaped dimensions, the ceiling of
which was hung round by stalac-
tites of beautiful and singular
shape. From the extremity of the
room flowed a small, clear stream,
that poured steadily down into a
white, round basin which it had
worn away in the solid limestone.

The little stream trickled across
the chamber, and then found vent
throu rh a dark hole in the wall,
outo' which a man might have
passed, crawling on his hands and

uses. Here,over the whitest sand,
it escaped into unknown depths
below, where it could be heard
with a dull, trickling sound, ring-
in silvery changes in the caverns
o the earth, where it was lost to
the knowledge of man, as is all cast
into the stran re, mysterious well
of unknown epth found in Up-
per Egypt. From the point of
every stalactite on the roof of this
cavea drop of water fell slowly
upon stalagmites rising to meet
them, some of very singular and
extraordinary shape. About twelve
feet square of the ceiling and floor
of this singular subterranean
chamber was as dry as tinder, and
had once been the retreat of a
bear, ere Custaloga hunted him to
his lair and killed him.

There was abed of dry leaves on
the floor, on which the wounded
warrior lay gladly down to rest his
wearied and bandaged limbs.
Custan ra assisted him as well as
he coul , placed near him agourd
of fresh and sparkling water, some
bear‘s meat, and then lay down
himself to snatch a moment’s rest.
But his mind soon overcame the
fati rue of his body, and he started
up i'om some terrible vision of
Amy Moss being murdered by the
savages, quite alarmed and sur-
prised to find himself in his cave,
with the Shawnee sleeping un-
easily by his side.

lie rose qiiickl , replenished the
sick man’s gour , and then, leav-

ng him for a short time to his

' other, wit

 

ihte, started on his joumey to re-
join his com anions in the cache in
the Devil’s ully.

 

CHAPTER XII.
Tun CARSTONES.

SOME sixteen years previous to
the events recorded in our present
narrative, there were things taking
place in England which it is neces-
sarIy to reveal.

here lived in P—, atown not
very far distant from London, a
gentleman of the name of Car-
stone. He was a merchant, who,
having been very poorin his youth,
had suddenly grown rich during
the war with America. Now when
Carstone left his native village,
fourteen years before, a poor ad-
venturertgoin up to London in
search 0 for une, with naught
butafcw letters of introduction
and acouple of sovereigns in his
urse, he left behind him one
anny Wilmot, a wealthy entle-
man-farmer‘s daughter—a right-
eyed, sunny-faced creature of four-
teen, whom, child as she was, he
had swom to love all his life, and
one day retum and marry. But,
difficulty and doubt met the path
of the sanguine adventurer and
Fanny Wilmot received bu one
or two letters, and then a peared
for otten. Not so in reali yi; but

An rew Carstone saw no prospect -

of success, and he ceased his let-
ters because he could not see the
chance of wedding where he loved,
and would not keep her from bet-
ter chances.

And now, at thirty-two, Andrew
Carstone, by a sudden stroke of
fortune and the subsequent afl‘ec-
tion ta en for him by one who
first made him his partner and
then his heir, found himself a rich
man. It was with this new joy to
announce that he invited his cous-
in, Charles Carstone, to dine with
him——his cousin, who had first
frowned, then fawned upon him,
as the lucre which lids the lead-
on statue, the woo en block, the
mean wood. the false coin. fell in
showers upon him. But Charles
had always been cunning. He had
never acted with rudeness to his
cousin—not he. He—the man
about town the votary of fashion,
the companion of bad men in bi li
places, who tinsel but do not g ld
crime—was too finished, too er-
fect a gentleman to be impolite;
he simply declared himself unable
to he of any use to his cousin.

“M dear Andrew,” he said, as
in all at a court dress he entered
the other’s dinin -room in his city
house, “your le ter dewites me—
you are as wich as that old bwuf-
fer they call Cwesus; how will you
ever spend your money i’"

“I really don’t know, Charles;
leave it to you, I suppose, if I die
—-nobody can tell,rvou know; we
are all mortal—so have sent for
you to say that in case I do not
marry and have children, I’ve made
you my sole heir.”

“ Weall —well!” exclaimed the

float moving a muscle-
“cwapital. Ah! ah! But ou’li
marry-quite suwer. Whats ould
I do with the money? Ah! ah!
pwetty idea—two hundwed thous-
and pounds. Why, it’s dweadful
to think of l I hope thar wine is
good; I‘m weally fwamished." -

Charles Carstone was a fine fol-
low, six feet high, with owder and
bagwig, a sword, smal -clothes, a
dashing coat, long waistcoat and
buckles, and looked the very beau-
ideal of a lounging, but harmless
man about town.

He was a perfect contrast to
Andrew, who, at thirty-two, was
handsome too in his way. He was
shorter than Charles—much shOrt
er—but t n he was well made,
with spea ing e es, a frank, open

' countenance, a orid complexion,

and a month which exhibited every
sign of firmness and kindness of
disposition. He smiled at his
cousin, who was a ca tain in the
army and a man of asliion, and
bade him commence dinner.

“ Ah, Charles 1” he said, shaking
his head, “if a woman I did love
once. av, and do love now. had
been true to me, I would have
married as .vou advise; but it can

, Beadle’s, Dime Library. _

 

 

 

not be. She never could have
waited fourteen years."

“Haw! haw!” laughed the sol-
dier, heartily. “Fwoteen years—
haw! haw! Fwoteen days is just
possible. But twy, my dwea’
Andrew—twy. It would be so de-
witeful to fw nd such an exwample
of wuwal simplicity.”

And try he did. Taking coach
the very next day for Cheddaker
he made his way to the home of
old Squire Wilmot, and in answer
to his knock, the door was opened
by a very handsome-looking young
woman, with light auburn curls,
blue eyes, and a sweet completion
-the very icture of rustic beauty.

“Fanny ilmot!” faitered An-
drew Carstone.

“ Andrew l” shrieked the youn
lady, and she was next instan
half—fainting in his arms.

’ “What in the name of wonder
is this ‘3” cried a bald-pitted, stout
little man, rushing out.

“Andrew Carstone, come back
to claim his little wife," said the
merchant, solemnly.

“ No! no! none of our Andrew
Carstone‘s for me—frightening my
little girl, too,” cried the exasper-
ated parent.

“I am quite well now father,"
said Fanny. “It is Andrew, my
own true Andrew, whom I never
doubted.”

They walked into the parlor.

“And so, my beloved Fanny,
you never doubted me ?” said the
merchant, wipin r away a tear from
eyes that had no shed tears since
their parting.

“Never! I thought you dead,
or gone to the colonies, or unfor-
tunate, but never false. No; I
knew you better.”

“Pretty kettle of fish!” cried
the squire.

Andrew Carstone clasped her
hand and told his story.

“And pray what may be your
position now ?” asked the squire,
who feared he had come to her as
a last resource. '

“ I am worth two hundrtd thou-
sand pounds,” said he.

“Then Fanny was right, afim
all—an obstinate, disobedient,
worthless jade, who refused fifty
offers, and always said, in s ite of
all I could do to show her t e ab-
surdity of it, ‘I am the aflianced
wife of Andrew Carstone.’ ”

“ My Fanny! my beloved girl i"

Next day, Andrew wrote to his
cousin Charles, and informed him
that, as he had found Fanny faith-
ful and true, she would, with as
brief delayas possible, become his
wife; still, as e had raised his ex-
peetatlons, and as he supposed he
must ultimately destroy the will
in which he had left him every
thing, he should add a codici
leaving him twenty thousand
pounds.

Charles, in due course, replied
that he was delighted to find there
was such constancy in the world,
hoped soon to have the pleasure
of embracing Mrs.Carstone,thank-
ed his cousin for his kind promise,
and finally declared that a few
hundreds yearly would be much
more agreeable than any prospect
at the other‘s death, which he du-
tifully hoped would be a fandistant
event.

Andrew Carstone replied by re-
questiii him to draw for one
hundre and twenty pounds every
quarter.

Andrew and Fanny were married
after fourteen ears’ separation,
during which no ther had ever for-

otten the image of the other, and

heir marriage was one of unex-
am led felicity.
he young merchant realized
his pro erty, bou ht the house his
father Bad once ived in, and re-
tired to that place sacred to the
memor o'parents who, however
mlsgui ed in their way of living,
had always been kind to him.
The house wasold-fashioned, but
large and' substantial. It had a
beautiful garden behind, and was
in every way comfortable ' and
reeable. But there was some-
t ing better than all. There was
a happy man and woman in that
house, who loved each other with
a warm and passionate love, which
was perhaps all the greater from
having been so long restrained.

 

And they lived in happiness, and
the squire was delighted beyond
all his dearest expectations. His
son~in-law was as great a man in
P-—— as he was in the village, and
this was saying not a little. He
owned the nicest house, he bought
all the most eligible property, he
subscribed to every charity, and
both he and his wife were univer-
sall beloved; and then, to make
their home a paradise, there came
a thing of love and light, to infuse
delight beyond all description into
that house. The Carstones had
been happy before, but now their
felicity knew no bounds.

Charles Carstone wrote a warm
letter of felicitation.

And then Andrew Carstone fell
ill.

It was one December night,
when the frost was on the ground
and the air was cold and bleak, an
the stars were clear in the heavens
and all nature, despite the time 0
year, was pleasant in England,
where winter has charms some-
times as great as those of summer
in its most golden hours. It was
in December—the trees were leaf-
less and dead, the hedges showed
no green, the fields were glazed
with frost, and the pool and gutter
b the wayside were full of ice.

rchins had slided on those gut-
ters during the day, and the wind
had roare over those fields and
meadows, and the sun had set
streaky and red! and now the
midnight breeze hovered in cold
and chaste harmony over treetop
and housetop and lull.

And there were more houses in
P—- than the house in which the
Carstones lived. But there was
no house there where deeds so
terrible were done as were done
in that house that night.

What is this coming along the
Landon-road? it is a post-chaise,
that moves with slow and meas-
ured step, as if the horses had
been borrowed from some under-
taker. It etc before a row of
high trees cose to the house,
which is silent and dark, save
where in one upper room there is
a light, where Andrew Carstone
lies sick almost to death, and
Fanny, his affectionate wife, is
tending him with patience and
care, with that gentle and all-en-’
during love that sheds around the‘
thorny bed of sickness roses and~
other fragrant flowers, and which
keeps down so much the quoru-
lous spirit of the sufferer.

A man, then another stepped
out of the ost-cliaise. fioth were
masked. ne wore the rude rb
of a man in the lower class 0 'so-
ciet ; the other must have been
at a 1 events not obviously a oor
man, for he wore bravely the ress
ofa “ruiiiaii,” or “blood,” of the

eriod when Geo e III. was king
eithers oke. T emanwho first
0t out elt cautiously about un-
er a hedge and found a ladder.
This he carried quietly to the
house, and raised it against its
side. The man in gay doublet,

and with sword, stood still at the

foot of the ladder, which the other
slowly ascended. Having reached
the window, he aused and listen-
ed. The postil on, who was also
masked, moved uneasily on his
horse; the man at the bottom of
the ladder looked cautiously and
nervously about. The man at the
top of the ladder pushed the win-
dow. It opened. He had not
watched the house for weeks,
without discoverin this careless
habit on the part 0 a servant.

He pushed it gmtly until it was
quite open. Then he crept cau-
tiously and slowly in, throwing
the light 'of a dark-lantern on the
room, and then closing the win'
dow behind him and disappearing.

He remained absent a quarter
of an hour which was an age to
the men b ow.

The room to which the midnight
thief had gained access was a li-
brary, sitting-room and study,
where Andrew Carstone, in his
days of health, sat and read, and
carried on his correspondence, and
where he kept some ortions of
ale loose cash in a rawer of a
desk. He had bought lands and
received rents a few days back,

 

 

_3'

 

.—.... Mum...“

 

‘ about the room.

0
and this the robber knew. It was
strange to note, however, how
straight he went up to the very
drawer and opened it with a key
from his pocket, and pulled out
the bag, as if he himsclf had put

.it there, and wore taking posses~
sion of his own propcrty. It was
done in ich minutes.

Then he gropcd slowly along
and opened the door onto the
landing. Again he listened, and
all was still. IIe crossed to an-
other door, which he opened. A
light bttrned here, a long candle in
a kind of case with many holes,
that sent bullet—shaped rays all

And in this room

was a bed, and in this bed a nurse,
and by her side the child of An-
drew Cat-stone and Fanny his wife
~a treasure more dcar unto them
than all their wealth. The man
looked at the child as it slept in
all the calm innocence of its age,
and he sighed. Bttt whatever his
tccling‘s might have been, he over-
came them, for the next minute
he took it gently up, wrapped it,
without Waking it, in a cloak that
had scrvcd it during the day, and,
moved back the way he cattle.

lle crossed the library, he got
upon the ladder; shivering now
with fear, he descended, and, fol-
lowcd by his companion, hurried
toward the post - chaise, which
slowly turned round, and, after a
few minutcs‘ easy movt-incnt,went
'ill' at a rapid rate toward Londot‘.
Not one soul in the whole town
of I’—— had seen the post-chaise,
which appeared to have got across
country, as it had not been seen
even by the toll—man.

A cry of Wonder, and then a
shriek, resounded through that
home as the nurse, muting in the
bed. then stretching out her hand,
discovered her loss.

To describe the scents—the sic
halfdying father, the wretch
mother, the noisy nurse in tits, the
wild agony of grief which burst
upon all, the running here and
there, the calling for the child, the
rush to the nearest magistrate, his
arrival, the discovery of the lad-
der, of the robbery, the surmises,
suspicions, doubts, fears, hopes——
Would be impossible. That one
night would need a volume to ex-
plain its every episode.

Suspicion in the mind of Fanny
at once pointed to Charles. But
a Bow street otlicer, employed by
a worthy magistrate of ,
proved that the courtier had been
confined to his bed for some days,
saw no strzmge visitors, had no-
wise changed the tenor of his ex-
istence; so this suspicion was dis—
missed as unworthy, and the cou-
sin of the bereaved knew not that
even the breath of doubt had ever
fallen upon him. He heard of the
sad occurrence in due course, and
when able to sit up wrote a very
kind letter, which a month after
was followed by his arrival in per-
son. Ile was rather thin and pale,
and the air of the country was
likely to do him good, so he stop-
ped a little while, and assisted cn—
crgctically in all the search made
for the little one.

Our readers need scarcely be
told what that search was. Ilitflt
and low, in every part of the coun-
try, in London and in all the towns
of the kingdom, they hunted for
thc little girl. Bills were printed
and posted up round the town
halls, at inn doors, round magis-
tratcs‘ justice-rooms, and by word
of mouth was the tale told; but
no tidings came of the child.

Andrew Cat-stone and his wife
spent time and money for many
and many a day in looking for her.
They mourned until their hearts
Wcrc scared, and they never had
any more children.

 

CHAPTER XIII.
THE Moss.
MEANWIIIMC tltc inhabitants of
the .\loss, as the lilock-lmusc was
tittniliarly called. remaincd in .a
state of great excitement. All ttt

th it place wure stttlicicntly famil-
iar with what in other times the
lndians had done, to make them
View the pros icet of a general in-
mrrection o

the savages with

 

‘.

 

“The Silent Hunter.

great and mysterious drc‘ad. The
characteristics of border warfare
had been brought out with such
rreat force by the occurrences of
he recent war between America
and her ill-advised stepmother,
that the very mention of the
hatchet being once again dug up,
tilled every one with dread and
alarm. There was not one who
rose on the tnorning of the day on
which our narrative takes us back
to the Block, who did not listen
for the war-cry, the hideous yell
of the Shawnees.

Sentries had held the Block all
night, and yet nothlng had been
seen. The black and his confed—
erate had thought proper to dis»
appear as mysteriously as they had
escaped, and in the morning not
even their tracks could be found.
Squire Barton offered to scourthe
woods with young Moss, but the
judge peremptorily refused that
any thing of the kind should be
done until the return of Custaloga.

It was the morning of the third
day after the departure of the two
adventurers. The sun rose with
all its usual brillianey and cheering
light on that forest scene, the birds
caroled merrily on every tree, and
all nature was gay and bright.
But that was a serious party at
the breakthst-table of the judge.
lIc himself came in, dressed with
all his usual care and neatncss,
but very pale, and with such a
mark round his eyes as no father
who loved his child need have
been ashamed to show, though he
had washed them for half an hour
with cold water to hide the tellstale
tears.

It was evident, too, that Jane
Moss had taken little sleep. IIet
checks were pale as the ashes of
the forest-trees, and though she
tried to assume a cheerful tone
the attempt was a failure.

The squire was always pale and
rather gaunt, and his appearance
did not therefore exhibit anything
unusual.

“ My children,” said the father,
solemnly, as soon as they were
assembled in the breakfitst-parlor,
“join with me in prayer to that
Almighty power which alone can
remove from us this bitter cup.”

They all started. Thejudge had
never )roposcd family prayer be-
fore. Ie had rather avoided it,
and been indeed a little satirical
on others for the practice. But It
was noticed by all who came to
the Moss from that day that he
never omitted it again.

“ Willingly,” said Jane, as she
rose and fetched her mother‘s
great Bible, and laid it before the
Judge.

His son made a sign of earnest
assent, the squire made no objec-
tion, though there was a sneer on
his lips.

The father read some appropri-
ate texts from the New Testament,
uttered a short and carnestpraycr,
and then sat down and motioned
to his guest to partake of the vi-
ands on the table.

“You seem all rather down-
hearted," said the squire; “ but it
is my opinion that all is right._ The
Indians might make Amy a pris-
oner, but they well know you
would give something handsome
for her release."

“ All I have in the world, squire.
I love my land, and I love my
property—I am proud of it—bnt
it is as dross—let them take all, so
they spare my children."

“ Father, dear father!” exclaim—
ed Jane, wildly, “yott must not
talk this way. Iam sure no one
would hurt Amy—they could not
do it. I feel sure Custaloga will
rive us good news before the day
3 out."

“ My darling child," continued
the judge, shaking his head “ you
little know the savages. They are
ruthless beings, who spare neither
age nor sex. Have you forgotten
“'yoming, or the bloody dced of
Montcalm? No, no; they care as
little for woman as man when their
passions are aroused. Bcsides "
—-here the judge glanced fcarfttlly
at his son and at the squire——
“there is a life which is worse
than death. Fancy my Amy the
inmate of a sav e’a Wigwam.
My God! my God 1’

 

1’7

 

 

” Miss Moss wtll never be the
wife of a red-skin rascal,” said
Barton, dryly; “I believe she
would prefer death.”

There was silence fora moment,
during which all ate orprctended
to eat, while the negro attendants
moved in and out silently. stealth-
ily, looking earnestlyat tl v-‘r mas-

ters, whose affliction tln , xdial-
1y shared.
“ Massa,” said one, entering

suddenly, “ dat ole mcksal Eznnn
Cook is on odcr side ribbcr—him
in gr eat hurry—want de ferry.”

“Fer’ry him over, in the name
of Heaven l” said the judge, to
whom the fact of a new arrival was
a relief.

Searcer had the judge spoken
when Ezram’s voice was distinctly
heard on the other side, singing
in a tremulous, but very loud
voice,

“ Come, all you girls from New England that are

unnmrrit-d yet,
0h,come along with mt, young husbands you shall

for illittetie‘s all kinds of game,besides the buck and
To ltfitiit‘witli dog and ride all on the Ohio.”

The squire looked uneasily at
his companions, and exchanged
glances with the young man. The
anxious and observant judge
caught thc glance and spoke.

“Say what you think, squire.
I am prepared for the worst.”

“()h, nothing that I know of;
but Ezram is an old friend of mine,
and I know by the sound of his
voice he’s skcarcd, that‘s all.”

Jane did tint speak, but she
looked at the t: or with deep con-
cern, aud waited. All imitated
her, and their anxiety grew intense
as they heard Ezram coming n ~ar.

“ You fat old guys,” said the
new arrival, addressing the ne-
groes, “you arr killcd, I guess,
with easy living. Never mind—
look up; you‘ll ’ulym’ pleat-y 11V
work, Igucss—I expcct you‘ll be
up to Chillicothc, and won‘tthem
red-skins polish yon upslick? Your
servant, judge—ladies—ah, only
Miss Jane, I see. Servant, squire
—servant, sir—wha ! the first time
I‘ve brcathcd, I do thyink since I
left the Crow’s Nest. Bloody work
up thar, sir—bloody."

“ What mean you ‘2" exclaimed
the judge, tottering, as he rose to
his feet. “ Speak—in the name of
Heaven, speak.”

Jane sunk back on her chair,
not fainting, but transfixed with
horror, gazing with one eye at the
new-comer, who stood with his
saddle»bags on his arm and his
whip in his hand, without taking
a chair, so surprised was he at the
tone and manner of all present.
The squire himself was livid, while
the young man stared from one
to the other, almost unable to
credit his senses.

“ Why,judgc—I really guess I’ve
sid somethin’ unpleasant—I‘m
consyd’rable ryled, if I hayve, by
Jakers—but I may be allowed to
remark it wur quite promiscuous.
Iain’t rekivered my fright yet—4
was almighty skcarcd, that is a
fact. I went up to do a bit of trade
with lIarrod, and m collccta mat-
tcr of business—I‘m blamed, sir,
if they ain’t all clear gone-the
house ha»fe b‘unt, and signs of a
scrimmage.”

“Lost, lost, lost!“ groaned the
judge, while Jane, after a faint
shriek, almost slid to the ground,
until caught by her brother, who
-arricd her in his arms out of the
room, ant gave her to he' black
attendants. He then hurried back.

“ Unkitnmett strange! What
hayve I sid l“ cried lizram.

“ Said ?“ replicd Squire Barton.
moodily; “ why,you‘llunderstand,
when I tcll you that Miss Amy was
at the Crow‘s Nest.”

“ My!" exclaimed the other,
lookim" very much confused.
“ Well. I dt‘u‘t wonder you were
skeared—but it‘s my opinion, it‘s
all square—there ivarn‘t no bodics,
and there was a considerable trail
of )risoncrs.”

l ere Ezram blushed violently,
for he had seen the grave.

“Then there is hope,” said the
stricken father; “ but where, oh
where is Custaloga .9"

“ lIe‘s out, is he? Thenlguess.
It is all square, judge. Dick Har-
vey’s with him, ain‘t be t"

__‘

 

it Yes P,

“Then I saw a trail—but there
was two whites and an Ingine by
the marks,“ said Ezram Cook, as
he seated himself.

“It‘s Custalog‘a, Harvey, and
Harrod," put in the squire.

“That’s it. by Jakers,” replied
Ezram; “so I say. judge, it’s pret-
ty correct. They‘re bc-hind ‘cin.
But Clay-ri and the little ones—
that’s what ryles me. I guess,
Squire, the riptyles killed them.
There was a new-dug grave.”

“A what ?” exclaimed the
father.

“A new-dug grave. Now I
know them Ingiues—‘they wud kill
Clay-ri’ -ause she couldn’t walk——
that's their idear—but mark tne,
judge, they ain‘t killed Miss Moss,
and it‘s as Isay it—I, Ezram Cook,
as has livod up in these parts a feW.
I don’t think as how the riptyles
wud touch me, and if it’s any
satisfaction, 1‘“ ride up to Chilli-
cothe tu-morrow, and inquire. I

uess that eatercorned catamount,
gimon Girty, will be thar."

“ Ezram Cook,” said the judge,
solemnly, “you are an Indian
trader, and not likely to be hurt
by them even in war-time. Go, as
you say, to Chillicothe—I am
already in your debt for goods—I
will double, I will treble—“

“Now, judge, stow them pro-
mises—I’ll go, I‘ve said it—tu-
morrow,when I‘m rested, I’m off—-
but by your lcave, judge, I’ll polish
the inner man, which is consider-
able woltish—I ain‘t. stopped since
the Crow's Nest.”

“ Eat, drink, and rest,” said
young Moss, while the squire, who
was very silent and moody, con-
tinued his breakfast. The judge
made some excuse and left the
room. They all guessed where he
was gone, and were not surprised
when, half an hour later, he was
seen with Jane leaning on his arm
in the garden.

Ezram ate his breakfast in sol-
emn silence, young Moss attending
him with all the high-flown cour—
tesy of the day, though without
much speech, of which none were
very free that morning. When
the meal was over, they at once
rose; Ezram retired to a room
which was prepared for him,
Squire Barton took a rod and a
pipe, and went sauntcring up the
strcam, while young Moss had a
conference with Bill llarrod, from
whom, despite the mysterious
escape of Spiky Jonas and the In-
dian, all suspicion had vanished.
The youngman was restless and
uneasy; he did notlike to go away,
at all events with his father’s
knowledge, and yet his young
blood was too hot to lie still with-
in the fort while Custaloga and
Harvey were on the war-path in
search of his sister. IIe accord-
ingly took Harrod aside, and
otl'cring hitn a pipe, the following
conversation ensued:

“ Ilarrod,“ said Charles, sitting
down on a log, “I can not bear
this suspense. The Crow‘s Nest
is sacked and bttrned, and Amy is
a prisoner of the Indians.”

“And Clayri,” asked the hunter
anxiously, “they ain‘t lifted that
gal‘s hair ‘3”

“I fear they have,” replied
Charles, sadly, “the poor girl was
ill, and you know—”

“A hundred thunders!” said
the hunter, striking his knee with
violence—“ blood and scalps l—if
a few don‘t die for this, my name
ain‘t Bill Ilarrod.”

“I have no doubt,” continued
Charles, “that you will avenge
the tnurder of your brother‘s wife.
I would shoot any of the scoun-
drels myself; but, it is my sister-
my dear sister, I must think of
now. It is true Custa and Dick
are out; bttt they are only two
men.”

“ But] guess they is men as is
men, and no mistake.”

“They are, but they are only
two, and if Walter be with them
that makes but three. I must go
out to-night, and try andjoin them.
Will you go with me? Five rifles
will count against the rascals.”

“ Won’t 1 though?" replied Bill
Harrod; “I just will—and may I
be sliced and roasted, if they don’t
hear tell of my shootin’siron. I

 

1’3

Beadle’s Dime Library.

 

 

ain’t no bragger, but the ’ve
killed Clayri, and stull Miss my
—my ! I do feel Woltish, that is a
fact.”

“ That is agreed therr—at night-
fall we meetlrere and start. Don’t
say a word to any one. We might
reach the Crow’s Nest intlre night
and start on the trail early."

“ That’s agreed, captain. Now
take rrry advice jist go and lie
down a few. I'you wud make
sich tracks as that, I say lie down.
After a snooze aman feels right up
and down.”

“I will lie down,” replied
Charles, thoughtfully; “ perhaps
some news may reach us durirr
the day. Pray to Heaven that i
be not worse than we know of.”

The young man pressed the
hunter’s hand and turned away,
avniding the garden where the
judge was walkrng up and down
with Jane.

The hours passed wearil and
sadly: at last, night wit its
gloom hung over the Whole scene.

Supper was over, the judge was
in cenversntion with Ezrarn Cook
and the Squire, Jane had taken up
a book, and Charles, rising with
an affectation of carelessness, left
the room. Once out, he was about
to move rapidly across to the ren-
dezvous, when a hand was laid
upon his arm. He turned round
and saw Jane by his side.

“Dear Charles, where are you
going ?” she said. “ You are not
goin‘gr out into the forest alone?”

" ow know you that I am
going at all 1*” he said, a little im-
patiently.

“ You are going in search of
Amy. Go, my brother; but I beg
of you do notgo alone,” continue
Jane, leaning her hand upon his
shoulder.

“ My dear Jane, I am goin , but
not alone. Say not a word go any
one—I would have it thought thati
as the Block is short of game,
and Harrod have run down to
Green Burn in search of deer. G0
in now, dear girl, and perhaps to-
nrorrow night we may be all
united again.”

Charles hastened to join the
hunter, who waited for him at the
little postcrn-gate. A negro——one
of those most attached to the
family-stood by to bar and lock
the gate behind them. He trem-
bled as he stood, for the events of
the last few days had filled his
mind with vague alarm, which
the expedition of his young master
was likel to increase instead of
diminishing.

“ Now, Sip,” said Charles
taking his rifle from the hands of
the ne rro, “not a word. You
mustrr’ know any thing about
me.”

“I is nrurn. Tirrk cull’d genl’-
man hab no debserebtion? Say
notin’ to de ole man."

The two adventurers made no
reply, but passed the wicket and
stood in the open clearing that is '
between them and the forest. t
was chiefly cultivated fields that
lay before them, fields of corn,
pumpkins, and a vegetable garden,
while a small portion was used as
grazing ground for the cattle,
which, however, were generally

driven to a rich upland clearing,
about two miles distant, where ...
there was a farm-house, which,
since the cornnrcrreerrrent of the
disturbances, had been abandoned
by all save one man, Bennett, who
would lie concealed on the top of
a haystack on the watch for the
Indians. This Bennett had been
an old scout in the war, and was
never so happy as when out on
sonre dangerous mission. On the
suggestion of Harrod, it was de-
terrrrirrcd to add Bennett to their
expedition,for which he was amply

ualified by his experience and un-
unted courage.

’l‘hcre wasa wide path usually
followed by the cattle and the
hunters who rrrnde for the forest,
but which lay so open to observa-
tion from the Block-house, in
which a sentry was~ phrced soon
after nightfall, that oung Moss
and ihrrrod turned 0 to the right
and dctcrminc‘d to follow the skirt,
of thc ion-st. "shit, and the fact
that thqiudiaus were in arms in

;

 

the woods made them act with
considerable caution. They had
started on an enterprise of known
danger and difficulty, and they
determined from the very moment
of starting to use all the precau-
tion known to border experience.

The moon had not yet risen, the
last remnant of day had long since
vanished. The forest lay deeply
imbedded in gloom, and the Block-
house, as they occasionally looked
back, appeared one heavy black
mass, except where ali ht flicker-
ed, or erhaps a spar flew 11
one of t e wide, low chimneys o
the servants’ range of building.
The advanced about fourlrundred
yar s along the skirt of' the forest,
and were not more than twenty
yards from the path which led to
the sheep-farm, when Harrod halt-
ed, caught Charles by the arm,
and drew back under the deep
shadow of the trees.

“ There wur a sound caught my
car which made my heart bump.
You‘ve young eyes, cap’n; just

look out on the rarie yon—there,
wurmy mothers rave is. It may
be a wolf, but guess I heard

Hist!

vyces—ahl there they is.
we’re surrounded by he varmint.
Keep close, as you vally your life.”

Charles looked in the direction
of the solitary grave, round which
one or two low stunted trees had
been planted, and he plainly saw
three men crawling slowl along
the ground, as if fearful o detec-
tion from the Block-house.

“I’m peppered,” whis cred
Harrod, “ f thar ain’tSpiky onas.
I’m determined to nail the var-
mint. He’s a-gwine totry to open
the wicket.”

Charles shivered all over with
ra e and excitement, but he did
no move, as there were sounds
in the forest at no reat distance
which proclaimed e resence o
a lar 8 body of Ind ans. They
hear them quite plainly about
fifty yards to the ri ht, talking
with scarcely any of t at caution
which usually characterizes the In-
dian, and Harrod was quite sure
there were white men among them
by the laughing.

“ Some of them dirty, white-
livered thieves, as is cut out of
white folks, ’cause they is so dirty.
I do hate a man as consorts with
Ingincs. Keep close-hush, they
’ve treed us—my! won’t thar be a
screamcr in about ta tu‘s. I’ll

ive ’cm a Irrgine yell. You fol-
ow me whin I fire and run.”

Charles listened. A very little
distance to the left he could hear
some one advancing with extreme
caution throu h the bushes, halt-
ing as if to lis n, then pushing on
again—all so slowly, so stealthin
that none but the most practiced
cars could have detected the sli ‘ht-
est sound. The two men heldt eir
breath. This was probably some
prowling Indian or renegade, ea er
to distinguish himself before is
fellows, or on some other mission
like that confided to the three who
were still crawling along the prai-
rie. It was a common practice
with Indians to commence their
attack by setting fire to some part
ofa building, hoping, in the con-
fusion, to enJo advantages which
otherwise wou d be lost.

They held their breath and look
ed. The man had evidently reached
the very skirt of the wood, then a
bush shook about six yards from
them, and a head peered slowly
and waril out. The end of arifle
covering is person was also seen.

“ Bennett,’ said Harrod, in a
very low but distinct voice.

“ Wag l” replied the other,
with a little start; “ Harrod !”

“ Yes, my b0 and master Char-
ley,” continue harrod, grinning;
“this is what I call a lucky mectin’.
We wur jlst a-conrin’ up to you,
but now I guess we’lljist go back.’

“ As smart as lightnin' jist.
Thar’s four hundred, and no mis-
take—and a bloody set of yrates
they are. There‘s Simon G rtyi‘and
Spiky Jonas and Tecumseh. hey
seem sartin of takin’ the Block.
The ‘ve ot Miss Amy—”

“ lrarr God !” Charles whisper-
ed; “ we thought her dead.”

“ No; I heard one on ’em—I lay
snug tiptop the hay—tellin‘ Spiky

' .
|
l
I
l

 

 

Jonas as how they’d tuk Miss Am ,
and she was kip safe. They near y
cotched Custa—he is a venturcsum
devil. He wint right in the camp
and speaked to her—and thin got
awa .”

“ t’s a ity he ain’t here,” said
Harrod; ‘ that’s a man as isaman.
But m opinion is this. We’re
bound 0 ’larm the Block. I say
shute thim three guns, and thin
the devil take the hindmost.”

“ That’s the articular ticket I
votes for,” said ennctt, clutching
his rifle.

Charles nodded his head, looked
to his priming, and stood ready.

“ I takes Spik J onas—I cannot
kill him this dis nee, but I’ll stop
his jaw above a bit—there’s a art
on him jist stickin’ up now. ere

oes.’

They all fired, and instantly,with-
out any further attempt at con-
cealment, bounded over the plain
in a straight line for the fort. At
the same time they gave a hearty
cheer, which all who heard could
understand to come from white
men’s throats, and could not be
confounded with the hideous and
moaning yell which burst from the
negro, upon whom Harrod had
taken very careful aim. The other
two were wounded, but they main-
taineda dignified and solemn si-
lence.

Li hts began to flash in the
Blocfi, there was a hurried runnrn
and driving, and then all was strl .
The garrison had taken up its posts
and stood ready for an attack. The
night, however, was so dark, that
it was difficult at the first glance
to distin uish friends from ene-
mies. arles knew this, and
therefore halted at a certain dis-
tance from the fort. .

“Father,” he cried, in a loud
and anxious voice.

“ Who calls?” said in reply the
voice of the squire.

“ 1, Charles,” replied the young
man, whose tones were, however
somewhat husky from running.

“Keep ofi‘, you sanguinary var-
mint,” roared Barton ; “ no tricks
here. Fire on the knaves, riddle
them.”

“ Father l ” said Charles, in per
fectly onized tones, “ it is I and
Bennet‘gand Harrod. Make haste,
or the Indians will be on us.”

“Open!” exclaimed the judge;
“it is my son. A father cannot be
deceived.”

At this instant two dark columns
of Indians were seen dashing over
the rairie one alon the skirt of
the orest, the other a orig the open
path across the prairie. At the
same instant the furious barking
of the dogs announced that either
an attack or afeint was to be made
on that side also.

The ate was opened; on came
the fugitives, who in another in-
stant bounded throu h, just as a
volley from the Bloc -house was
fired at the advancin crowd,wlrrclr
caused the Indians 0 raise a wild
yell that rent the air, that roused
the echoes of the wood, and almost
chilled the bravest hearts.

“ Out with all lights i” said
Charles, as he bounded toward
the river side, “ and let the women
keep in. Harrod, bring your gang
this way.”

The barking of the do s grew
more furious, and Charles, Iarrod,
Bennett, and ten others of various
occu ations, hunters, laborers,
shep rerds, blacksmiths, who were
close to cover, soon saw several
canoes full of Indians turning the
corner of the stockade. The fir-
ing from the Block continued so
furiously, and was so fiercely re-
turned from the Indians on the

rairie, that the barking of the
dogs was almost drowned, and the
party on the water- side were
chuckling at the result of a strata-
gem which appeared hkel togrve
u the much-coveted Bloc -lrousc,
afi its treasures, its arms, ammu-
nition, and prisoners, without a
blow. Oh they came, then, with-
out attempt at concealment, at
least forty warriors, armed with

uns, tornahawks, and knives.
hey clutched their little bright
axes as if they thought a hand-to-
hand confiictrrrore probable than
any other and any one could have

 

seen by the falntllghtofthe twink-
ling stars, and that vague light
whrch, as the darkness rows en-
tire, appears to wrap al nature,
their fierce eyes gleaming with (is.
light, as they prepared to bound
on the soil of the interior of the
stockade.

Heavens ! that was a yell, as thir-
teen rifie—shots laid thirteen war-
riors low, and the white men, with
cutlass and with ax, bounded on
to oppose the landing of the grim
and painted warriors. They ceamd
firing in the Block-house, they
ceased firin on the prairie,to heur-
keu to thatghorrid sound. But it
was one; and naught now could
be drstin uished but the cries of
victory, t e curses of the white
men, and the groans of the dying
Indians. The repulse was so evi-
dent, so terrible, so unexpected,
that in a few minutes the contest
had ceased and the Indians Were
pushing o . The whites flew in-
stantly to cover, toavoid the shots
of the retreatin Indians, when
first a shrill shrie was heard, and
then a prolonged vell so nnmrt lrlv.
so horrid, so new so different
from any cry of Indian ever
heard before, that all stood trans-
fixed. Then Charles rushed to-
ward the breakfast- arlor, with
death at his heart, an was about
to enter, when ahuge Indian, yell-
ing, shrieking, roarin ,camo forth
and knocking him own, leaped
over the chevaux-dc-frise into the
waters of the river.

Charles rose instantly and en-
tered the room, where he knew
that his sister Jane had taken re-
fu and whence had come that
fea l shriek of hers that made it
terrible to enter within those pre-
cincts. All was still and hushed,
save the meaning of a ne r0 girl,
who usually attended on we.

 

CHAPTER XIV.
A GLEAM.

Wrr return to Andrew and Fanny
Carstone.

How the sad cou ls mourned
for the little one as cad, it would
be weary and painful to tell. Long
they hoped and trusted, and then
the hoped no more for it seemed
wic ed to buoy the heart up with
false light, when all was dark and
gloomy in the future of their earth-
y existence.

Andrcw Carstone was approach-
ing fifty years of' age, a staid and
earnest man, whose whole exist-
ence was one of patient study and
thought and reflection. He was a
good and kind landlord, he was
gentle to the poor, he was lenient
as a magistrate; he ever remained
what ire once had been,an excellent
husband.

Time did not lay its hand too
heavily upon them, for they used
time well, and at forty-six and fif-
ty, Mrs. and Mr. Carstone were a
pleasant couple to look at.

They spoke now of the child as
of one long since dead, ently,sad-
ly, but not with that bi ter pang of
grief which touched them at first
and which from its violence had
worn itself out.

Charles Carstonc—who had been
knighted for some deed of little
note, and was a very recise and
solemn courtier, r. p m man in
days not remarkable for nicety,
days when men scarce spoke with-
out an oath, when wine was a mea-
sure of man’s capacity, and mod-
esty a thing but faintl understood
—-tlrey saw little of. e came once
a year, at Christmas, was ver po-
lite and attentive, received hrs an-
nuity with a formal, pleasant letter
of thanks, and continued on his
way, still Sir Charles, unchanged,
unaltered, except that there was a
Lady Carstone in the case, and one
fine boy of thirteen, to whom it
pleased Andrew Carstone to think
the family estate would one day ro.

Andrew Carstone was in ris
garden, which ran along the back
of his house, and skirted a pretty
lane with trees and green hcd res,
and Mrs. Carstone was with rim
looking at the fiewurs and the
shrubs, and the gravel path, and
the quaintly~cut cw trees. An-
drew was dressed In the fashion of
the day. lie wore his own hair

 

 

Irv-

-

 

and a three-cornered hat, a rldln
habit buttoned to the throat wit
large buttons, and bootv that Went
above his knees, for he was about
to ride forth to some meeting of
magistrates. His wife were a
dress, the petticoat of which was
turned up all round, showing
another skirt, and a high body,
which was open in front and laced.
Her hair was tied back in a knot,
and a cap with long ribbons flut-
tered on her shoulders.

They stood on a path near the
wall, looking at some apricots in
bloom, Andrew pointing to the
wall with his heavy riding—whip.

They both started.

Ahead, nothing more,protruded
war the wall; but, it was a head
seldom seen, but, once seen, not
easily forgotten.

It was a very ugly-lookin ,
middle-aged man, pock-markeg,
sun~burnt, with little gray eyes, a
large mouth, and a shaggy head
of hair, red, uncombed, and dirty;
the whole. set otl‘ bvnn eviiression
of low cunning that belongs only
to ignorance and guilt combined-—
and in general guilt is the con-
sequence of ignorance in those
who should obey, and in those who
make the laws.

“ I say," muttered this appari-
tion, in such a voice as adoor-mat
with a severe cold might be sup-
pOsed to indulge in, but which
was really a tone common to some
constant drinkers of raw spirits.
“ I say, axing your pardon, is you
the beak ?” ,

And the head disappeared as if
by a trick in a pantomime,and then
bobbed up again, and looked hard
at the astonished couple.

“ What does that horrid man
mean ?" exclaimed Mrs. Carstone,
somewhat alarmed.

“I believe, my dear, he wishes
to know if I am the magistrate—”

“ Exact—that’s what I means,”
continued the hollow voice, again
disappearing, as if its speeches
were uttered upon tiptoe, and the
exertion was too much to be sus-
tained.

“ I am a magistrate, sirrah; and
pray what do you want? Persons
who wish to speak with me usually
ring at the door.”

“ But is you Muster Carstone
his-self ‘2” continued the man.

“ I am Mr. Carstone,” began the
magistrate, “ but I again— ’

‘ It’s orr rite," exclaimed the
thick—spoken individual; “that’s
fah you. Cor fora ans’er in ten
minits."

With that be cast a crumpled
piece of paper on the ground.

he magistrate picked it up im-
patiently and opened it.

“Merciful and all-wise Provi-
dence l” he cried, turning ghastly
pie, “come back, man-come
back i"

“Orr rite !” said the shaggy
head, again bobbing up; “yer I
am, guv ner-orr rite !"

“What is it, Andrew?” gasped
Mrs. Carstone, with a vague hope.

“ Orr rite," said the man.

“ Our child! our child 1" or
claimed the father, wildly
“ Speak! Oh, Andrew, what is
it ?"

“ Listen. This paper says that
the writer, on his dearth-bed, re-
penting of a crime, wishes to gain
pardon from Heaven by revealing
the place where our child lives——
still lives, Fanny! Come round
to the door, man—make haste, I
will join you.”

“ ()rr rite,” repeated the shag ry
head, again disappearing, whi e
the husband and wile hurried, arm-
ln-arm, into the house, unable to
exelumge a word.

in live minutes more the mes-
senger of such glad tidings was in
the magistrate‘s private otlice. He
was a short, thick set looking man,
in very ragged attire, with an
antiquated hat, and a stick in his
hand, and u gt‘llt‘l‘lll 100k of (me
who slcptin marketplaces, or on
piles of straw, or lll hay—stalls—
anywhere, in fact, but ill his nat-
ural bed.

“ Man," said Andrew Carstone,
“if these tidings you brim-I be
true, you shall be rewarded be and
all you can hope. Tell me you
know."

 

  Hunter.

The man explained as well aslie
could that a comrade of his—one
Joe Mullins—“ a old post-boy as
was,” being laid up and likely to
die, was very much tormented by
his conscience. He lived with the
de onent, one Cornelius Ragg,
fol owing the humble profession
of a rag and bone dealer, also a

urchaser of unconsidered trifies.

e,the said Cornelius Ragg, seeing
that he really was ill, induced him
to confess being concerned in rob-
bin a house, and thence stealing
a c iild; and upon hearing this
statement, he, the worthy bone—
picker and purchaser of uncon-
sidered trifles aforesaid, did then
and there induce the said Joe
Mullins to tell the truth to the
parents of the said child on certain
conditions, in such a case made
and provided.

First. The utmost secrecy as to
all the said Andrew Carstone
might see or learn in his visit to
the bedside of the said Joe Mul-
lins.

S’econd. Perfect immunity for
the said Joe Mullins, should he re-
cover from his illness.

Third. A slight reward in the
way of a small annuity for the said
Joe Mullins, always provided that
he lived to enjoy it.

Fourth. A small fee, or gratuity
for Cornelius Ragg, as the messen-
ger of glad tidings.

“ You live in London ?" said the
magistrate, anxiously.

“ Her do,” replied the man.

“ How came you here ?"

“ Wark’d,” continued the bone-
dealer.

“ Can you ride on horseback ?"

“ R-rather.”

Andrew rung the bell. A man~
servant appeared—a staid man of
five-and-fift .

“James,, said his master, “1
can trust you. There is news of
my child—not a word to a living
soul. Take this man, have him
dressed up in the best clothes you
can find amon r your own and
John’s. Tidy him, and make him
look as much like a groom as you
can. Saddle Brown Bess and
Sally.”

Mr. and Mrs. Carstone, when
once alone, clasped each other‘s
hands, and then fell on their knees
and uttered an earnest prayer that
the hope thus excited might be
realized. Andrew then bade his
wife be of good cheer, and pre-
pare to accompany him in any
search he should have to make for
the lost one. Ilis wife could scarce-
ly speak, but through her tears and
sobs she promised to remember all
he said.

lle snatched some refreshment,
and as soon as his attendant and
the horses were announced as
ready, Andrew Carstone kissed
his wife, and, accompanied by
Ragg, (lashed ofi‘ along the Lon‘
don road, at a pace which showed
his eager desire to end his journey.

Many were the people who
stared to see them ro. Cornelius
Ragg, in a suit mnc I too lonL" and
too loose for him, his face washed,
his hair cut and combed, his legs
lncased in high boots, looked even
a more extraordinary persona re
than he did in his previous dir‘ty

garb.

It would be idle to tell how An-
drew Carstonc rode to town, how
he showed little of that tenderness
for his beast which was generally
his characteristic, how he dashed
down half-crowns at toll-bars with-
outstoppin r for change, and hencv.
was taken or a highwayman by
the discriminating tollmcn, and
how at last, covered with dust, he
reached London.

He put up his horse atacity inn,
took hasty refreshment, for he was
sorely exhausted, and then with
little chanre to his attire he sal-
licd forth into the streets toward
the place indicated by Cornelius
Ragg, where Joe Mullins lay sick
unto death, tormented b his con-
science because he had one evil.

The inn they put up at was the
Belle Sauvage, on Ludgate Hill,
which Andrew Carstone had se-
lected from its proximity to the
boron h where the dealer in bones
and 0t er such minute triflel 1nd
his residence.

l
l
l

 

 

19

 

The bereaved father lost no time.
He burned with eager desire to
hear the tale which the man had
to tell, and to know if there really
was hope of ever recovering the
lost one.

Armed with pistols under his
coat, and with a trusty sword by
his side, he stood in the coffee
room of the celebrated inn, while
Ragg was outside preparing for his
expedition. In the room sat a
man in a red waistcoat, a three—
cornered hat, a coat with large but
tons, and a round, bulldog coun—
tenance, who examined the ma-
istrate curiously but respectfully.
n idea flashed across the mind of
the retired merchant. Ilc advanced
close to the man.

, “ You are Finch, the Bow-street
runner 1”“ said he.

“I am, sir,” replied the other,
respectfully.

“You know me, I see. Well,
keep me in sight, but do not inter-
fere unless I call. Do not know
me from this moment.”

He threw down five guincas and
returned to the spot he had been
standing on. Rag at this moment
entered, nodded familiarly to the
police agent, and asked ier. Car-
stone was ready. The magistrate
expressed a wish to breakfast be-
fore he started. The Bowstreet
officer gave a rapid glance full of
meaning at Mr. Carstone, and went
out.

When about a quarter of an hour
later the master and his new man
sallicd forth, there was an odd-
looking fellow in the yard, whose
garb proclaimed one in the last
stage ofpoverty. He bowed hum
bl y to them, and Mr. Carstone gave
him a penny. Ragg was in advance,
and the magistrate had just time
to catch the meaning eye of the
Bow-street ofliccr.

At the end of about a quarter of
an hour they were in sight of a
narrow street, or rather lane, of a
very impoverished description.
The part ofLondon they had pass-
cd through was certainly not a
rlorious specimen of the metropo-
is. The houses were dirty, the
windows dark, the street covered
with filth; men, women, and chil-
dren, looked squalid, and misera-
ble. It was one of the head—quar-
ters of the demon drink.

Over a shop, a little way up the
lane, was written in white letters
over black, Cornelius Ray/g ji’cit.
“’hat this meant nobody knew. It
is believed by the best-informed
inhabitants, who convey the tra-
dition to our times, that the father
of Cornelius was an artistic indi-
vidual, who, when he set up busi-
ness, copied the last-word from the
corner of an old painting, without
the smallest or faintest idea of its
signification. By some it was be-
lieved to be the real family name
of the Ragga, by which the de-
clined to be called because o their
pgsent humble position in sod
e .
At this establishment Ragg halt-
ed, entered, and bade Mr. Car-stone
follow, the whole lane being in an
uproar at the return of the bone-
dealer in his prcsent strange garb.
The magistrate glanced up the
street, and saw the Bow-street
runner enter a tavern—the bank
which received all the money of
that market.

Amid an insufferable odor of
rags, bones, old iron, and abomi-
nations without name, the anxious
man made his way. He saw before
him a ladder, by the side. of which
stood a portly dame, who stared at
Cornelius as ifhe had been a ghost.

“ Now then, leave orf starin’,
will yer ?—its her right."

The woman made no reply, but
st00d stock still at the bottom of
the ladder.

It was a low, dark room. The
bed was but a trucklebed with one
mattress, and from this came a
meaning sound as ofone suffering.
As they trod on the old creaking
floor a man raised his head.

“ Will Corney never come ?" he
muttered. “I shall .die, I shall
die.”

“ Hor right,” replied Corney.

“ Have you found him ?” be
the sufferer a man about forty

 

pale, haggard, thin, with eyes that
seemed to start from his head.

“ I am here," said Mr. Carstone,
gravely.

“ Oh i” cried the sick man, sink-
ing back, “ give me water! wa-
ter l”

The magistrate examined him
attentively, felt his pulse, and then
spoke.

“ You are not, perhaps, so ill as
you fancy. You have sent for me,‘
having raised hopes long since
dead. If there be any truth in the
promise you hold out, there shall
be not only no means spared to
save you, but you shall be provided
for for life.”

“ Mr. Carstone, I have wron ed
you—do you promise entire 'or-
giveness, and more, protection it

live 2’” asked the man, in a faint
voice.

“Forgiveness and protection,"
said Mr. Carstone, solemnly.

“ Oh, sir, I was but a boyI—I am
but thirty-five now; and ackett
and Sir Charles did bribe me—I
was ver oor.”

“Sir harles i” said the magis-
trate, striking his forehead and
starting.

“Good gracious, sir—did you
never guess ?”

“ Oh, perfidy! I see it all. My
child stood between him and
fortune—”

“ Ay, sir, and apretty fortune he
has made of it.”

“ In the name of Heaven, what
mean on ‘3”

“ hy, sir, he’s put her, yer
know, out of the way, and he’s
raised amatter of twenty thousand
pounds on the estate.”

Andrew Carstone sat down by
the bedside in silence a moment.
His face grew dark, and an expres-
sion of hatred perfectly fearful
crossed his countenance.

“ ’Tis well ! Now, man, listen
to me. You are about to reveal
to me where my child is—for that
I am prepared. But hearken; as
you trust my rotection and de—
sire to be save , not one word of
this to a living soul. Let me find
my child, and I shall have in my
hands a rod which will make the
villain skulk where no living bein
shall see his face again. Sir Charles.
Sir Charles ! you have deceived
me. But bitterly shall you pay for
this! Where is my child?’

“ In America," he be u.

“ In America l" sai Andrew,
with a perfect groan of anguish.

“ In America, with aman named
Hackett. Ragg knows him well—
he passes as her father.”

“ Ragg ” said Andrew, taming
tohim,“ am am istrate. I know
your trade well. Give up this shop,
make up your mind to be honest,
and I mayyperhaps save you from
a halter. on must go to America
with me as my servant. Behave
like a man and you shall be re-
warded. On my return, I will pro-
vide for you beyond your most
sanguine hopes. You have b¥un
a good work—carry it out. his
evening I will give you whatever
you may require in the way ofmon-
ey. This afternoon I will gain
tidings of the first acket—with
that we sail. You, ’ addressin
the sick man, “shall be remove
to the country. I expect you on
my return, to be well and ready to
prove your word. On my honor
as a man, no harm shall happen to
either—the guilty only shall be
punished.”

The two men listened attentive-
ly, and when he had concluded,
both accepted.

Ere ten days were over, the sick
man had been removed to afarm-
house. Andrew and Fanny had
parted, and the magistrate was on
board a packet bound for New
York, accompanied by his new
serving-man, ‘orney Ragg.

They traveled as Mr. John
Smith, and Tobias, his servant.

 

CHAPTER XV.

THE ATTACK.

WHEN Charles entered the din-
ing-room, he found Jane sobbing
in the arms of the negress, whose
special duty We have said it was to
keep company with Jane and wait
upon her. It was. however, almost

 

  

'20

Beadle’s Dime Library. W

 

 

Impossible for him not to laugh
when he came to understand what
had happened.

Jane had been sitting on a sofa
beside. the window, listcnin with
anxious ears to the sound of strife
without, and endeavoring, de-
spite the danger, to school her
mind to thoughts less gloomy than
those which were natural to her
situation. The more readily to
attain this end, she had earnestly
tried to check the alarm of the
uegress, who, like inOst of her race
in a state of servitude, was wanting
in the first elements of courage.
She was busily engaged in this
task, which, from the extreme
terror of the girl, was both a
thankless and unamusing one,
when the skirmish and the sounds
of battle, with all its horrid din,
came close to her door. The crack
of rifles, the war-whoop of the In-
dians, the manly shout 0f the
white men, the yells of the wound-
ed and dyin r, the whole rendered
doubly terri le by the gloom of
night, still further alarmed the
negress, who retreated into the
furthest comer of the room and
clasped her hands in agony.

At this instant, a hu re painted
Indian, in his fierce an “hideous
bravery," came bounding into the
room, and stood facing the horror-
stricken white girl.

“ Bozhoo, sister,” said the In-
dian, really struck by herinfantine
and rraceful beauty, “get u ,—
quick, no talk, scalp,” he ad ed,
angrily.

“ Mercy !” replied Jane, faintly,
striving to rise.

“ Pretty one prisoner,” con-
tinued the Indian, stooping to help
her to rise. What his words were
next it was impossible to say.
They were doubtless the most
ferocious curses which man in his
most degraded state ever gives
vent to, and uttered with a shriek
ofsuch agony as made Jane close
her e es and almost faint. Then
the ndian turned and bounded
from the room.

“ De uglee debble—yah! yahl
yah 1” said the ne rress, giving way
to a violentvfit of laughter, as she
returned to its place the half-empty
kettle which had been the weapon
of warfare used by her. “ De uglee
ole reb-skin—teach him to obsult
Missa Jane—scald him skin spec’—
tink he won’t run berry fah l Yah !
yahl yah l”

Jane opened her eyes, and seeing
no one near her, save the negress,
gave way for a few minutes to a

urst of passionate tears, such
tears as come naturally from
woman when she has just escaped
a fearful and terrible danger.

“Brave Hebe,” said Charles,
smiling, when the negress had put
him in possession of the facts,
“ ’twas bravely done. I think this
repulse will check the knaves; so
Jane, dear, have the valuable ket-
tle replenished, and we will e’en
take a late tea.”

“ Golly! golly l” grinned Hebe
“ tink I see ub now, rub hib red
skin.”

“ But where is Amy all this
time?” asked Jane. “ Custa said
she should be here before this.”

“Castaloga and Harvey will
fulfill their task the easier that the
Indians are round the Moss. Be
of good cheer, my sister.”

‘ Dear Charles, ’ she said, blush-
ing, and looking on the rround,
“ there was somethin r in t lat wild
man‘s manner that to (1 me it was
not death Amy would have to fear.
An Indian can see her beauty. Oh,
to be tied to the Wigwam of a
Shawnee—she that hates the race
in her heart, despite her every
effort to be generous !”

“ Yes,” mused Charles, gravely,
“her detestation, to a certain de-
gree, of the colored races is
peculiar—I have often feared she
would make Custa our enemy
and lleaven knows such a friend
is needed iiulccd.”

“I have feared it too, Charley—
her snecrs, her allusions, her con-
stant words, speaking of all save
the whites as beings of an inferior
race,have often puzzled me. Custa-
loga, too, has heard them inoodily;
but oh, Charles, he is generous,
brave, and good, and I can never
mistrust him.”

 

“1 love him as a brother,” said
Charles ; “ but it would have been
as well if Amy had been more
tender of his feelings. You have
educated him, elevated his mind,
chastened his speech, made the
fierce savage kneel at your altar,
proved tha he is capable of lofty
sentiments, noble feelings, and
keenly alive to all that you admire
in poetry, sentiment—‘

‘ Save that he remains an Indian
in garb, in love for the forest, in
his instincts.”

“ The consequence, dear girl, of
early education ; but I am confl-
dent that did Amy show less re-
pulsion for the savage race, she
might entirely reclaim him to civ-
ilization.”

“ And become Mrs. Custaloga, I
presume ?—Thank you i” said

ane with courtesy.

“ And she might do worse,” re
plied Charles with a sigh, as he
turned away and went out.

It was evrdent that the contest
was over fora time. Not a un
was heard not a cry could be is-
tinguishc , and when he came to
the Block-house he found that the
Indians had retired on all sides.
His proposal to place a few scntries
was therefore readily acceded to,
and the jud re, Squire Barton, the
peddler, an the younger people
were soon collected in he supper,
dinner, and breakfast—room, as it
was indiscriminately called.

“This is the beginning," said
the judge, aftera few moments
of desul ory talk, “of a war be-
tween the whites and red-skins,
which must end in the extermin-
ation of the latter. It is a pity. I
know well that everywhere the
early discoverers of America, glo-
rious Columbus excepted, treated
the natives with a cruelty which
justifies much; but the Indians
will by such acts as those of to-
night lose their best friends. I
have always demanded justice for
them, I have always demanded
even-handed justice, and I would
hang a man who shot an Indian in
cold blood, as I would hang one
who shot a white man ora negro.”

“Nay, judge, I’m not of your
opinion !” exclaimed Squire Bar-
ton. “ No! no! hang me—a red~
skin anda nigger are not white
men. I never hought the natives
could be preserved. ’

“ The squire’s right, judge,” said
the peddler; “the squire s ri ht,
and his remarks is judgmat cal.
The abry ines ain’t no account
agin a write man. I’ve traded
w th them up an’ down consider-
able now, but I’m bound m say
they are a pesky set of var-
mints."

“ They are a bad lot generally,”
continued the iudge, ‘drunken.
thievlsh, treacherous, and mur-
derous ; but there are noble fellows
among them, faithful, sincere,
and true; Custaloga is as tine a
specimen of humanity as any in
the country."

.“ We all know your opinion of
him,” said Barton, dryly.

“Iain sorr to say we know
yours," said ane, an expression
of anger and sorrow crossing her
face. “ Would that all men were
as brave and generous as he i”

“Miss Jane,” replied Squire
Barton, with a laugh, “ I know I

may not speak of your and your '

sister‘s pupil ; but you are already
aware that he can be over boastful.
He has not brought back Amy,
and I fancy you must even turn to
poor me after all. It is, therefore,
my intention to leave the Moss to.
night, to go down east, rouse a
strong party, and relieve you and
rescue Am , which is more than
either the yandot or his double,
the Mad Artist, will ever (10.”

“Leave to 111 rht ?” said Jane,
looking strange y at him.

“ Leave the Moss P" repeated the
judge, who simply regretted the
oss of the rifle. “ But, why think
you dear Amy’s case so despe-
rate 1'”

“ I do not believe it des crate,”
replied the squire; “ but believe
that no two young men and a

oung girl can cross from Crow’s
est while these savages are. in the
Woods. Rely on it, judge, the

worst that can happen to Amy will
be a few h'ours’ detention. She is

l
l
i
|
l

 

 

 

known, and a savage has even
more cupidity than ferocity.”

“I hope so," said the judge, so-
lemnly. “ Ifyou think, then, that
your going is best, go, but hasten

ack. ’

“ How will you depart?” asked
youn Moss.

“ y the dug-out,” replied the
squire. “I will lide down when
the moon is hid, s rike Gum Creek,
and it will be agood-legged Indian
that will catch me."

“1 will go with you as far as
Gum Creek.” said Charles. “and
bring back the dug-out. We may
want it.”

“ Well, judge,” be an the trader
looking uneasily at he squire, “I
think promiskus like, I‘ll be on the
move—tu g‘yuns is better nor
one.”

“ Promiscuous or not promiscu-
ous, you‘ll not move with me,”
said the squire. “ You had better
stop until I come back, which will
not be long.”

“ Very good, squire,” remarked
the trader, carelessly; “I dar say
thejudge will give me house-room
for ’m reck’ned unkimmin good
at a long shot."

“You and all honest men are
ever welcome,” said the jud e,
earnestly; “ but every man w o
aids me now to drive back the
bloody heathen is my friend.”

“And, judge, he who brings re-
lief, and restores your child, will
have claims, I fancy, even great-
er,” remarked the squire.

“He who restores unto me my
(laurhter shall not bargain with
Wil ium Moss. I am his slave, as
was thefenius of the lamp to the
man in ear Am ’s famous story,
and nothing the he asks will I re-
fuse.”

The look of the squire was now
so proud, so self-satisfied, and so
strange, that Jane viewed him
with astonishment. Never had she
seen such an ex ression on his
face. She trans atcd favorably.
For some time he seemed to fear
that Amy did not receive him so
well as formerly, and it was natu-
ral that he should snatch at the
opportunit of restorin her to her
friends, an thus gain t 1e sup ort
and countenance of her fat ier.
Little more was said on the sub-
ject, and after supper Charles and
Barton went out to examine the
forts and change the sentries.

The night was very dark. The
savages showed no si n oflife, and
the vast expanse o forest ave
forth no sound, save when a sh ht
moanin was heard, as of the y-
ing win , or the cry of the whip-
powil came softh from afar ,0
wake the son. to sad harmony.
But, all ave sign of a storm.
The dark e ends from the nor’-west
came bodily toward the earth,
charged with vapor and electricity,
a damp feeling ervaded the at-
mosphere, the a r was chill and
cold darkness spread over the
who e face of nature, sureharged
with the menace of the tempest;
and then the rumbling of thunder
was heard, nets of wind came
rushing over ree-tops and through
the forest glade, the great limbs of
the trees rattled and fell, so that
the sentries, with every possible
good-will, could scarcely distin-
guish an inch before their noses.

The Block-houselay in deep 0b-
seurity except when the lightning
lit up t (2 scene, and then the wary
borderers kept close, peering only
from chink or crevice, to see that
none approached. But the Indians
appeared utterly inactive, and it
was difficult to realize that there
had been on this spot so lately as
deadly combat.

“ Charles,” said Barton, in a low
tone, when they had gone their
rounds, “hold out orty-ei rht
hours and all will be well. on
have powder and ball, and ood
men and true; and your dc ense
will be easy'for that time. Ere it
has passed, however you shall have
relief; I will dash or the Crow’s
Nest with the Little Bridge Regu-
lators—they are mounted, and the
thing will be easy."

“ on are a brave feilow,Barton,"
replied Charles, “ and I trust we
shall soon see you again."

And yet there was a constraint
in the manner of Charles. who

 

for reasons of his own had no great
or earnest desire to see him become
his brother-in-law. He had lax
notions of morality, which were
farbeyond the sympathy of young
Moss.

Barton made no reply but pre-
pared for departure. 1’s saw to
the priming ot'his gun, he wrapped
it up carefully to guard it from the
wet, he changed his dress for one
Whollv composed of deer-skin 1-.»
looked to his pouch, his knife, his
short, bri ht ax, and then stood
still on t 1e edge of the wharf,
where the canoe lay moored.
Barton and Charles listened : not
a sound was heard. They looked :
nothing could be seen. With the
stealth ofserpents they then glided
into the boat, just as the sharp
voice of IIarrod from the lower
part of the Block cried to the sen-
tries to be vigilant and careful.

Up the river and down the river
they gazed, and then began pad-
dling across to the forest on the
op osite side.

t was with a feelin akin to awe
that they approaehc the deep
shelter of the beeches and ouks
that lined the banks of the Scioto
river. They avoided the open

hide, amid which, behind girdled

rees, their foemen might have
been lying. It was not ver ' long,
however, ere they breathe more
freely beneath the deep shadow oi
the forest trees which overhun
the water. Sudden] Barton seize
the arm of young oss and shook
it convulsively. .

“ I-Iush !" said he “ there is not
an instant to lose. Iook !" and he
pointed to the prairie on the op-
posite side of the river; “see where
the stockade is high—they have
ladders. If we startle them now,
we are lost.”

Charles looked, and saw indeed,
by the glare ofa lightnin r flash, a
large body of Indians 8. vancing
with several men at their head,
who wore the garb of white men,
and in the hands of these were
scaling ladders.

“A moment," added Barton
ste ping out of the canoe and
springing on to the shore; “ now
we can do it. Let us both fire, and
then ou dart for the Block open-
ly. hey will have too rough a
rece tion to mind on.”

“ ell thought of,” replied
Charles; and instantly the two
young men fired.

The voice of Charles Moss at the
same time was heard above the
storm :

“Up, lads, give it to the
bloodthirs y knaves—defend the
south bastion.” With these words
he darted across openly, still re-
peating his cries, and such was the
noise and confusion which ensued
that none noticed his return to the
fort. The fight there was hot.
The men in the Block had aimed
at the rear of the column, the head
of which, however, was still be-
neath the stockade, whence it was
not easy to dislod, e them. Charles,
with a smile on h 3 face, rushed to
the kitchen, thinkin all the time
of the act of Hebe. large copper
which contained some soup for the
negroes' breakfast—pea-soup, of
which they were ver fond—was
on the tire. Delighte to find this
Charles summoned one or two 0
the negroes, and bade them till
three or four )ails full as quickly
as possible. he negroes obeyed,
laughing all the while, and with
this ammunition Charles rushed to
the high line of stockade, which
was intended to defend the girls'
bedrooms from danger. A garden
ladder, a pile of wood, and other
aids were soon found. Then three
active men caught each a pail, and
after listening to hear where the
assailants were diggin at the
foundations, they tippe the pails
over. The yell, which burst from
the unhappy wretches, was such
that not one in the Block heard
it unmoved. It was a fearful and
cruel act, but one of those excused
and absolutely necessitated by
the instinct of self-preservation,
when alone man may be pardoned
for being a little fierce and devoid
of that gentleness which on all
other occasions should be the char-
aclvil-lic of human Iltllln‘c.

To a certain extent this act had

 

h

 

 

 

 

‘r~ . U 

 

 

the opposite effect to that expect-
cd. Some of the besiegers lied,
mine fell writhin r in agony on the
l'i'illild to die, w iile others, ren-
m-rcd desperate by physical pain,
piillllvd the ladders and rushed to
the assault with cries and shrieks
worthy of demons. The garrison
was rmralvzml—hut onlv for an'in-
slant, and then the reckless band
was ln-atcn back with ax and gun.

The horror experienced by the
garrison during,r this brief combat,
winch altogether did notlast more
than twenty minutes, is scarcely
to be described. The backwoods-
uien, who were fully prepared for
events of this nature, fought with
that coolness which is their usual
characteristics; but there were in
the Moss many women and chil-
dren, to whom such scenes were
new. They had heard of them by
the fireside, as they had heard of
other events in the history oftheir
country; but the description, even
by the most experienced, did not
come up to the reality, and scarce-
ly one of them but would, after
what had occurred, have gladly re-
turned to the quiet settlements
from which they had originally
come.

The judge himself now bitterly
repented having uitted the quiet
and serene life 0 the bench, for
what he had expected would be a
rustic and happy seclusion sur-
rounded by grecu trees an ver-
dant fields, where the maize and
the pumpkin, and lowing cattle
and sheep, were the most striking
objects he expected to see. He
had himself, however, acted no
mean part in the contest and now
stood listening with profound gra-
vity to the explanation of his son
as to all that had occurred.

“ That soup was mi hty well
served out,” said the Indian trader,
laughing. “ Master Charles, I fan-
cy you give them fellows a bit ofa
treat. Pea-sou ain’t gen‘rall]
discharged in ails—not at all."

_ “ Hush !"cr ed the judge ;“ what
Us that, my son ?”
; All listened.

“ Water! a cu of water i” cried
a feeble voice rom without the
stockade—“ I am Cyin .”

“ Christian men, as f live,” said
the judge.

“ Cursed renegades, white In-
juns ” replied Ezram.

“ t matters not—they call for
aid in the tongue in which I learned
to ray and to thank God; I can not
re use them succor. Charles. let
a sally of six picked men be or -
nized, and such as claim our aid
be brought in.”

Charles was accustomed to treat
his father’s word as law, and the
words of the trader fell upon him
without effect.

A an] I y,under the circumstances,
was a very serious thin , and 88
such Charles Moss treate it. Ac—
companied by Harrod and four of
the best and most active men of
the garrison, he went out, leavin
close to the postern gate, 8“
chiefly on the outside, a large bod
of laborers and dependents 0
the Moss, who were prepared to
cover his retreat in case of neces-
sity. Then, conquerin the dis-
gust he felt for the tas 1m i986d
upon him by his father—his riend
Barton had given him such fearful
accounts of the renegades, espe-
cially of Simon Girty, as to make
him hate them ten times worse
than Indians—he glided along the
palisades, and reached the spot
rom which the besiegers, under
the novel circumstances in which
they were placed, had not been
able to remove their dead.

“ Water! water i" still faintly
murmured the wretch who had
iirst attracted their attention.

“ Where are you, rascal Y” said
Charles, in a low but angry tone.

' Noanswercame. Rightlyjudg-
int: the cause, he spoke again, but
in gentler accents. .

u ymr not, we are Christian
men; and  you—no matter Willi.
you are—are still alive, answer,
and quickly, for we may not tarry
here ”

indeed, the ition was becom-
ing serious. he besiegers, fancy-
ing that the besieged were crawl-
ing out to scalp the dead, corn-

The Silent Hunter. ‘7

 

 

meuced a random fire from a dis-
tance, which increased in force
every moment. Tire cry was re-
peatea m a low tone, then Harrod
and another caught the man up,
and the little party beat a hasty
retreat just. as a cloud of iridium—
furious at the disgusting oppor-
tunity of triumph, which the
whi‘e men they thought were tak-
-ng advanta e of—madc another
rush at the B ock. This, however,
was repelled by so vigorous a dis-
cha e from the Block itself that
the esiegers retreated, and the
prisoner was brought in without
any further difficulty.

t was a white man, as they had
expected. _ g

“ Give me water!" he cried;
“ lay me down—I’m done for. Oh,
my back! my back! That accur-
sed Simon !’ —and then he glanced
round, as if expecting to see some
one who answered to that name—
“it was his doing. Lay me down.”

They took him into the lower
room of the Block, and laid him
on a mattress. He gulped down
a large draught of water, and then
closed his eyes for a moment.

“ Which is the judge ?” he asked,
suddenl starting.

“ I wi l fetch him,” said Charles.

In another moment the judge
entered. He was pale and stem.
He closed the door behind him,
and the bed of the wounded ris-
oner was surrounded by Mr. oss,
his son, and Harrod. The latter
held a inc-torch, which cast its
fitful g are on the countenance of
the man, whose pallid face, blue
lips, and wild eyes, with that con.
stant thirst which was not even
assuang by

ured on his lips, proclaimed him

in .
y“ fudge,” said the man who was
an outcast from England but re-
cently arrived in America, “I am
a villain, but do you for ive me ?”

“ I am a Christian, an it is my
duty to forgive my enemies,” re.
plied the judge, solemnly.

“ Thank you ; I’m dying, I know,
and it serves me right ;but—but—-’

“ You have some secret?" con-
tinued the jud e.

‘ Yes—yes— have—a—seciet—
Simon Girty pushed me to—it—I
never meant—but Jud 8 there—‘-
is a serpent in the Hiock ’Water 1’

“ I knew it," cried the judge,
looking wildly at his son ; “ I know
'ti I know it." ‘

“ Give me water—how my veins
burn—I can scarcely see—what is
that form ? It is the tern ter!
Away, Simon; I will not arm
them—they never harmed me—
take back your gold—Indians, too
men who scalp, and burn, and
torture—no! I can not be so foul
aruflian—I will not do it. Water!
water! water i"

“ You spoke of a sen-ent," said
the judge, kneeling down by his
side; “ adjgre you,as a dyin man
about to on r the presence 0 your
Creator, speak.”

“ I spoke of a serpent—Simon
is a serpent—everybody is a ser-

nt—are the young ladies safe?

cs. I know they were not to be
harmed.”

“ What means this ?—what dark
and terrible mystery lies hid be-
neath these words? Speak, man;
speak,and calm a wretched father’s
fears. What know you of my
child ‘2”

“ There is," said the man, rising
and sittin up, while an arm was
put back support himself, and
speaking in a low, hushed, hissing
tone—“there is a ser ent in the
Block—a horrid, fou serpent, a
monster in human form—I stole a
sheep-m escape hangin I fled to
America—that was my c me-and
yet I am not a serpent, I am not a
traitor—oh! my back is on fire, my
tongue bums—I die—beware of
the—”

He spoke no more, but fell back
groaning and murmuring,aud then
all was still. He was dead.

“This is awful," said the judge
rising. “ Who can he have meant i
—could it be the negro ?”

“ I guess that war it," said Har-
rod, Igravely; “he said the—"

“ e did—but as the negro and
the Indian are out with these
monsters that can hardly be.

water continually _

 

21

 

 

Who could he mean? There is
the negro,Jouas; the Indisn,Cu.~‘ta;

and the squire—none of whom
could possrbly he meant."
“ It is, imim-ii. sir“

the son; “ this poor devil meant
to warn us, but his mind wandered.
It is terrible to have some horrid
suspicion hanging like a pail over
our heads.”

“It is, my son,” replied the
judge, rising; “it is, indeed. But
we can learn no more here; letus
trust in Providence. In the mom-
iug, Harrod, give this man sepul-
ture outside. In open day they
will not dare attack us.”

Sentinels were carefully posted,
Harrod was appointed sergeant,
and then the rest of the defenders
of the Block retired to seek as
much repose as was possible under
the circumstances.

About midni ht, when all was
uite still, and t e wearied sentries
ozed at their posts, and just be-

fore they were about to be relieved,
a dark form lided from the sheds
where slept t e blacks,flitted along
the garden, stood on the banks
of the water, and then noise-
lesst disappeared.

In the morning, Hebe, the wife
of Spiky Jonas, was nowhere to
be found. Terrible was the com-
motion in the Block.

“ It was she! it was she!” said
the judge, in asad tone; “but itis
better so. The serpent has left.
I can breathe more freely.”

But Hebe Jonas stood outside
the gate an hour later, asking to
be readmitted. Her sad and
gloomy countenance seemed at
once to explain all to the judge.
In accents of unmistakable grief
she told how she had sought and
found her husband, who, however
had laughed her to scorn and
driven her forth to the forest.
Relying on the goodness of her
master, she had returned.

“She is innocent,” said Charles,
marking her beseeching eye.

“ 1 am sure of it, my son. Hebe,

o to your work."

And the Block was again dis-

turbed by suspicious and doubts.

CHAPTER XVI.
soowr. sum.

Son years before the com-
mencement of our tale, there had
come to live in that land which
has received so many f tives—
some for conscience s e, some
for crime‘s sake, and some for
fancy’s sake—one Edward Morton
de Grey 9. man of substance and
note. He came from England
with a wife and a wife’s son, and
with many servants, a retinue
quite surprising in a colony. He
bought a vast estate built him a
house, and called it Scowl Hall.

It was a quaint old house, in a
deep wood on the banks ofa stream,
and the owner left a skirt of wood
round the place when the clearings
were made, so that he could not
see the fields which surrounded
his dwelling, and which were to
be his wealt . He bought negroes,
em loyed laborers, kc t horses
an hounds, and was a kind of fine
old English entleman on a small
scale on the anks of the Ohio.

He was about forty-five ears
old when he came to that Ian , and
his wife was nearly the same age.
She had a son, James Barton
nearl twent ,between whom and
the usban there existed no
friendship, all his love being given
to his two boys, Reginal and
Walter, one three, the other one
year old. He had married her, it
was said, for her dowry, which was
veg great, and had run away to

e interference on the rt of
her relations useless, and e wo-
man, who loved herhusband gave
him all, and trusted to him to
provide for her son by her first

usband. Edward Morton de Gre

was, in most senses of the wor ,
an honest man. He had a bun-
dred thousand ounds with his
wife,and in his wi l he ave an equal
share of this to all e children;
but he divided the whole of his
own vast property between the
younger boys giving his step-son
nothing of all this, “and to the
Survivor he gave all.“

 

War existed between England
and her colony, which was soon to
be the cradle of civil‘iZation, pro—
gress, and liberty; and Mrs. dc
lrey, who was of a delicate and
tiruorous nature, alarmed at. last
at the war and rumors of war,
and especially by an Indian attack,
died after a very short illness.

It was the afternoon preceding
the funeral, which was to mid.
ilace at a considerable distance.

be coffin lay in the state-room,
of which the shutters Were closed.
The servants looked up with regret
and awe at the window Where lay
the mortal remains of a good and
kind mistress. Abeautil'ul young
negress, to whom the grown-up
son always paid marked attention,
sat in a. shady bower with the two
handsome boys of that. dead
mother who lay within. The
colonel, as he was called, was in his
room, and the shutters were all
closed, and no one, under any
pretense, would have dared to dis-
turb him.

That strangely-built house look
ed solemn enough at any time. It.K
first floor was built of stone ant.
brick, and its foundations were
laid low in the earth. It had a
portico in front with a flight of
stone steps, and a veranda all
round; and behind, it had its
water-stairs like any Venetian
palace, and boats that looked like
rondolas ready for pleasure or

usiness. Above the first floor,
and projecting three feet over, was
another story all of wood. Largo
beams had been laid across, and
rooms built upon them two stories
in hight, with odd-looking gables,
a vane, a flag-staff, and the bust of
aman with a very stern look—
henee the name of Scowl Hall.

This peculiar formation gave the
lower rooms a dark look; but on
the first floor they were spacious
enough, and cheerful. One ofthem
was reall ' large and fine. It was
furnishe with reatmagnificence,
and here Mrs. 0 Grey used to sit,
and in company with her young
children would pass the hours in
teaching them—the one to talk,
the other to read—while Phoebe,
the young slave girl alluded to,
looked on in admiration or wonder.

But that room is closed now,
and no more shall the fond mo-
ther’s voice be heard, no more
shall the childan listen to the
loved sound, sweetest, dearest,
most gentle of all sounds; for she
is dead. And all is hushed and
still, and the young nurse speaks
to them in low and trcrnblin
tones, and the children are stil ,
for they think that their mother
sleeps.

A horrid cry suddenly awakes
the echoes. A band of Indians,
savage and ruthless, and of whites
more savage and ruthless still, rush
upon the place,——-the servants fly;
and half an hour later the body
was alone, for the husband lay
scalped beside his wife’s coflin, and
not a sign of negroes or children
was to be seen. The huts of the
slaves were burning too, the house
having been only sacked, and then
suddenly abandoned, when the
presence of death was discovered.

When young Barton returned to
the home he had left—sad, it is
true—to make some arrangements
for the funeral—he found himself
sole heir of Seowl Hall, and of all
the possessions of his family. He
found no difficulty in establishing
his claim. The terrible tragedy
made anoise, but such thin s Were
common then; and when hmbe
came back ransomed from the In-
dians, and told how the poor
children had been slain, there was
a cry of horror and Squire Barton
was recognize , by public feeling
and by law, sole inheritor of his
mother’s, stepfather’s, and half-
brothers’ property.

There were those who shook
their heads solemnly, and said
they would not be in his place for
ten times his wealth—Qtliere were
those who whispered strangely
and sadly about the sudden slaugh-
ter of the De Greys. But was
there ever a man who came sud-
denly into great possessions with-
out excitingmunnurs? And then
the i'UlliUl‘.‘ died awzu'. especially

 

 

22

 

 

when, in a distant churchyard,
Squire Barton erected monuments
to his mother, and to memories
of Squire Edward Morton de Grey,
and his sons leginald and Walter,
cruelly slain by the border Indians.

Seine years later, after a life of
considerable irregularity, he took
unto himself a Wife, a young and
gentle thing, who (lid not agree
with Phoebe, and who died after
four years of no great happiness,
and who, having perished of a con-
tagious disease, was hastily iii-
terred with the others. This was
about the time that he met with
Amy Moss, and laid his vast for-
tune at her feet.

Seowl Hall was adreary, solemn
place, where the squire spent his
time in rollicking and drinking,
and holding orgies with strange
men who came no man knew
whence, and who were no man
knew what. There were no resi-
dents then ncar the Ilall, mid none
cared to venture down there for

leasure; so the squire lived with

is own set, and hunted and fished,
and drank, and sung with his
comrades, uninterrupted and un-
noticed. Even his wealth did not

ain him much respect, though

is life was really not known, ex-
cept that his wife’s relations cut
him dead, and would not so much
as hear the name of the man who
had killed, they said, sweet, con-
flding Helen Jay.

At the Moss little or nothing
was known of all this, as the
family came from a distance, and
Amy being openly ailianecd to the
wealthy squire, few cared to iii-
terfere. And then Squire Barton
was rich, and wealth is a cloak
that will allow a man to commit
many acts which would be crimes
if perpetrated by a poor man.
Wealth, like charity, covereth a
multitude of sins.

In the gray light ofa spring
morning, at the time when the
narrative of our tale continues,
the place looked dreary indeed.
Nothing, it would seem, had been
done to restore orimprove it since
the day of the massacre, except
that the door was rcfastend on its
hinges, and the windows strongly
barred. But the stones and bricks
were dirty and damp from the
vicinity of the trees, the wood
above was cracked for want of
paint, the windows were dirty for
want of cleaning, and all exhibited
evidences of decay and waste.

The outhouses still were numer-
ous for there were many negroes
on e estate, and then there were
the buildings inhabited by tho
overseers and white men in the
service of the squire, men of
strange and odd aspect,who always
went about armed to the teeth,
and who formed, as it were, a body-
gmrd to the petty monarch of

at region; for here on his own
ground, where none dared venture
.0 interfere with him, Squire Bar-
ton was king.

At the window of the room once
occupied by Mrs. de Grey was a
negress. She was about thirty-
flve years old, or perhaps a little
less, b no means ugly, but surly
and ii - favored in expression
rather than feature. She wore a
red cotton handkerchief around
her head, and was dressed other-
wise with considerable taste. She
was yawning as if just up, and had
not yet shaken off sleep. As she
brou lit her arms down again, she
reste her elbows on the window-
sill and looked out.

lose under the window stood a
man whittling a stick. He was a

queer-looking fellow. His face
was gaunt and thin. He wore a

conical cap which was supported
bya head of hair, matted an dirty,
that hung like a pent-house over
his brow. His forehead was low
and retreating, while his eyes were
so far sunk in his head as to be
only distinguishable by their glare.
His nose was hooked, and very
narrow and thin at the nostrils,
while his mouth appeared a mere
slit in a red flat surface of flesh
overa pointed chin. An entropi-

sion of extreme ferocity, of low
cunning, of gross and vul rar sen
suality, rested ever on his face,
even when he smiled, which was
seldom indeed.

 

He wore a tight-fitting frock
coat, and over this was a gun on
bafltlIm/it‘rc; in his belt were stuck
a most lormidable pair of pistols,
while another belt in the opposite
direction supported a Silotrllollcil
and horn. A cutlass was added to
this walking arsenal. lligh boots
over his pautaloons completed his
attire.

“ be top ob de mornin’, Massa
Simon (lirty,” said the woman.

“ Mornin’,” growled Simon Gir-
ty, the owner of a name scandalous
on the borders, and to be more
scandalous still; “so you kin git
up, blackey 1’”

“ I’hwbe no call togct up sooner
dan her like,” exclaimed the ne-
gress, “ and my name no blackey.”

“ Sartin—hearu you say that a
fore now, ole gal,” continued the
ruilian.

“Ncbher you mine—what dc
tongue l'war? Say da same ting
twenty time, it'a like," said l’lunbe
indiguantly.

“ (lo it, screamcr—pitch ahead——
I’m ther’—liyar he is, Simon (flirty,
as can stand any amount of gab.
l’m halfhorse, half alligator, and
a bit ol'a door-mat,” said the rude
borderman, with the nearest ap-
proach he ever made to a grin.

“ Yah l yah i” laughed the wo-
man ; “ but nebbcr mine—Phoebe
ain’t berry bad—got a berry nice
bruik'st—niassa Simon eat a bit a
()le Joe ?"——that was the name of
the last pig that had been killed.

“Well, you are a riglar roarer.
I’ve, filled my crew pretty well, I
guess, this mornin', but I don’t
mind a little bit of pork.”

“ Wah dat ‘3” said the woman
suddenly. “A boat down dah I”

“ Stand up and show,” cried
Simon flirty, in a loud voice, turn-
ing toward the stream, “ or I
guess you‘ll hear tell of my old
sliootiii’-ii'oii.”

“ Hold vour tongue, and keep
your threats for others,” replied
a voice from behind some bushes,
and then a canoe, in which was
Squire Barton, came in sight.
Phoebe disappeared immediately.

“ Mornin , cap’n," said Simon;
“ you’re good fur sore eyes, I
guess.”

“Am I?” replied the squire,
whose canoe was hauled up to the
bank, and who was getting out of
his boat; “that's more than you
are, ll'aney. \Vhat‘s the meaning
of all this row, and why is Tecum-
sch attacking the Moss 1’”

“I’m shot!" exclaimed the as-
tonished rutlian, “I thought that

quire-”

“ You thought like a fool, I dare
say,” replied the squire, angrily;
“and who thought about roing up
to the Crow‘s Nest, am killing
Clara, and putting that devil of a
llarrod on us ‘3”

“ I wish I may be shot, cut into
little bits, and stuck in a huekle-
berry bush,” cried Simon, “if I
know. Clayri killed? ’l‘hat‘ssome
of them pesky lujincs."

“ And Miss Amy MoSs," said
Squire Barton, who had reached
the door-step, “ where/is she 1’”

“ She’s right as a coon, only one
of them boy lnjines is over head
and cars—"

“ What i” said Barton, clutching
the other by the wrist; “ what said
you ?—spcak, I say, or I shall—”

“I guess you'wun’t,“ replied
Simon, coolly; “ and my wrist ain’t
a tomahawk. I said as how the
Injineas trced Miss A~iuy is sweet
on her—that’s all.”

“ Who toldany rascally red-skin
to touch Amy ?——who thought .1"
he said, in a voice of savage and
sarcastic irony.

“I carn‘t say—I didn’t—I never
was more streaked in my life, never
—I didn‘t know a coou‘s hoof from
a moccasin for about half a minute
—I didn’t.”

“ Come in, Simon Glrty—these
things must be seen to. There
are some live hundred vermin
round the Moss, and that must be
stopped "

“ My 1” said Simon almost to
himself, with a look of strange

' meaning, “ the cap’n ain‘t as fickle

as a val—oh no, not atall."

“ here are two men I hate-
they must die," replied the squire
furiously; “ but they are not in the
Moss."

Beadle’s Dime Library.

 

 

 

“ And without pokin’ ri htsliek
away into secrets as ain t mine,
might 1 fix the names of thim two
friends of yoiirii 2’"

“ Custaloga and Dick Harvey—
I hate them, Simon, with no com-
mon hatred. They are inmy way.
If they were in the Moss, I would
not stir a finger to save it; no, not
if Jane, the judge, and Charles
must perish with them, all save
Amy, who is mine—minc—mine l”

Simon looked vacantly at the
squire, glanced from side to side,
parsed up his mouth as il'going to
whistle, and gave a long, low and
cautious “ whew l”

“Custaloga and Dick Ilarvey—
my!” he exclaimed, looking into
the other’s eyes, as if he expected
to detect some hidden meaning in
the words of the squire.

“ Yes, Custaloga and Dick Har-
vey, the civilized Indian and the
Mad Artist."

“ Why ‘3” asked Simon, who, so
great was his surprise, leaned
against the wall of the house.

“Because they are always in my
way—every one likes them. The
Judge respects and loves them, the
cunning knaves; Charles is fondei
of them than he is of me; Jane is
quite smitten by that low-bred
knave, the artist, and—yes—de-
spite her vows tome, I often fancy
—-yes—I seem to detect in Amy
a tender interest for that red-
skin thief, the Wyaudot Custa-
loga !"

Simon Girty, the most c0nsum~
mate and finished knavc in all the
borders, was so astounded at this
revelation, that he stood back to
look at the squire, as if he disbe—
licved the evidence of his senses.
llis look was one of wonder. Bar
ton rushed into the house.

There. was far more in Simon
(lirty’s look than iucrely surprise
at wishing to do away with two
fellow-creatures. There was a
clear evidence ofsomethiug which
Squire Barton did not understand.

“ My 1" said the rullian, moved
by remorse, “ there must be a Pro-
\ideuce.”

He followed the squire into the
house. Brushing past Phwbe,
who came to greet him with a wel-
come, Barton bade her send him
breakfast to his private room, of
which he snatched the key from
hot girdle, and added that he want-
cd plenty of wine, which bein r
served, no one was to distur
him on any pretense whatever,
save Simon Girty, whom he order-
cd to join him.

The breakfast was brought and
eaten in silence, as l’hozbe waited
on them; then wine and pipes
being placed on the table, with
piles of tobacco, the squire took
the negress by tliearm, turncdher
out, bolted the door, and remained
alone with (iirty,the renegade ; for,
though a white man, Simon Girty
had, after lighting on the Ameri-
can sidc, deserted to England, and
being there found out, had 'oined
the most savage of the ndian
tribes.

01' their interview no record re-
mains; but at the end oftwo hours,
Simon went out, and left the squire
alone in his private room.

It was a strange room. Heavily
carpeted with rich and flowery
products of the Eastern loom, with
pictures on the walls, chiefly re-
presentations of female beauty and
portraits of horses; there hung
around a whole armory of pistols,
daggers, swords, and guns—curi-
osities, it is true, but evidently
thoroughly serviceable. There
were two windows, one looking
out upon the stream, the other on
the side of the house; luit both
were very strongly barred and fur-
nished with iron shutters. That
room would evidently have stood
a very good siege, especially as it
was situated in the stone and brick
part of the house.

There sat Barton. All his brava~
do of manner, all his outward
seeming ofcarelessness,all his wild
merriiucnt of look and mien were
gone. His face was haggard and
pale, despite the large quantity of
wine he had imhificd; his eyes
glared round into the corners of
the room, as il'he. expected to see
soiuethin r strange rise therefrom ,
then, qua ling another goblet, he

 

rose without tottering, wholly un-
atl'eetcd by the heavy potatious
which he had taken. Ile moved
the table away from the. middle of
the room, and raised the center
llowerofthe carpet, which, though
apparently of the same make as
the rest, was in reality totally dis-
tinct. lie laid it on one side, and
there appeared a trap-door, which
he proceeded to raise. His face
was flushed—he looked abouthim
uneasily, and listened. No sound
of any kind came. Then he went
to a cupboard, where the remains
of his breakl'ast had been thrust,
took a plate of meat, a large slice
of bread, and a bottle ofwme, and
descended.

In an instant he was gone. Then
there was a briefmurmur of voices,
and the squire came up, a little
more livid, a little more ghastly
than before, and he replaced the
trap, put the carpet over it, put
the table in its place, drew along
breath, and sat down.

There he sat until the sun went
down, the shadows thickened, and
the trees seen from the windows
became one solid, dark mass, and
night had fallen on the whole
scene. Hours passed, and the
squire dozed in his chair. There
were sounds of serving-men and
women, of blacks, ofhuntcrs, and
others without, the busy hum of
evening, and then all was still, and
not a light burned anywhere save
in the one room, where sat the
master of Scowl ilall, tortured, his
mind on the rack, revolving the
past, which was terrible—the pres-
ent, which was p( rplexing—and
the future, which was gloomy.

The lights had burned low: there
had been sounds of strange import
in the forest, when Barton started
as a low knocking was heard at
the window of the room. There
came three separate and distinct
knocks, one afterthe other, on the
shutter. He started, rose, and
moved to the door of the room,
and out into the passage, without
a light. Ina few minutes he re-
turned with a man in a horseman’s
cloak, and a slouched beaver drawn
close over his eyes. He was of
powerful frame, with dark eyes, a
heavy mustache, and a generally
sinister aspect.

“ What news, Barton?” said he,
in a hoarse voice.

“ Bad news, Colonel Butler,"
replied the squire, motioniug the
other to a seat.

“ Bad news !” repeated the man
addressed as Colonel Butler. It
was, in truth, the guilty author of
the massacre onyoming. “ What
bad news can there be 1”

“ That Custaloga overheard the
whole plot, made prisoners of the
negro and the alligator, and that
the Moss will not yield, at all
events to treachery.‘

“Are you playing an honest
game, Barton 1’” said the colonel,
tapping him on the shoulder.

“ llonestgame l" cried the squire
with a sheer. “Colonel Butler is
sarcastic. Let us not talk of hen-
esty. You want Jane Moss; I
want Amy—we are likely to want,
in in opinion.”

“ earken, squire. Iam an out-
law and an outcast, because in a
moment offurious passion I turned
against the republic. Irepeutme
sorely this folly—it was not a pay-
ing folly. I wish to regain posi-
tion, station, and fortune, and thus
backed, to earn forgiveness of
Congress. The husband of Judge
Moss's heiress would not ask a
favor in vain. You love Amy—"

“I love her!" cried Barton, sav-
agely. “ Colonel Butler, you know
little of human nature. I wish
to humble her—to have her at my
feet—to make her take me in glad
exchange for worse."

“ Well, well, it’s all one. You
did love her, or else why are you
what you are ?”

“ I would I were not what I am,”
said Barton, gloomily.

“Regrets are but the bank-
rupt. stock of evil men," replied
Butler, with a laugh; “ we have
launched our boat, we must row
in it.”

“ We must, Colonel Butler, be-
cause. by some infernal means at
your disposal, you have found out
my secret.”

 

i
t
|

 

 

 

 

i
l
l
l
l
l
x

 

The Silent Hunter.

 

 

 

“ One of your secrets, Squire
Barton, if you please," re )lied
lintlcr, glancing significantly at
llns flour.

“ Well, one of my secrets—”

“ Which secret would not exist,
if you were as hold to execute as
you are to plan."

“ Would you have me kill awo-
llllln 1’“ asked Barton, angrily.

“it must come to that,” said
(.‘olollel Butler, with a savage
sneer. “ But no, do not kill her;
take from her every hope, crush
her young love, break her heart,
be all unto her that any fiend in
human shape can be, and ’tis well.
You are not an assassin, because
she is not (lead. But I say again,
it must come to that.”

“Never,” said Barton, angrily.

“Perhaps, then, when Amy is
your Wedded wife, you will bring
her home to Seowl Hall—a haunt-
ed house—a house in which there
are strange sounds. Zounds, man,
the colony is becoming peopled,
and Scowl llall will notion be so
solitary; but no matter. s you
will. ilow long do you mean to
bear with the interference of this
Custaloga and the Mad Artist ?”

“Colonel Butler, those young
men are ever in my way; they stan
in my path, they interfere w1th me,
and leaven knows I hate them.
But it can not be—murder once
done, leaves such scarlet on the
soul; it can not be done twice."

“So ho! Then on have slain
in self-defense,” cried the colonel,
amazed.

“Said I so ?" repeated Barton.
with fixed eyes. “ I mean worse
than murder. Inever slew aman,
except an Indian, in self-defense,
Colonel Butler. I care not how
soon those young men perish ;but
I can not bring about their death.”

“ You are wondrous squeamish,”
sneered Colonel Butler; “ but now
to business. Amy Moss is in the
hands of the Indians—they hold
her at the village. Now is the
,time for you to act, and then I de-
pend on you to secure Jane. I
have aided you with Amy—your
turn has now come."

“And what ifI refuse, if I defy
you, ifl throw myself on the mer-
cy ofthejudge,and tell the truth ?”

“ The whole truth ?” rain
sneered the colonel, looking im
hard in the face.

“ No i no i" cried Barton, vacant~
1y, “ the whole truth, that would
surprise him!”

“ Yes! for even I do not know
all, though I suspect—'”

“And pray, what do you sus-
pect ?” asked the squire, looking
at hiln.

“"hat which, if it were true
would rouse up theindignation of
the whole country, and send you
an outcast and outlaw beyond the
ken of men. Imspect,” said the
colonel, emphasizing the word as
if to convey that it meant I know—
“ I amped that the foray which
destroyed the heirs to this estate,
and made of so happy a home a
wilderness, was organised by one
James Barton, with a View to be-
coming.r sole inheritor."

“ well, and what then .9”

“ I suspect that the instruments
of the said James Barton deceived
him—l suspect the heirs to Scowl
Hall still livo, and will be produced
to confound you."

“ Fiend in human shape!" ex-
claimed Barton, livid with terror
and astonishment “ what mean
you? Speak, or will tear out
your false tongue.”

“ No threats to me, sir; but, re-
member that, onceamau has com-
menced a career of crime which
nuinhind will not forgive. he must

m on or perish. You are so deep
ilyed in rullt that there is no re-

treat. 11 we can do is to ward of!

,the blows of the enemy. Squire

Barton, there is no time for delay;
let your marriage With Amy Moss
take place at once, and mine With
Jane, and we may hold our heads
so high none will see the red blood
on our cheeks. I warrant you
that the heirs then shall never ap-
pear. T]th have no sus 101011 of
the truth; and she who oes know
will only speak at my bidding."

" Colonel Butler, am in your
hands. I will away to the vi 1830

 

this very night; I will call at the
Frog’s Hole—nay, there was an
a )pointment for midnight in the
lint with Kate-—”

“There’s another piece of folly.
That girl loves you—she’ll be turn-
ing Jealous and betraying you
one of these days; it seems you
have made her your confidant, and
expect her to )lay quiet brides-
maid at the we ding. ’

“ Kate is an honest girl, who has
promised and will keep her word.
Any weakness she may have had
for me willsoon pass. She begins
to suspect my true character. I
am no longer the careless, merry,
laughing hunter who made love to
her up in the Frog’s Hole; she has
overheard some speech of that
idiot Ralph.”

“Why meet at the Hat ?”

“ ’Tis five miles nearer, and easi-
ly reached from the Moss.”

“ Do you ride soon ?"

“ At once. We can speak aswe
go along,” replied Barton.

The intelli ent reader will see
that James arton and Charles
Carstone had, in two distant hem-
is heres, committed the same
cnme, from the same lust of gold,
and it is only one of the singular
features of our history that the
crimes were both perpetrated on
971; same day, the 12th February.
1 —.

CHAPTER XVII.
run avunona LOOSE.

IT was with some misgivings
that Custaloga, after the events re-
corded, proceeded once more to
thread his way throu h the tang! ed
forest, over hill an thicket and
bog, to the gully where he had left
Dick Harvey and the Silent Hunt-
cr. There had been rain over-
night, but now the sun shone out
clearly and brightly, and the wav-
ing tree-tops east the last drops to
the earth, which gave forth a
splashing sound beneath the feet
of the traveler. Walnuts and oaks
and elms, and the silvery beech
and the tulip tree, raised their
lofty branches to the sky, while
the mistletoe, the ivy and the
moss, combined to pro uce every-
where a series of leafy arches,
which at any other time, especially
during the noontide heat, would
have een far more agreeable and
pleasant. The way through this
vast primeval forest was rendered
extremely difficult by the half-
hidden roots, and by the total
absence of‘ any track. Custaloga
trusted to that kind of instinct
which, even in his case, appeared
to have been gained by early ac-
quaintance with the woods.

It was some hours later when
he was startled by the cry of wolves
quarreling over some prey. He
halted, and a thrill of horror went
through his whole frame. Then
he clutched his rifle and d (1
through the thicket, quite ce 'n
that where the wolf howled so
loudly there was no great danger
for him.

A pack of wolves was eagerly
devourin the carcass of the pan-
ther whic had been slain by the
fugitives in the gully. Custaloga

laced his hand on llS heart, for

is agitation was great. The res-
ence of that yellin crowd 0 an-
imals was of itse f sign enough
that something had occurred of
moment during his absence,which,
roloaged as it had been, must

ve made his comrades uneasy.

He, however, gave utterance to
no word; butavoidin the wolves,
which snarled and ye ed at him“
he passed, he entered the gully,
his rifle ready, his ax loosened, his
knife gleaming naked in his irdle.
On he went, slowly, cautiouslyi
with all the stealth o. the ammo.
which had met with so unexpected
a death in that same place some
hours before.

The cache was empty !

Custaloga stood Within the niche
leanin on his rifle, his lips com-
presse his brow contracted, and
yet with an expression of manly
grief, of deep sorrow, which _did
not seem to belon to an Indian,
Nor was his speec now at all of

i

 

23

 

 

that figurative character which he
almost always assumed before
others.

“If he has fallen a victim, I
could make some such vow as that
poor husband has done, and never
rest while an Indian lived, be he
Wyandot or Shawnee. But wh
am I such a child ? Why have
become in heart 8. Lou -knife?
Why have I accepted their God,
and laughed at the Manitou of the
red-skins? Amy Moss! Amy
Moss! you have spoiled a good In-
dian ; and yet, why do I talk thus
and hide my own real nature.
Ah! what is that?” he exclaimed,
as he saw some rude scrawling on
the walls, his eyes becoming more
used to the semi-gloom of the
locality. “This is wise, and yet
’tis terrible too."

Scrawled on the stone was a very
clear sketch of Dick Harvey held
by four huge savages and being
(1 ged away, while behind them,
on he ground, crawled the Silent
Hunter. It required no explana-
tion. Harvey was a prisoner, and
the other of his companions, on
whose aid he depended for the re-
lease of Amy, was behind him,
followin the Indians. All that
remaine for him to do was to
follow himself, and trust to the
decrees of Providence. On him-
self alone he was not sufficiently
vain to rely, but backed by two
such woodmen as Dick and Har-
rod, he had counted on carrying
out his plans with ease.

He dashed a line or two under
the scrawl, to signify that he had
been there, and then away he went
back again down the gully toward
the trail which he well knew the
white men would have left.

He, however, found but one,
after the track had advanced some
little distance from the place where
Dick Harvey had skinned the pan-
ther

“ Good,” said Custalogatohim-
self; “ Harrod has hid his trail.”

He now advanced slowly and
with extreme caution along the
path, which he was uite sure was
the one made by ick Harvey.
There was his foot, and here and
there he had broken branches and
sat down, and once he had climbed
a tree—all this Custaloga saw as
clearly as if he had been by his
side all the day.

At length he came to an open
clearing, and here he saw at once
there had been a fearful and ter—
rible strug le. There had been
rolling on t e ground, and knives
had been used, and blood had been
shed, and then there was the step
of Harvey clearly defined, with the
lighter feet of Indians by his side.
And then there was a little moc-
casin, almost infantine, which
made Custaloga start and look
round anxiously. It was however,
but for a moment, and then he
bounded on his way, as a bright,
sunny, and leasant thought seem-
ed to cross is mind.

He had not advanced two hun-
dred yards when he was startled
by a low strange sound quite new
in the woods the sup ressed
chanting of an Indian girl, or such
he knew her to be by her words,
her voice, and manner. Treading
now with all the caution of a ser-
pent, his heart beating wildly, his

ram on fire, he continued moving
for about five minutes, and then
peering through the bushes, look-
ed on a scene quite new to him,
w‘th all his woodland experience.

It was an arid piece of land,
stony and bare, with a little stream
on one side, and on the other 3
hu 6 tree, which had fallen years
he ore, uprooted by some gale,
andla there rotting and decay-
ing, givin , however, new life to
a .1ost_ o parasitical plants, ivy
Wild vme, and moss, that made it
look like a green bank rather than

a lo .

Agout eight yards distant, stand-
in beside a tree which concealed
th s fallen monarch of the forest
from her, was an Indian girl, whos
short tunic displayed limbs, shoal»
ders, and arms, modeled as if b
the hand of a sculptor, so roun ,
so perfect were they in their dusky
beauty. Her hands were clas )Cd
as if in agony and she gaaet at

i something before her, whrch evi

l

 

f

dently excited both grief and awe
in her bosom, for she chanted her
monotonous and conventional
Song of grief in a way quite new
to Custaloga.

But he was creeping round the
clearing with stealthy and anxious
step, his heart almost in his mouth,
as he distinctly saw before the girl,
on the ground, the body of an in-
dian, with his head placed on his
breast, having been severed from
the body by a knife, after the hor-
rid desecration of scalping.

But Custaloga was too bent on
his task to care so much as he
would have done at another time
for the sight he saw. lie thought
of nothing then but making.r the
girl a prisoner; and so rapt was
she at the spectacle before her,
that he rushed to within six or
seven yards of her before she saw
him. Then she gave a little, low
cry, but made no attempt to run,
knowing too Well that her sex was
little protection, while the Indian
garb of Custaloga also deceivtd
her.

“ What is my sister doing in the
Woods?" asked Custalwm, gently.

“She is very sad, and she has
hid herself, that her friends may
not see her weep,” replied the girl
without hesitation.

She had recognized the paint of
a Wyandot of an inimical branch.

“And why is my sister sad 1’"
said Custalo ra.

“ Water Li y is a chief’s daugh-
ter—and next moon she was to be
the wife of'I‘ecumseh—but Tecum-
seh is a great warrior"—this was
said very proudly,—“ and has taken
many prisoners—one a daughter
of the pale-faces, and Tecumseh
says that she is more beautiful
than Water Lily,and sings sweeter,
and Tecumseh looks darkly at
Water Lily, and she was ashamed
to weep, so she came and hid her-
self in the woods.”

“ Girl of the Shawnees,” said
Custaloga,eamestly, “the daugh-
ter of‘the Long-knives is my friend.
She saved me when I was a. pris-
orer. I must save her—help me,
and Tecumseh will have no vail
before his eyes—he will see that
Water Lily is very fair."

“ Wagh!” exclaimed the girl,
laughing; “the. Wyandot warrior
loves the pale-face girl himself.”

Had not Custaloga been thickly
painted,his face would indeed have
exhibited the deep crimson blush
of shame, at having by his eager-
ness seemed to convey an idea,
the very last he could have wished
to find promulgated in that part
of the world.

“ Her father is my friend, her sis-
ter is m friend, her brother is my
friend; must take the little bird
back to its nest. My sister loves
Tecumseh—she will go back to the
village, and she will tell the pale-
face girl that her friends are near,
and in the evening Water Lily will
brin her out for a walk in the
woo s."

The irl shook her head at these
proposxtions of treason against her
tribe; but Custaloga immediately
chau ed the subject foramoment.

“ oes my sister know why this
Shawnee has his head on his
breast ‘3”

“ No ” said the girl with ashuri-
der; “ was hiding in the woods
when ten warriors passed with a
white pi isoner, and I began to fol-
low, when I heard a noise, and
another Shawnee ran by, and then
lheard a blow, a groan, and Water
Lily ran up and saw this."

“ Hist !’ exclaimed Custaloga,
in a low and determined voice,
seizing the girl’s arm. “ Come—
quick. ’

The girl showed a wounded foot,
which made walking almost im-
possible. But he hesitated not a
moment, caught her in his arms,
bounded into the thicket, and then
with a stemness and decision un-
usual in Custaloga, he bound her
to a tree, sitting, and actually

agged her, which ungallant pro-

eeding the irl sulunittcd to with-
outa strug r e. She was a prisoner
in the band’s ofthe enemy, and she
must resign herself“ to her fate.

Custaloga had heard distinct
voices of ludiaas coming back on

 

24

 

 

the trail, as ff' to look after the
absent one, who had been sent to
fetch a forgotten hatchet ofa chief,
which having found, he darted
back, utterly ignorant that behind
him was running an avenging spir-
it which was soon to destroy and
annihilate.

Custaloga hastily chewed some
leaves, placed them on the girl‘s
wounded foot, and bound them on
with some rag he kept for wad-
ding. He was engaged in this act
ofhurnanity, when a yell of un-
usual ferocity and savage surprise
made him start to his feet. Four
Shawnees were standing round the
dead body of their fellow so fear-
fully mutilated, and on whose
body not a sign of other wound
appeared than that which had
severed the head from the trunk.

A moment ofsilcnt awe succeed-
ed the cry, and then away came
the Indians, darting toward the
cover where Custaloga was con»
cealcd, and to which they were
directed by the track of his moc-
casins, heavier than usual, both
from the dampness of the ground
and the weight of the girl.

The Wyandot leveled his rifle
and fired. Despite the danger of
his position. he gave a loml cry of
astonishment and surprise as his
shot appeared to be echoed, and
two Indians fell to the ground.
The other two halted and looked
around in every direction. Both
were about to dart to cover, when
a third shot startled them still
more, and one, the only one ca-
pable of flight, bounded into the
thicket near the stream and dis-
appeared.

hen Custaloga saw the bushes
and foliage which covered the old
log begin to quiver and shake, a
head appeared, and then, his eyes
flashing, his whole mien that of a ‘
man worked up to a pitch of un-
earthly excitement, came forth the
Silent IIunter, with agun in each
hand, his own rifle and that ofthe
wretched Indian he had slain.

Witha low growl like that of
a beast of prey, he bounded across
the little open glade, dropped his
guns, and dispatched the three
wounded Indians, after which he
did unto them as he had done to
the first, the whole time. growling
and muttering in a ferocious
manner. Uustaloga, used as he
was to scenes and deeds of blood
during forty-eight hours, turned
givtvlay horror-struck to load his

e

A shriek of fear, a painful, shrill
cry awoke him from a train of
earnest thought. To turn, to
catch the Silent llunter by the
neck, and east him to the earth,
was the work of an instant, and
that instant saved the life of the
Indian girl, whom the maddened
and bereaved husband and father
was about to sacrifice with appar-
ently even more pleasure then he
felt in slaying the ruthless war-
riors.

The Silent Hunter rose growling
and glancin' at Custaloga with
savage and 'erocious disappoint-
meat.

“My brother is a brave—his
heart is very sad for the death of
his wife, and he will kill the red-
man whenever he finds him; but
the Water Lily is the prisoner of
Custaloga—she. will help him to
save Amy Moss—and then, if my
brother’s heart is very sad because
ofl is wife and little ones, let him
be a man, and not adog ol'a Shaw-
nee—he will kill no woman, he will
kill no children, for his wife and
his little ones’ sake.”

As Custaloga spoke in his softest
and most winning tones, the face
of the bereaved man grew less
fierce, his eyes softened, and then
the big tears rolled down his
cheek, tears accompanied by sobs
of the most heartwending charac-
ter. Then he grasped the hand
of the Wyandot, and turning to-

l

l

the terrible enemy of her race—
for such she saw he was, the man
who cut oll' the heads other people
after scalping them—were to hex
almostincomprehensible. Custa-
loga now ungagged her, and even
untied her.

“Water Lily,” said he, “is a
daughter of the Riven Oak—her
word is the word of an Indian girl
who never lied."

“ Water Lily is the daughter of
Riven ()ak," she replied, proudly,
and with a start.

“And the daughter of lliven
Oak has not forgotten her little
frich Eagle Eye.”

“ Cnstaloga i” cried Water Lily,
who had not [-0011 him in his In-
dian paint for years.

“ Custaloga," said the young
Indian, proudly.

“ My brother came into the
camp at night to steal a singin’
bird, and he killed many warriors,‘
replied the girl sadly, shaking her
head mournfnlly.

“ I came because the Shawnees
stole away the friend ofmy youth,”
said Custaloga. “ 'I‘en suns ago
Uustaluga had never slain a
man."

This boast, uttered in an earnest
and. mournfnl tone, made the Wa-

ter Lily start, because such a boast ‘

was not in keeping with her ideas
of valor and bravery, while it made
the wretched owner of Crow‘s
Nest—once so happy andjoyous—
shudder; for what a change had
come over him within forty-eight
hours!

Custaloga now narrated to liar-
rod, in brief words, all that had
passed since his departure from
the gully. The backWoodsman
listened with deep attention, and
whenever the young Indian told
of the death ofa Shawnee, he tes-
tified his satisfaction by an approv-
ing grunt.

When he had concluded, he in-
iimated his intention of following
up the Indians, but not upon the
same trail. He explained to the
Silent llnnler his views with re-
gard to the Water Lily, who was
to be sent into her village with the
distinct understanding that she
was to assist in the escape ol‘Amy.
The Silent IIunter grimly smiled
at the name of Amy, and inti—
mated by signs his willingness to
do any thing which could be use-
ful to one whose kindness to his
wife had brought her to hcrpres~
ent terrible and all but hopeless
position.

llaving decided that a certain
course of proceeding should be
taken to bring about the escape of
Ally, the three started. 'I‘heg'irl,
who was very light, was carried by
the powerful baekWoodsman, her
wound being too painful to admit
of her walking. Custaloga went
first. with two guns, then came the
Silent IIunter, his rifle on his back,
and the girl carried in his arms.
And thus they disappeared beneath
the leafy arches of the forest.

About ten minutes later, seven
Indians, with llarvey unarmed,
and his hands tied behind his back,
appeared on the clearing. Fearful
indeed was their yell when they
found the terrible report of the
fugitive true, and saw four bodies
autilated on the field, while not
all their ingenuity could find more
than one trail, and this directly
toward their own village.

Not one man proposed to follow
this trail. A shudder ran through
the whole group, and Harvey at
once became convinced that they
ascribed this wholesale slaughter
to some mysterious arency quite
new in the woods. e guessed
the truth; but the stout-hearted
painter, who had fallen avictlm to
his anxiety relative to Cuslaloga,
took care not to undeceivc his
fierce and relentless captors,
who now shrieked in his ears,
with redoubled vehemenee, their
threats of torture, the stake, and

ward the girl, patted her soft! ' on fill those fearful devices which the

the head, with a gentle an re-
signed mien which quite reassured
his companion.

The girl looked and listened in
astonishment. The four scalps

which hung from his girdle sur-
prised her much, while the words
of Custuloga, and their effect on

 

-(l-skins have invented to daunt
and terrify their enemies.

 

CHAPTER XVIII. ‘
The onus HUT mraavmw.

IN all countries and in every
cllme there are persons of a pecu-

Beadle’s Dime Library.“

 

 

 

liar character of' mind, who would
be miserable if they were notper-
mitted to believe in things su-
pernatural, in the visible manifes-
tation of the demon, and in the re-
appearance on earth of the uneasy
spirits of the dead. Persons in
this state of peculiar purgatory
are generally described as wander-
ing about the scene of their first
life, and as taking a grim delight
in annoying all such individuals as
think proper to dwell there. A
ghost is one of those luxuries
which mankind even yet seem an-
willing to do without, and there
would be no evil in it, if it werea
harmless luxury. But it is not.
It makes people very weak and
very foolish, and disarranges the
relations of society. Who will
live in a haunted house? Give a
residence a bad name, a reputation
of more inhabitants than can be
taken in a census of flesh and
blood, and flesh and blood will not
bear it.

Now, neara portion of that very
stream where llarrod and Harvey
concealed themselves with Casts
loge, at an early period of our tale,
the-re was a place which was known
as the llaunted Pool.

Close to the edge of the stream,
and at the foot of a steep bank
was the Glen Hut, a log-house of
small dimensions, which had once
been the center of several others
that were now in ruins.

It was about two miles from the
Frog‘s liole.

Just as the stars began to twin-
kle, there came gliding along the
trees a form of one who seemed
familiar with the place. It was a
woman, one could see from the
step and manner, and in another
moment she entered the but,
where a few minutes later sparkled
a fire.

The interior of the hat was
partly overgrown by weeds. The
wooden shutters had fallen, and
the fireplace was all that remained
whole. Some straw and sticks
soon made a blaze, and the girl
seated herself on a stool. It was
Kate. She was very paleand very
thoughtful.

She started suddenly as she
heard a. rustling noise.

“ Who is there 1’” she cried, ina
determined tone, feeling for her
pistol. The woods had made that
noble girl a heroine.

“ Is this the Frog’s Hole ?” said
a husky voice.

“ No," replied Kate,“ the Frog’s
liole is two miles along the west
track,which has doubtless brought
you here. Pass on, whoever you
be. ’

As Kate spoke she made her
pistol click.

“ Hor rite,” exclaimed the stran-
ger, rctrealin r precipitalely, “go
on, guv’ner. I'Ve’re hor rite! '1‘ 1e
Frog‘s llole ain’t more nor a mile
thead. This here is a heat and
heat country. I wishes I were
selliifg rags in Lunnon. Never
mind, Corny—it’s hor rite, do yer
dooty.”

The man disappeared, and the
sound of two mengalloping along
the trail was soon heard. Ten
minutes later, there was again the
sound of hoofs. Kate started
and retreated into the comer of
the hut. A man in a cloak entered
rapidly.

“ Well, Regin," said he, fiercely,
“ what is the meaning of all this i”

When the man came up to the
hut, the girl had drawn her cloak
close around her. She now cast
her hood back and confronted
Squire Barton.

“Ralph Regin values his case
and his comfort too much, Squn'e
Barton, to come out on such an
errand," she said.

“ Kate, dear Kate 1” replied the
other, changing his tone.

“ Sir," said ate firmlyt“ I came
here to answer any questions you
may have to put relative to the
business you have on hand with
Ralph Regin.” _

“ What means this change of
tone ‘r” asked the s uire.

“ Squire. Barton, ‘ said Kate,
“it means that I am a silly ak
girl no longer. When I was but
a child, I saw you; you talked to
me of love; you were the only

 

 

educated man i had ever seen'
your tongue was forked and can-
ning, and i listened favorably to
your addresses. You asked to
make me your wife. I was proud
of the honor of being the lady
of Scowl Ilall and, impelled by
Ralph Regin. consented. Then
you cooled. It seems you then
had met Amy Moss, whose wealth,
position, and b -auty were greater
than those of the child whom
Ralph Regin called daughter.
You cheated me long with prom-
ises, you deluded my ear with
cunning speech and I believed you.
But recent events prove to me that
you are playing a false though
deep game. You have not found
this Amy Moss so easy to win as
you thought, and you have em-
ployed Indians to steal her away;
you have roused a terrible war on
the borders. Why ‘2”

“ Kate, you misunderstand me—
I am striving to rescue Miss Amy

Moss.”
“ Hush! No falsehoods, 8a nlre
Barton. That was a contrivance

to win the favors of her and her
family—you have been balked.
The lndians have found the value
of the prize."

“Curse them! This is some
trick of Ralph Regin,” exclaimed

.Barton, fiercely.

“It may or may not be. But
listen, Squire Barton—this is our
last interview. No wounded van-
ity, 1:.) womanly jealousy makes
me act thus. I am resolved.
have not one faint remnant of
affection left for you. It has cost
me a sore struggle, but reason has
assumed its sway. I have resolved
to be the wife of an honest man,
be he who he may. All speech,
Mr. Barton, is vain. Tellme your
business with that man, whose
house I shall soon leave."

“But, wild and foolish girl—
that man is your father."

“That man is not my father
and that woman is not my mother,’
said Kate, haughtily. “I know.
not who my parents are.”

“If,” muttered Barton, as an
idea. crossed his mind, “if she
were a boy, I should mistrust the
knavcs—but why indulge such
silly fancies? Why is not Ralph
here to-night ?"

“ He knew the refusal of Tecum-
sch to give up the girl would make
you fur'ious.’

“Furious!” said Barton; “it
drives me mad. I know not what
to do. Thatlndian knave declines
my presents, all.”

“ Trust that Custaloga may save -

her," said Kate.

“ Sooner let her die."

“ Bad, selfish, man! 0h heaven!
that I could ever have loved this
man!” cried Kate, passionately.

“You did love me," said Barton, .

quietly, “and will again.”
“ Lay it, Barton, to your soul.
I did love you. I would have

given my life to have served or‘

ileased you; your wish was law.
Iadmired, I respecte'l you. When
Iceased to respect you I began
to cease to love you. lio
not hate—I nitv you."

“Beware, girl—this language to
me is weak. You are a poor and
helpless girl.”

“I am: therefore I am in the!

hands of God—of that God whom

you have outraged, and in Him I
at my trust. Do you not too
ong defy llim, James Barton ‘3”

“Peace, babblinr fool!” cried
Barton, furiously. ‘ Go;leave me!
Tell Ralph Regin not to brave me.
I am not one played with with
impunity. That he has had some
hand in disarmnging my plans, I
feel. Tell him so, and let him be-
ware—”

“I 0, James Barton," said
Kate, n a low, sad tone; “but
think not I fear your threats.
Ra! h Begin is, like yourself, a
dar ' and fearful man, and may do
so. This is our last meeting.
Good-night! and again take warn-
ing by inc—repent ere it is too
late."

And Kate brushed past him and
went out into the open air.

“Confound the girl!” he ex
claimed; and then he added, with
a deep sigh, “ Nothing serves me.
I did love this bold child of the

w I do

 

 

 

 

 

'lawn..

The Silent Hunter.

 

Woods, but her pretty face could
not answer my purpose. Why,
why, have I entered on this false
and hollow carccr? Amy hates
me; this irl despises me. Ha!
hai ha ! ell they may! I hate
and despise myself. But let me
shaki- off this weakness. I must
see Simon Girty, and plan some
Sl‘lll'lllc at any peril to release her.
if so, ’tis better as it is. She can
suspect nothing. But she hates
me. Never mind. I have her

promise. She dare not break

that I”

lie mounted his horse, and set-
ting spurs to the animal, gallopet
:Imuy in the direction of Scowi

lall.

Ilc had no sooner disappeared
than Kate returned, and re-entered
the hut.

CHAPTER XIX.
ms 'rwo ALTERNATIVES.

TEE condition of Amy Moss was
any thing but agreeable or satis-
factorv while those varied inci-
dents already noted were occurring
in different parts of the woods.
She had heard and understood the
tumult of the night, and it was
with vague and wild horror that
she waited for some eVent which
should explain to her the fate of
hcrgcncrous and devoted friend,
Custaloga. As soon as it was day-
light she arose, and taking the
child by the hand, and signing to
the Indian woman to follow her—
for Tecumseh had plainly inti-
mated that she was an attendant
as Well as a spy—she went forth
into the village, which was now
once more calm. The warriors
ware lying within their wigwams,
and not even the occasional return
of some of the young men who
had gone forth to chase Custaloga
'rouscd them from their apathy.
These braves went quietly to their
tents without communicating with
any one, reserving their explan-
ations for a council of the whole
village, which it was well known
Wou‘ld take place in the course of
the morning, according to pre—
vious arrangement.

Seen by daylight, the village
presented any thing but an agree-
able aspect. Thcrc werca number
of wigwams of bark and skin,
whence arose, in one or two in-
stances, a light wreath of smoke,
as if domestic hands were prepar-
ing for the early morning meal.
The richly variegated forest was
all around, savc where a clearing
showed several cultivated fields,
but the inclosure within the pali-
sadcs was unsightly; there were
patches of scrubby grass, numer-
ous spots where fire had blackened
the ground, and here and there a
stunted bush, a pile of wood, or a
log, while the whole was so trod-
deu down by the hoofs of horses
and the. feet ofmcn, as to resemble
a dirty farm-yard rather than a
Numerous ugly~looking
curs lav about, still sleeping, but
'raisinglthcir heads at intervals to
snarl at the passer-by. Atno great
distance from one ofthc entrances
-ofthc village, but at some consid-
'crablc distance from the lodges of
the lndians, was the horse-corral,
within which they kept those valu-
able animals, which were. in nearly
every cas ‘ the produce of plunder.

“ Aunt Amy," whispered the
child, clinging to the skirtsof the
girl, whose tasteful habilimcnts,
though torn and dirty, seemed
strange in that wild place, “ when
shall we go to pa ‘3”

“ llush l” replied Amy, who, as
she saw the child’s pale and anx-
ious face turned up to her, could
h1'_ll'('( ly restrain her tears; “ we
in 11-! wait. Your father and Custa
Hi: 1 Mick lIarvcy will be here soon,
and take us away from these bad
',n'.i])lt3.’

“l do want to see papa,” said
the child ; but, under the weight
of alarm and dread at the Indians,
it remained silent after giving ut-
lcrancc to a cry which is the cry
of nature and oflove—and no cry
of out are is dccpcror warmer than
that of a child for its father.

Amy Moss made no reply, but
hm. in  gained the gate of the in-
r-low  went out. crossed a small
open oaru, and entered the forest

 

 

Where, near a pure and clear and
pcllucid spring, which formed a
pool, she performed her ablutions,
bathed the child’s feet, and, as well
as she could, in obedience to cus-
tom, smoothed her glossy hair
and performed her toilette. The
old Indian woman, who, like most
of the aged croncs of the village,
and indeed like most Indian wo-
men, despised such niccties,
looked on with a contemptuous
scowl, but made no remark, as
young Tecumseh had ordered her
to bc peculiarly attentive and
obedient to the prisoners.

- When this simple and refreshing
morning duty was performed Amy
returned toward the village. She
walked slowly and thoughtfully,
still holding the child’s hand, and
had fallen into a reverie, when a
shriek from the child alarmed her,
and she looked up.

The young chief, who had origi-
nally made her a prisoner, stood
before her.

He was a tall and rather hand-
some Indian, with an expression
of countenance, which at the pres-
ent moment was mild and gentle.
He wore a kind oftiara of badgers’
hairs, with the beak and claws of
a buzzard, and on his blanket were
silver brooches and coins to indi-
cate his bravery of ornament. He
was wholly unarmed.

“ Tecumseh is glad,” he said, in
a soft, low, and melancholy voice
—-for this man was an adept in the
ways and arts of eloquence, which
oft depends as much on voice and
manner as on words—-“ the sight
of the nightingale is good. The
air is fresh, and there are roses on
the white-lily’schceks. Go Wass,
take the little palc~skin; ecum-
seh will speak with the daughter
of the Long-knives.”

All this while Amy Moss had
not moved. She had listened to
the warrior’s words, and they had
entered into her soul. She began
to suspect why she had been pre-
served, and her hcart sunk within
her. Proud ofher fair skin, proud
other race, and looking on negroes
and Indians as an inferior class of
beings, of a naturally haughty
character, educated by a mother
who boasted of dcsccntfrom some
Norman nobles on the roll of
Battle Abbey, Amy Moss had for
some time past cooled in her su-
perb and protective friendship to-
ward Custaloga, because she had
fancied a slight and almost imper-
ceptible amount ofadmiration had
become mingled with his previous
humble, and grateful friendship.
She saw, with a woman’s keen and
almost uncrriug instinct, the first
faint dawn ofpassion in the Indian,
and pitilessly, mercilessly had she
owurpowcred him with her cool
sarcasm, her withering and bitter
scorn, hcr sharp and stinging wo-
man‘s anger. She had often talked
before him with contempt of wo-
men who had given way to silly
passion and made unequal matcli-
es; she had sought every occasion
to allude with biting sarcasm to
men who dcmcancd themselves by
marrying quadroons and half-
castcs. Beautiful as a queen, ma-
jestic in her mien, with flashing
eyes and burning checks had she
rejected, in her view of man, all
who were not of her own color,
and immediate race. And Custa-
loga had fled once before it, but he
had come back to meet ital.‘ again,
and bear it silently, :almly, with-
out angcr—without evidence, in-
deed, that he knew ofthc existence
of such a sentiment.

What, then, were her feelings
now ‘2 ,

“Go,” said she to the child “I
will be with you directly. ass
will give you something to eat.”

Then she turned aiidconfrontcd
the Indian with a calm exterior of
face, which, however, the heaving
of her bosom, the flashing of her
eyes, and the red spot in the middle
of her cheek, showed was but ap-
parent. As she stood erect, her
straw hat across her arm, her mien
one of semi-defiance she looked
so lovely, that the Indian could
scarcely restrain a cry of admira-
tion. lIe controlled himself, how-
ever, and motioned her to take I.
scat.

 

25

 

 

There are moments in life when
exterior objects assume a shape
and form which is fixed on the
mind with such power and distinct-
ness that they are never forgotten.
It was but a path in the forest, a
narrow path leading to the spring
where Amy Moss had pcrformc
her ablutions, and she sat down on
a log; but never, never, during
the years of life that were given to
her did Amy forget the scene.
Each tree, each bush, each green
blade of grass, every stone that
dotted the path, lived in her me-
mory. A ray of morning sunlight
fell full upon the half-green, half-
black surface of a dead bough-
here a spot, and there a spot, like
the Speckled back of a snake or
panther. An ant crept up along
the branch with a tiny bit of straw
in its mouth, running hurriedly,
as if the great and famed dcvourer
of his race were close behind. A
bird stood twittering upon a tree-
top merrily, cheerily. Amy saw
and heard it all, and took it in as
with a glance of instant thought.

“ The maple tree is sweet, and it
sends forth pleasant sap, which
the cunning white makes into
sugar; but the mouth ofa woman
is sweeter, and the honey on her
lips is richer than the sugar of the
isle—faces. An Indian girl is an

ndian girl—she was born to wait
upon her warrior ; her young chief
comes back and tells her there is
meat of his killingr in the woods,
and her heart is ad, and she goes
and fetches it. t is because her
blood and her heart are both red—
her blood is warm—she is proud
of her chief. She loves to see him
go on the war-path; the screams
of his enemies are music to her
ears—the scalps at his waist are as
jewels to her neck— she is the
mother of braves—she puts a
scalping-knife in the hand of her
little babe and she laughs—she
shows him the tomahawk, and
mother and child are pleased, and
the heart of a warrior is glad, be-
cause he knows that his wife will
give him only little warriors. The

aughter of the pale-faces is not
so—she is nursed in a warm wig-
wam—she is patted—she is like
the panther of the woods—the
foxes bow to her, and she is very
beautiful—she is not meant to
wait on warriors—the wci ht of a
deer would break her little ones—
thc sight of blood would make her
faint; but she is very beautiful.
Tecumseh is a young warrior—he
is the son of a. great chief—his
heart is glad, he has seen the song-
bird of the whites—there is one
chief’s daughter in his Wigwam,
and the Blue-bird will be there
next moon—they can wait on him,
because they are Indian girls. and
the are proud—but the singing-
bir of the whites is very beautiv
fnl—she will be the queen of Chil-
licothe, the master of Tecumseh’s
heart, and the mother of braves—
let her speak.”

“Indian,” said Amy, coldly,
who had drunk in every word of
his speech, “I do not understand

on

“ I have said,” replied the young
Indian warrior, with quiet digni-
ty, as if he thought he had already
demeaned himself sulliciently.

“ I do not understand you—ex-
plain yourself.”

“ An Indian warrior does not
speak twice," said Tecumseh with
flashing eyes.

“ Let him then speak plainly
once," replied Amy, with bitter
sarcasm.

“ Child of the pale-faces, you are
my wife, I have said."

“ Wife l” exclaimed Amy, rising
and standing before him with an-
gry mien and flashing eyes, while
she raised her hands to heaven to
reject the sacrilc “—“ Wife. did
you say? Indianfi have read of
your tortures, I have heard of your
dcmon-cruelties, I have been told
of victims burnt at the stake—I
think 1 see them now—beaten
with switches. Take me, burn me
at the stake, try all your tortures,
beat,\rhip, burn, d r me to death;
but never, never wil I be an In-
dian‘s wife. I loathe your race,
I dctrst your skim I am a white
girl; a white and Christian girl I

 

nave lived, and a white and Chris-
tian girl I will die!”

“ Talk in uch—do little,” replied
the Indian coldly,and even stci nly.

“Try mc—I wish to die,” replied
Amy, who was in that state of ex-
citement and frenzy which has
made many a martyr; “ to die
would be pleasant. An lndianl"
and she made a sign of profound
and superb contempt.

The chief looked at her with
glaring eyes, and fierce, wild pas-
sion; t at he checked the ebullition
of mg: that was on his lips, and
said :

“Singing - bird talk too much.
Which best, Indian brave or white
Indian renegade ?—Why your life
save ?—Thiuk nobody tell do it 1’—
What say, marry Simon Girty ‘3"

“ Indian,” said Amy Moss, Wild-
1 clutching his arm, “ there is

ark meaning in your words ; but
rather than be given over to that
monster—yes, if I could not die,
I would be our wife.”

“Waghl’ replied Tecumseh,
with a laugh—the vindictive, cun-
ning lau h of an Indian—“know
little bir sing another tune by-
and-by,” using a favorite English
word of the red-skins.

“Indian what mean on ?
Speak. Why am I here?’ she
cried.

The Indian gazed at her with a
look of savage trium h, but would
give no other exp anation. He
pointed to the path before him and

ade her follow it. Amy, recover-
ing herself and rc-assuming all her
proud mien, walked deliberately
cfore him to the camp, crossing
which, she rejoined the child, who
was anxiously awaiting her return.

Her foelin rs were so highly
wrought by t as scene with the In-
dian, that though, while walkin
in the open air, she had controlle
her sulfcring and agitation, no
sooner was she concealed within
the welcome shelter of a lodge
than she sunk exhausted on her
bed. The child, alarmed, creptto
her side, and with many an en-
dearing caress—such caresses as
children only understand—asked
her if she wa's ill, if he could do
any thing for her. For a minute
or two she did not reply, then she
again roused herself and conversed
gently with the child, joined it in
its breakfast, and endeavored as
far as possible to be cheerful.

Hours passed, durin which
Amy remained quietly Within her
tent, allowing the child to breathe
the fresh air in front. The sun
rose in the heavens, the warriors
assembled in council, and then
there was a rush and a cry of as-
tonishment. and some horsemen
came into the camp. The tidings
they brought were of importance,
it seemed, for there was loud talk-
ing, high words, and movings to
and fro; and then there was such
a yell of frenzied delight and pleas-
ure, that Amy Moss rushed before
the entrance of the Wigwam, fol-
lowed by the aged crone who
watched her, just in time to see a
small party of Indians who had
that minute entered the camp.

In their midst was a prisoner.

Her heart misgiving her much,
her mind agitated and full of anx-
icty, she ran toward the group
holding the child. So excited
were the Indians, that they allow-
ed her to approach close enough
to discover that the prisoner was
no other than her friend, Dick
Harvey. Tecumseh made a rapid
sign to the warriors to allow the
mectin .

“ Richard Harvey l" she exclaim-
ed, for Amy Was uevor familiar,
“how is this 2’"

“ Well, Miss Moss, it's my own
fault. Custaloga did tell me to
keep close, and I didn’t. I’m sorry,
because I did hope tohclp you
away. Where’s Unstaloga?"

“ He has been here—I have seen
him, and he has escaped,” replied
Amy. “But how is all this?
What is the meaning of it all?"

“ It means,” said Dick Harvey,
who, though polished in the qual-
ity of his discourse to the ladies
of the Moss, was never so in the
quantity—and who spoke the

more readily that be thou ht the 

interview permitth from unma-

    

26

 

 

ity, little suspectln
who understood nglish were
listenin for every sound—“it
means t rat I and Custa overheard
Spiky Jonas agree down b the
B as Spring to let that tall ndian
by your side, who looks like a
fine, he is so wooden, enter the
.loss. We ran away to the judge
and gave the alarm. Then we
came up here, and I, like a fool,
got taken.”

“ Are all well, Richard Harvey ?"
asked Amy, in tremulous tones.

“ All are well, the judge, Miss
Jane, Charles, and the squire,” re-
plied Harvey.

“ The s uire is safe in the Moss
I su pose, ’ said Amy, with a curi
of t e li .

“ Wel , to give the—I mean, to
be just to Squire Barton, he did
want to come,but Custaloga would
not let him.”

Tecumseh here interfered, and
in cold tones bade Amy; 0 back
to her tent, while Dic filarvey,
despite the manful way in which
he tried to strug is, was removed
to another part 0 the camp. The
poor fellow was so bound that his
resistance was not very effectual '
but what he wanted in Eh sica
force he made up in speec , for he
called the Indians by more names
than ever their astonished ears had
listened to before. The Shawnees,
however, paid no attention to his
objurrations, but drove him be-
fore hem toawigwam, into which
he was thrust, and his feet tied.
There he was left to the dreadful
reflections natural to a man under
the circumstances, the full extent
of the misery of which can only
be conceived by those who have
lived among the Indians, and real-
ized their savage style of warfare.

Amy moved toward her tent
with the child, and was about to
enter it, when the shadow of a
man crossed her path, and looking
up, she saw a mu h and coarse-
iooking being stan ing in her way.

‘He was not an Indian, however,
:and she gazed at him as if expect-
'in him to speak.
7 ‘ I carn’t say much, miss,” he
said, in a rough but seemingly
hearty way, “ but don’t be afeard.
You’ll be out of this I guess, tu-
night.”

‘ Who and what are you 1’” asked
Amy Moss, fixing her great eyes
upon him inquiringly.

“Well, my name ain’t mighty
liked in these parts—I’m Simon
Girt I am.”

“ imon Girt 1” said the girl,
with horror epicted in every
feature.

“Don’t be skeared, miss,” ex-
claimed the other, without mani-
festing any veg great so rise at
herundisguise d s ust. “ utit’s
all right. I’m pai to hel you
out by one as can pay, and ’11 do
my duty.”

“By whom are you paid ‘2”
asked Amy, whose face was crim-
son, and who looked at him with
a look that searched his very soul.

“ Well! I ex ect you guess—by
the squire. e’s the man as can
do it. None of your canting
sneaking, Indian Custas.”

“Simon Girty out of my way—
I will not one life or libert to the
s uire, and on may tell im so.

on may te 1 him more than this,
that I have fulfilled to the letter
my part of the contract—let him
keep to his. Assistance from him
is an outrage.”

With these words Amy passed
on, and entered her tent, where
she sat down in a corner, wrapped
in deep and earnest thought.

an

that those

Vague cies passed through her
mind. Wild notions, scarcely

ever embodied in words by her
afterward, because she never ex-
plained the compact to which she
alluded—one to which only a
scrupulous respect for her word
made her keep. The suspicions
she had were so terrible that she
was alarmed. She began to un-
derstand the allusions of the In-
dian chief—she be an to com re-
hend why she had een s are at
the Crow’s Nest, and er very
soul revolted.

It may now be stated that Amy
Moss hated the squire with a hate
which would not have existed. had

 

she not been bound to marr him.
If she had been free from this part
of the contract, she would simply
have despised him. But from
what will probably, 'when the time
comes for explanation, be consid-
ered a pure infatuation, Amy felt
bound in honor to marry this
man. And yet we have said she
hated him, and none knew it—not
Jane, not her father, not Dick
Harvey, not a friend—none save
Custaloga, who surmised and sus-
pected, that is all, and who was
rom that very cause lost in amaze-
ment, which not all his ingenuity
could unravel.

Amy Moss now firmly believed
that she had been taken by orders
of Squire Barton, who had done
so from the desire of using the
miserable expedient of winning
her favor by a sham rescue.

To tell the thoughts, the reso-
lutions, the doubts, the fears, the
sufferings of that noble girl would
be to exhaus‘: the vocabulary of
human agony She suffered asshe
had never s‘lffered before. She
saw herself d 'awn into toils, from
which there seemed no escape;
and such we 'e the secret aspira-
tions, ideas 1 nd thoughts, of Am
Moss, that ind she been born 0
any other ra 2e than the Anglo-
Saxon, had sl e been a believer in
any creed save the pure and elevat-
ed doctrines of true Christianity,
she would have resolved to end the
contest in some such way as Lu-
crezia Borgia was wont to end her
quarrels.

And a cor test—a fearful one—
was going on between the inno-
cent and noble girl, the loft , im-
petuous and warm nature 0 Amy,
and the subtle, seared man of the
world—a contest that could not
have lasted one hour, had she been
a tittle less bound by a keen and
nice sense of honor, from which
she had determined never to de-
part, even if a fate as horrible as
can well be imagined awaited her
—that of marrying a man she
hated.

The day passed away, small
bands of warriors went out, scouts
came and departed, the usual
bustle of an Indian cam in war-
time was visible, and al seemed
so engaged that nothing was done
that ay with regard to the pris-
oners. Amy saw Tecumseh once
or twice, and fancied that he was
unusually rave. The mind at
such times s keenly alive to sus-
picion, and the suspicion did cross
the mind of the young girl, that
the Indian warrior, struck by a
passion as sudden as it was viola:i
and likely to be short-lived, h
determined to break faith with the
man who had employed him.

It was hard to say whether Amy
Moss was pleased or grieved at this
reflection.

Her future was a dark and dreary
blank, so dreary that our heroine
scarcely clung to life as the youn
do usually; and yet the idea 0
becoming the squaw of an Indian
chief was at the same time so re-
pulsive, so disgusting, and so near,
that the other idea, though e ml-
1 painful, being remote, an by
t is fact capable of ending by the
many accidents of life, was on the
instant less abhorrent to her soul.

Then she thought of her father
and her sister, and of the poor ar-
tist and then by a natural train
of ideas, of Custaloga; and Amy
fell into a kind of pleasing reverie
as she thought of the gallant
Koung Wyandot, who devoted

imself to her rescue from the

urest motives of seemingly fra-
emal affection and she felt pained
and vexed at ersclf for all the
coolness and ban rhtiness she had
manifested towar him.

Night came with rapid steps,
most of the Indians returned from
their excursions, scouts and sen-
tinels were placed around the pa-
lisades, and then all relapsed into
stillness at an earlier hour than
usual, which made Amy suspect
that some serious movement was
intended for the morrow at an ear-
ly hour. Simon Girty she saw no
more of after her brief and start-
ling interview with that worthy,
whose name is familiar to the stu-
dents of border life precisely be-

Bgeadle’s DimegLibgrary.

‘ cause it stands out in dark relief

 

 

 

against such names as those of
Boone, Kenton, Wetzel, Brady,
and others.

Next day, about two hours after
sunrise, Amy wandered again to-
ward the brook or spring where
her interview with Tecumseh had
taken place. She was still followed
by the old woman. who, however,
came not all the way, but sat down
upon the log, whence she could
just catch a glimpse of her prison-
ers. y no means sorry to be rid
of the surveillance of this aged and
disagreeable crone, Amy Moss, to
whom the child was a consolation
and comfort, hurried along with
her prattling charge toward the

001, and there sat down to eat the

reakfast of corn and cakes and
meat, which the muniiicence of
the warrior provided.

Just as they began to take their
simple meal, the clang of horses’
hoofs was heard coming down the
opposite slope—a clang of horses’
hoofs which made her heart leap,
though it could forebode no good.

She was about to rise, when she
distinctly heard a crackling in the
bushes close at hand, the sound
of a light footstep, and then the
boughs were parted,and the merry,
laughing face of an Indian girl was
seen. She looked an instant at the
little group, and then came and sat
down by the side of Amy.

The old woman appeared to re-
cognize her, for she made no mo-
tion as if to interfere, and she re-
tained her former osition.

“ So, you child,’ said the Indian
girl, laughing, “like have little
warrior—eh 1’”

And she clapped her hands as
Amy frowned and looked rather
surprised at this abrupt style of
discourse.

“ Me your friend,” continued
the Indian girl, and then she added
proudly, “ you no love Tecumseh?”

“ Most certainly not 1” exclaimed
Amy, with a vehemence not to be
mistaken.

“ Tecumseh great warrior——
much better Custaloga," said the
girl, gravely.

“In Heaven’s name, girl!” ex-
claimed Amy, rather impatiently,
“ what do you mean ?”

“Come from Custaloga—close
by in woods—look out for Singing-
bird.”

“ Girl,” said Am ,clutching her
hand “ are you a riend ?”

“ Tecumseh reat warrior—all
heart—love see mgmg-bud—for-
get Blue-bird—Singing-bird go
away—Tecumseh see Blue-bird
’gain—me friend then—help Sing
lug-bird fly awa .”

my smiled, espite her danger.

“ So the fact is, you are to be
Tecumseh’s wife, and you fancy
he wants to take a white squaw,
and you want to get rid of me as
fast as possible.”

“ Zackl ,” said the Indian girl,
laughing eartily.

“ I wi lgo gladly,” replied Amy;
“butI fear it Will not be easy;
there are white men who wish to
detain me. What is your name ?”

After some further discourse the
two young girls ap eared thor-
oughly to understan each other
an it was agreed that they should
await the signal agreed on between
Custaloga and the girl before they
commenced any decided proceed-
ing. It had been arranged that
the Indian girl was to saunter
round the camp and rejoin Custa,
who was, it appeared, close in the
nei rhborhood.

ith this understanding both
returned to the camp.

There was a quiet and calm in
the village, which ap eared very
strange, the more so t at a horse
well-caparisoned, which had evi~
dently been ridden by a white man,
stood before the principal wig-
wam, held by one of the tawny
bo s of the tribe.

my looked at this suspicious-
ly, but she had little leisure to
gratify her curiosity, as a warrior
came sliding up and bade her enter
her tent, and remain there for the
Dresent.

 

 

CHAPTER XX.
'rnn FOREST MARCH.

IN about a quarter of an hour
she was joined by the Indian girl.
Her face showed unmistakable
evidence of uneasiness and grief.
Amy saw clearly that some event
new and untoward had occurred.
Fortunately the old woman was
outside the wigwam, at a sufficient
distance to permit of undisturbed
conversation.

“ What is it ?” asked Amy Moss,
layin her hand on the girl’s arm.

“ ad,” began the Shawnee
maiden, “ bad pale-face and indian
quarrel—bad pale-face go away——
angry—dig up hatchet—Shawnee
break up camp and go. Two—six
——ei ht minute go away.”

“ hat can this mean ?” said
Amy, passing her hand over her
brow. “ I seem in a dream-and
my friend and brother, the pris-
oner ?"

“ Know him too ?” asked Blue-
bird, anxiously, “ know white
brave—prisoner '3"

“ He is one of my best and no-
blest friends,” replied Amy; “what
is to be his fate 2'”

“He is a brave—he will know
how to die like a brave,” replied
the Indian girl in her turn.

“ Die, did vou say?—Richard
Harvey die? t can not be; it is
impossible, girl; they will not
surely put lnm to death?” said
Amy, wildly.

“ Sister of the pale-faces, you
are my friend; there is my hand.
Blue-bird will save you if she can,
but the warrior of the Long-knives
must ti ht his own battle. ’

Amy owed her head to conceal
the terrible impression made by
the words of the Indian girl, and
at the same time the busy note of
preparation struck u on her ear.

he camp was breaking up. The
horses were brought from the cor-
ral, women and children ran hither
and thither with shrill cries, and
our unfortunate heroine remarked
with anxiety that all the females
were collecting in a roup in the
center of the camp. nafew min-
utes a summons came from Te-
cumseh to Amy and Blue-bird to
join the party. Amy obeyed, more
chilled, more desolate, more over-
whelmed with grief, than ever she
had felt before. A moment before
and she was cheered by hope.
Now she was about to be led a cap-
tive she knew not whither.

Every moment her position seem-
ed to be getting worse, and her
naturally brave heart almost sunk
within her, as the accumulation of
perils crowded on her. In her
strait she leaned with natural anx
iety to the young Indian girl, who
under such pecuhar circumstances
had become her friend, In the
hour of peril, at the time when we
cease to have confidence in our-
selves, we turn naturally to those
in whom we fancy asuperior pow.
er resides. Hence indeed it is
that the vainest and most defiant
man will sometimes own the won-
drous power of his Creator, and

“ bow and sue for grass
With Iuppliant knee,’

where, in his wild and wicked con-
fldience, he once scarce yielded be-
lie .
Poor Amy Moss, stricken and
heart-broken at the simple hint of
death being threatened to Harvey
after the first shock, then appealed
to the Indian girl.

“ My sister, ’ said she, as she
cowered in a corner with the child
and Blue-bird, “can you not save
my friend?"

“ No save,” replied the girl.

“Is Tecumseh, then, a mon-
ster l?”

“ Tecumseh great brave warrior,
good,” said the young Shawnee,
stam ing her foot.

“ can see no bravery in killing
an unarmed man,” replied Amy,

uickly; “ it is cowardly.”

“Child of the (pale-faces,” ex-
claimed Blue-blr , pressing her
finger on her arm, “why you say
that f—why pale‘face kill brother
pale-face, tie cord round neck eh?”

“ You speak of hanging,’ said
Amy,with a shudder; “but we only
han murderers.“

“ ale-faces hide ’bout camp-

 

 

kill Indians,” reasoned the other;
“he murderer to us."

Amv shuddered.

“ But,” cried the young captive,
passionately, “he is incapable of
harming any one—he is the most
gentle, the most inoil'cnsive of
human beings.”

“ What he want down here—chi
* Why he carrygun—knife—eh ?”
said the girl, quickly.

“ lie is my lriend. my brother;
he came to rescue and save me.”

“ l\'o talk—girl got, no power—-
warrior not listen to her—he no
hear.“

Amy bowed her head and spoke
no more for some time, gazing
vacantly at the preparations of the
ludians.

A long line of horses laden with
the. primitive furniture ofan indian
Village, on the summit of which
children and young girls Were scat-
ed; nomen,old and young, belong-
ing to the married poriion of the
tribe; with some eight warriors,
were all that were ready. The rest
were milected round a common
centc . >i' which Amy suddenly
caugh’ a glimpse, and then sunk
on the ground. It was l)iek llar-
vey, surrounded by a gang of sav-
agcs, dancing, yelling, and using
all their liehdish and horrible de-
vices to strike terror into his
soul.

Searccly had Amy sunk to the
earth, when Tecumseh caught her
in his arms, placed her on a horse
with the child, and bade the cara-
van advance. Amy looked wildly
round her as she recovered entire
consciousness,and found herselfal-
ready beneath the deep arches of
the forest, one of along eavalcadc
of women, nota warriorbeiug vis-
ible. The friendly lndiau girl
walked at the head of her horse
with a resigned and subdued mien.
The future bride of a clriel‘, she was
as yet exempt from the hard labor
which generally was the portion
of her sex amid barbarous and
savage nations.

Amy’s heart grew desolate and
sari indeed, as she saw herself thus
drawn away from that spot where
her friends believed her to be, and
where only their efforts would be
directed to effect her release. She
knew that a rescue now was all
but hopeless, for though she saw
not the grim forms of the warriors,
she knew them to be scattered
around the caravan in the usual
way that scouts follow such a pro-
cession in the backwoods.

The course of the caravan was
Westerly at lirst, but then changed,
always, however, sinking deeper
and deeper beneath the heavy and
overshadowed forest.

The progress of the party was
exceedingly slow, as the horses
were heavily laden, and some of
the patient women, treated as
mere beasts of burden by their
lords and masters, were compelled
every now and then to take rest.
About six miles from the village,
they came to a small rivulct at the
foot of a slope covered with bush-
es, on the summit of which Amy
distinctly saw the warriors who
preceded the expedition show
themselves a moment and then
disappear. The women, however,
in obedience to some previous ar-
rangement, or from sheer lassitude
and fatigue, proceeded to lay down
their burdens and seek rest.

To Amy, the child, and the In-
dian girl, this halt was a relief; for
the former got off the horse and
sat down upon the sward, a little
apart from the general group.

.\ brief description of the local-
ity is necessary to a correct un-
derstanding of the events about to
be recorded. For about tifty yards
along the banks of the rivulet
there were no trees. The clear
(),'t'l| space between the waterand
the trees was about seven or eight
ya: ds, except toward the southern
curl, where the ground was nar-
rowed by a sturdy growth of oaks
that projected a kind of spur of
the forest into the clearing. 0n
the edge of this, behind the trees,
in search ofshade, the party above
allzmvd to sat dtm‘n—Aiuy,to chat-
li'r n nhile with the child, which
“Ilr lagitiuirig to weary and frct at
this rude life; the lndiau girl, to

 

look on with a smile at the picture
presented to her of white domes-
tic ail’cction.

“ Singing bird like children ?”
said the Indian girl, Witha low
and musical laugh.

“Vei‘v mneh.” replied Amy,
drs wing the child to her and play-
ing with its ring-lets.

“ Ilave pa ipoose own some day,”
continued lue—bird, with agirlish
riggle.

“i hope not,” said Amy, slow-
ly, and with an earnestness which
made the Shawnee maiden stare.
She bent her eyes to the ground
as she spoke, and sighed deeply.

A kind of sigh, like an echo, was
heard close at hand, a long-drawn
breath of a man who had been
running. The two girls heard it
at the same minute, and looked
around anxiously. The women
were all lying near their bundles
the children were playing arouu
them, aml none were noticing the
'aptchs, sutlieiently guarded it

'as thought by Blue-bird. Amy
then ventured to speak.

“Is my friend near, or did my
cars deceive me ‘3" she said aloud,
looking toward a bush at some
distance.

“Custaloga is here,” replied a
voice; “ be hopeful, the night will
come and hide the step of those
who run away. When night comes,
be ready."

“I will be ready, Costa," she
said; “ but have you tidings of
Richard Iiarvey ‘3”

“ None,” said the voice, in a sad
tone; “ he is in the hand of God.”

“They have kept him at the
camp, I fear, to apply the torture.
Could he not be saved 1’”

“i will try," said the other,
quietly. “Is that the child of
Walter llarrod ‘3”

“ it is, and Providence could not
llaVc given me a more Welcome
companion,” said Amy.

At, that instant, the bushes a
little way from where Custaloga
spoke were moved on one side,
and a pale and haggard face pro-
truded. It was the face of the
Silent llunter.

“ My pa!” shriede the ehifd,
catching a glimpse of its father.

A rapid movement on the part
of Unstaloga and the Silent I un-
ter followed this unfortunate ex-
clamation, which caused two or
three women to start to their feet
and move toward the group. Amy
hovvever, with great presence of
mind, came slowly to meet them,
and succeeded in disarming any
suspicion. At that instant, how-
ever, a cry of horror, a yell of wild
and savage fury burst upon their
cars, and the whole body of scouts
came rushing in. Then awarrior,
frantic and horror-stricken, drew
them to a place not more than fif-
teen yards from the camp, where
lay the body of an Indian, a head-
less trunk, the head scalpcd and
placed on the breast, and a knife-
Wound at his heart.

The dccd was one so audacious,
so ferocious, and so inexplicable,
that a panic tiew round the camp,
and the whole body of Indians
came running in, not one even
starting on the usual searching ex-
pedition in pursuit of enemies who
must be at band. Amy started
with a look of wild astonishment
when she saw Spiky Jonas in com-
pany with the Alligator among the
party.

“Jonas,” she cried, “what do
you here ‘3” _

“ Yah! yah! Jonas no nigger
now ; he berry much bettercr.‘ Ic
lefde Moss; he no more wait on
de proud men—yah !-—-"

“Jonas, what mean you ?—What
is this? Is the Moss captured by
the horrid Indians 1*” she cried,
franti -ally. “ What of my father,
my sister, of Charles—”

The look of the negro became

sndish as she mentioned the name
0' Charles; he grinned a horrid
grin of revenge and hate, but he

id not speak.

“ Will you answer, J onus—what
harm have lever done you ‘3” cried
the unhappy girl. ,

“ Hi» Ann uebberhurt dis child
—no-—and dis child nebber hurt
Miss Amy. All right at )ioss ; de
ole man quite sale—Miss Jane

The Silent Hunte .

 

 

2'7

 

 

harles."

“ Why not of Charles ?— Why
not of my brother?”

“ A nigger got. heart like de ode!
man—why Massa Charles make
lab to Flora ?"

“Jonas i” said Amy, standing
erect before him in all herwomau-
ly di ruity, “ what mean you 1*”

“Sat Spiky Jonas hate Massa
Charles him gib too much pres-
ent to Flora—Flora her head turn
-—no look at dis child.”

“Charles meant no harm. If
Flora is w ~ak and silly, that is no
fault of his. But, Jonas, remem-
ber you were a boy when we were
children, and you played with us;
you will not turn against your old
plaiymates ‘3”

he negro looked at her with a
strange look. There were tears in
his eyes. He did recollect those
happy, innocent days; he recol-
lected them well, but he shook his
head mournfull '.

“ N0 Flora or dis child—she
nebber be de companion for him.
Flora too proud now—but dis child
no hurt Miss Amy—nebber fear;
but MaSsa Charles—hub you ebber
hate any one,Miss Amy I?”

“ Never! I have despised, I have
never hatet .”

“ Well, Jonas, he hate Massa
Charles, hate de ti rly red-skin
Coosta, hate de painter, Massa
Harvey.”

“ IIush, Jonas; you are mad. I
am glad to hear you say all is well
at home. We will speak again
when you are calmer.”

The negro turned away with an
assumption of dignity which he
had already picked up limit the In-
dians. Poor fellow ! his wrongs—-
the wrongs of serfdom—were too
deeply rooted, soon to be eradi~
cated from his breast. Itdestroy-
ed almost the gratitude and love he
was inslined to feel for those who
had been kind to him.

At this moment the signal for
departure was given. The Indians,
recoVe red from their pauic,glanced
with scowling eyes at the white
Woman and child, and were only
kept from violent proceedings by
the orders they had received from
their chief to respect Amy under
whatever circumstances thev were
placed. Amy rejoined the Indian
girl, who had been gathering
tidings of the events which had so
startled them, and the journey was
continued.

No circumstance worthy of re-
cord occurred during the remain-
der of that day, toward the close
of which they reached the banks
of the Ohio, and here a halt was
at once declared.

The horses were staked, the tires
were lit, scouts were sent round
to search for the presence of ene—
mies, and rude huts of boughsand
branches were made. The party
was amply supplied with game and
food, so that hunting was unneces-
sary.

The ‘amp was situated on a
small patch of green, surrounded
by trees, on the very water‘s edge,
and so placed that the tires could
only be seen by persons passing
along the waters ofthe river. The
women were congregated at one
side of the temporary village, the
men sat smoking on the other.
All had supped, and there was
much whispered talk of thefcarlul
and mysterious way in which one
of the party had been cut oil‘ by
some unrelenting and daring foe.
A foreshadowing of evil seemed
to hang over the minds of the
whole party. It was not the tirst
of their race who had been thus
destroyed, and the Shawnccs could
not but see some connection be-
tween this decd and the events of
the few preceding days.

The murder of Clam—even to
that ruthless race, which slays
men, women, and children of the
whitcs without mercy-which had
been perpetrated under circum-
stances of unusual atrocity, and
which was followed by such
strange retribution, troubled the
minds of those wild and savage
men, They appeared to connect
Amy with it, for they glanced
strangely at her, and there were

whispers of very significant im-
port with regard to her.

; guite safe—but no speak ob Mr.
l ‘

 

 

She sat near the fire in whisper-
ed conference with the unfortu-
nate boy who had so suddenly lost
his mother. It was acoml'ort and
a consolation to Amy to have
something to love, something to
lean on her, and she did lavish all
the warmth of her heart on the
helpless being which owed its life
to her interference. The Indian
girl sat a little distance oil, wateh~
ing them with a smile, though
apparently deeply engaged in con-
versation with her companions.

Jonas and the Alligator were
drinking together, apart from the
rest, under a tall pine. on the very
edge of the river, about twenty
yards from the camp. They could
be faintly seen in the dim light of
the evening, while their talk was
louu enough, their tongues being
unlooscd by the tire-water, which
the red-skins consume with all the
devotion of habitual and incur-
able sots. There was the know-
ing chuckle, the horse-laugh, the
solemn effort at sobriety, the shrill
disregard ot harmony in certain
attempts at song, which belong
only to those who are old in the
careerof drunkenness. And both
Jonas and the Alligator were . old
hands in the exercise of this de-
grading vice.

Suddenhy a hist was heard
through the camp, and dead si-
lence prevailed. Even the whis-
ky drinkers listened with solemn
attention. There were sounds of
oats on the water, the ears too of
a large boat, which could only be
manned by white men, descending
the river—some broad “ list" of a
trader, journeying along in happy
_ignorance of the proximity of
danger.

The warriors started to their
feet, the tire was covered up, and
the armed men glided away along
the bank up-stream, in an opposite
direction irom where the convivial
couple sat.

Then the voices of men talking
were heard on the river, and Amy
listened with breathless excite-
ment. She knew it must be a
party of her countrymen. Were
they in sutlieient numbers to cope
with the Indians? or were they to
fall victims to some deception or
trickery? These thoughts passed
rapidly through her mind as she
heard the oars working steadily,
and the men conversing with ap-
parent ease and security. Sud-
denly the low silence was broken
in a startling manner.

“ Who camps on you bank, eh ?"
said a manly voice; “friends or
reptylcs '3”

“Friends,” replied a guttural
Indian voice from the wood.

“Friends,” cried a voice angrily.
“ I know that for a lnjine ! here’s
for you.”

A volley of rifles followed this
intimation that the speaker was
Well acquainted with the trickery
so otten used to draw men on
shore on the waters of the beauti-
ful river. When first the voice
was heard, the Indian girl had
leaped forward, pushing Amy to
the ground with the child, and had
lain down herself by their side.
The bullets came pattering a min-
ute later amid the trees and bush-
es around, followed by a yellfroin
the Indians, and then a general
volley in reply.

“ Come ou,ye skulking knaves,"
crieda rich,laughin voice, “come
on, ye reptyles an Injuns; you
light a man without a cross.
guess Lew Wetzel ain‘t to be
trapped. Ile’s too old a beaver for
that. Good night, ye hide—and
seek knuves~go make petticoats
for your squaws. "

The lndians gave a ferocious
war-whoop by way of answer to
this challenge, and then the boat
speeding onward, they returned
slowly to the camp, one wounded
by a stray ball, the rest with a
calm assumption of dignity which
was intended to deceive their
wives, sisters, and daughters, as
to the real extent of their mortifi.
cation.

A cry of fury, such as even yet
was new to Amy, followed.

The drunkards having apparent-
ly vanished during the tray, an in-
dignant warrior went. to the cage

 

28

Beadle’s__DiIne Library;

 

of the camp to search for them.
He moved slowly on to the tree
where they had been, and yet he
saw them not.

The point of land on which the
tree stood formed one side of a
little indentation of water, on the
borders of which the Indians had
camped. Exactly in a line with
the point was a pile of sn s,
which had formed itself in e
river, and round which the stream
rushed with considerable force.
Some of the trees on the pile were
still reeu, and had but recently
been rought down by the force
of the waters. The Shawnee glanc-
ed carelessly at this, and then
looked round for the fugitives.
His foot kicked at the same time
against a heavy inert mass.

It was the b0 y of the Alligator.
The negro h disappeared, but
the body bore all the usual signs
of havin been dealt with by their
im lacab e enemy.

errible was now the confusion
in the camp. The Indians yelled
fearfully; some ran into the wood
and called upon their enemies to
appear, some skirted the river and
tried to find a trail, and when after
half~an~hour‘s search nothing was
found, all came back, moody,
silent, overcome by nameless ter-
ror, for they began to think there
was some supernatural agency at
work around them.

There were those who even
said the ne ro had done it, and
then lied. at he had not left a
trace behind, and most of the
warriors Were too well aware of
the reasons which insured his fi-
delity, to believe this possible for
a moment. But who had done
it? and where was the ne r0?

At last the whole party ay down
to rest, and before an hour had
passed, Amy and a sentry on the
point were alone awake in camp.

Amy lay in the center of agroup
of Indian women, her ankle tied
by a thong to that of the persever-
lng old woman. She could not
move away from where she was,
but she could sit lp, which she
did at first under pretense of
watching the child, and then from
sheer inability to sleep. She gazed
slowly around. There lay the
warriors in heavy sleep, there lay
the women at rest, and there close
at hand, the Indian in and that
child she had vowefi to protect
and save from the clutches of the
merciless savages. About twenty
feet distant stood the sentry. He
was a youn brave, who stood
with his back to the water, lean-
ing on his gun. He had walked
up and down a little while, and
had listened with rapt attention to
the sounds of the night. But no
sound came save those quite natu
ral to the forest, and nature exert-
ing her supremacy he leaned his
head on his (gun, his eyes still fixed
on the woo , but his whole beinr
in a kind of semi-sleep.

Then Amy quivered in every limb
as she saw a man rise as it were
from the waters of the river, and
creep with stealthy and cat-liki-
footstef) toward the shore. She
knew t lat form, and she shuddered
and closed her eyes, for she now
understood those horrid signs
which had so amazed the Indians
and filled them with so much ter-
ror. But there was a fascination
in the scene that made her open
them again, and though she did
close them once more, the un-
happy maiden was as if under a
spci —the spectator of a catastro-
phe against which she could not

retest, because the actors were

er friends.

Behind the first man came two
others—one held the negro fast,
and pressed a long, sharp knife
against his back; the other, Custer
Inga, who as usual periled even his
life rather than do a deed of un-
necessar bloodshed. Am saw
him, an her heart beat w th tu-
multuous feelings, for she knew
that all this promised succor and
assistance- and yet she thought
little of that at the moment, so
fearful was the tragedy enacting.

The first man was on the sent
in a moment more, and then bot
sunk to the ground, and Amy
closedhereyes and tainted. When

 

she recovered, all was still as be-
fore, save that no sentry walked
on the point near the banks of the
beautiful river.

The scene in the momin was
frl htful. The Indians beat§hem-
se ves with knives, ashed their
teeth, tore their ha r, and acted
like wild beasts rather than men.
Two runners scoured the forest
but nothing was found. The trai
of the two men and their prisoner
ended about half-a-mile below on
the banks of the stream. As soon
as this hct was proclaimed the
camp was broken up, and a forced
march of two hours brought them
to the edge of the stream.

Amy now watched the proceed-
in s of the Indians with consider-
ab e anxiety. They were at a
point on the riverwhere high banks
commenced, and the shore was
stony and barren. The horses,
without being unloaded, were
fastened one behind the other, the
women and children were left on
their backs, and then the oldest
Indians went to the head, and drew
the patient animals into the water.
The stream ran with considerable
rapidity over a ebbly ridge about
two feet below ts surface, on both
sides of which the water was
deep.

In this way they went about fif-
ty feet into the stream, when one
of the Indians halted and stood
like a sign-post, round which the
line of animals turned, led by the
other red-skins, toward the same
land they had already left. Amy’s
undivided attention was now iveu
to discover the ob ect 0 this
strange maneuver.
advanced twenty flyards up the
stream in a diagon direction, be-
fore a fissure in the rock opened to
her view, concealed from the nav-
igable parts of the river by a couple
of tall pines.

It was the mouth of the great
cave of the Ohio, since celebrated
as the retreat of a certain river
pirate, well known in local history.

In a few minutes more the whole

arty, animals and all, were within

he shelter of the vast cavern, and
the Indians on the shore, apparent-
ly satisfied, turned to go away.

It was a hu e cave indeed, of
very singular c aracter, with sev-
eral compartments, into one of
which Amy retreated with the
child. She was soon followed by
the Indian irl, who proceeded to
make the p ace as comfortable as

ossible under the circumstances ;

hen the two young women sat
down to talk over the events
of the night, for the first time un-
watched for many hours.

The effect produced 11 on the
young Indian girl b thes aughter
of her friends and t e warriors of
her tribe was ainful. Amy could
not but see at it produced a re-
straint, and even si ght coldness,
which she in vain endeavored to
conceal and stifie. It was clear
that she still sympathized with
the young capt yo, and did not
intend to abandon or betray her;
but the blood of her kinsmen lay
a dead weight upon her soul.

“Make haste—go,” said she, in
a musical, melancholy tone, the
more sad that without the wind
blew, and that the tempest roared,
and ave sl n of a gloomy night.

“ woult ladly go—but wh Y"

“ You maie kil my frien s—
Custa bad, wicked—scalp—kill.”

“No,” exclaimed Am , warm-
1 ; “Custa has not kl led your
riends. The man who appears to
have vowed to slay and extermi-
nate our race is one who has ex-
cuse ndeed, for your friends killed
his wife and his little one. M
sister had I been born a man,
wonl have done the same.

The Indian girl made no reply
but, somewhat mollified, leaned
her head on her hand a moment,
and then, wishing Amy a good
night, sought re age from her
gloomy thoughts in sleep

 

CHAPTER XXI.
m muons mm was m.
AM. was hushed and still in the
tavern of the Frog’s Hole; the
mistress of the house had retired
to rest. the aged negress who wait

he had not ‘

 

 

 

ed during the da had disappeared
within her cell, ate was out in the
forest, and Ral h Regin sat alone
at a table drin ing and smoking,
but uttering not one word.

It was late—the wind was hushed
and low—an unnatural stillness

.ervaded all nature; there sat
lph Regin, his eyes fixed on va-
cancy, a pipe between his teeth,
and he only moved to reach the
liquor, or fill his pipe, which he
ever ke t ufling at with all the
' or o a utchman or a pasha.
"Tia lagne cold to-night—
ha! hal” fie sai as he shivered in
the pale mooniight; “ and the
whisky does seem weak to-night
awful weak ! What a time the girl
is; the moon’s been up ever so
long. It’s my ‘Brivate opinion it’s
to-morrow. ell! if the bottle
ain’t empty! Let’s have another,
old fellow—plenty more where
that come from; let us be jollyl
Hurrah l”

The man rose totterin —he had
drank one whole b0 tie, and
walked across the room for an-
other. There was no friendly hand
—or, as some would say, no med-

Jing wife—to keep the poisoned
draught from his lips; he was
master in his house—oh, yes! no-
body would have doubted that
who had seen him go half-stum-
bling, with hot face and winking
eyes to the little corner bar. He
was lord and master, uncontrolled
chief of the family—allowed no
questions to be as ed, permitted
no remarks on his conduct, and
walked erect, in theory, proud of
his majesty.

After considerable coquetting
with the counter and the bottle—
after the same fashion as that of
the celebrated individual who
found his key-hole stolen one night
-—-Ra.lph Rezin regained his seat,
sat himself cosily in his arm-chair
held 11 his hand and turn
the sec of the bottle toward his
glass. He then took up the bum-
per, and seemed very much sur-
prised to find the contents of his
glass of a very watery nature,
which was the less extraordinary,
as, in his present sagacions mood,
the jolly landlord had omitted to
draw the cork.

“ Well! I never—did,” muttered
Ralph. ‘ Whisky—I say, whis-
ky—mind you, whisky grows—
I believe that it——grows weaker-
every—day. The worst of it is,
old boy, water don’t row any
stronger. I should say e world’s
coming to an end!”

After this speech, which was di-
rected to the bottle, Ralph re-
mained musing for some time, his
eyes fixed vacantly on the whisky,
trying all the time, he declared,
to explain to himself how it came
about that the stuff was so Weak,
when he suddenly saw the bottle
move, as by human agency, and
fill to overflowing, with raw spirit,
the flass which he had emptied.

“ ollol” he exclaimed, “ who
is that 1’”

A chuckling laugh was the only
re ly vouchsafed to him.

ph Regin looked acgoss the
table, and in a chair, sittin in an
easy dposture, was a man. e was
an o dkind of man, too. He wore
a red, pointed ca ,ared cloak, and
had a pointed chin, andapale face,
and e es like glow-worms in a gun-
barre . and saw-like teeth.

“Now, then, old fellow,” said
the stranger, in a husky, h: t voice.
“drinkl’ .

“I’ve got no glass,” replied
Ralpvl‘il, mechanically.

“ hat do you want with a glass,
eh f” chuckled the man, knockin
off the neck of the bottle, an
swallowing the contents at a
drau ht.

“ hi you forget me,” said
Ralph, with all the eagerness of the
sot

“ Plenty more where that came
from,” continued the other.

“ Who is to pay 7” asked Re in
with a glimmering of the land or
still about him.

“ Never mind pa ing, let‘s be
social. Now, then, inah, another
bottle,” said the stranger to the
old ne ress who had suddenly ap-
pearc on the scene.

“ All right." repeated the other

» m a ‘w "v...

 

with a drunken laugh, “it’s all
right! Who talks about paying?
—1t’s rime,” and he smacked his
lips With infinite relish.

“ You taste it now,” said the new-
comer, with a knowin wink.

“Ye—es,” gxfsped egin, with
tears in his eyes “it’s rather hot
—lt burns me— ’m on fire l”

“ Not a bit of it, quite a mistake
—warms the heart, my boy,” re-
peated the other. '

“ Well, it is rather stron ,” in-
sisted Ralph; “but I’ll e an-
other—I’m awful thirsty.”

The other laughed heartily, and
poured him out a second tumbler,
which did not seem quite so strong
—in fact, it was uite delicious.

“It’s prime,’ roared Ralph.
“ Prime! rich ! glorious l—I say,
old boy, sing us a son .”

“Don’t know any,” replied the
other, in a tone which seemed to
prove that if he did, it was not de-
sirable he should recollect one just
then—the harmony of a man after
his potations not being of the high-
ct order of merit.

“Well, then make a noise;any
thing to be sociable, eh ?”

The man laughed again, and
hiimmered on the table with his

ass.

“ By the way,” sudden] said
Ralph Regin, putting his le fore-
finger to the same si e of his nose,
“ who are you i’”

The man laughed still more
heartily. Ralph Re 11 be an to
get into a passion. e s e now

u a tone of concentrate e.

“ If you don’t answer, I’ll— now
why.’

A strange noise startled him ; he
looked again. There was nobody
in the chair, the tallow candle
flickered on the table. the whisky
bottle stood before him uncorked,
and somebody was knocking stout-
!y at the door.

“ Coming! coming l” he said,
peering round the room, a little
more sober than three hours be-
fore. “Can it have been a dream i
-was it? Ha! ha! ha! it was the
demon of the drink. He often
comes now, that’s what makes the
whisk so weak. I’ve dreamed
a goo deal of him lately. Coming,
coming 1”

“Orr rite," said a husky voice
without, “but the kevicker yer
comes the better.”

“That voice,” muttered Ral h
Begin, laying down the can 0

am, and standing erect with
a arm “ that voice! Am I dream-
ing at 1?"

‘Now thenl” cried the other,
with the richest Cockney twang.

“ Open,” repeated an earnest,
solemn voice; “ we are travelers
weary and hungry, and seek rest.’

“I guess it is rather late, strayn-

ers’ replied Ralph Regin assum-

ng the stron est Connecticut na
sa ty be con (1, as he unbolted the

oor.

“ It is late,” said the traveler,
entering; “ we lost our way in the
woods, and your light led us
here.”

“ Glad to ve you a shake-down,"
replied h, surveying the
stran e-look ng serving-man with
consi emble uneasiness and doubt.
“ I reckon you mean eatiu' i?”

“ ther, ’said the serving-man,

utt ng down his master’s saddle-

, and then fallin on abench -

‘ I m wound np—my egs wouldn’t

take me not up Cornhill— no.

Please, sir, excuse me,” he con-
tinued, touching his cap.

“ Rpst, eat, and sleep‘,” replied ‘

the other, gravely; we start
earl ."

“I‘Io ve von't; that’s him," said
Corney Ragg in the ear of Andrew
Carstone, as Ralph Regin disap-
peared in search of the ne ress.

“ Are you sure? ’ replied the
retired merchant, trembling in
everv limb.

“ If that arn’t Hackettr—eh,” he
added, rolling on his bench as the
other returned, “ ain’t I tired—no
Iain’t, not at all. If you please,
master landlord, you ain’t got a
bit of a hossler about, have ye ?—
coss there's two tidy bits of horse-
flesh down them blessed steps 1”

“Well, I reckon I’m boss and
hossler too ” said Ralph at ran-
dom; “ so ’11 put the hoofed crit-
tnrs rlxht."

 

 

 

 

 

-~  - A...

 

 

fl...

The Silent Hunter.

29

 

 

With these words he went out-
side the door and left the master
and man alone. .

“ Raglg," said Andrew Carstone,
laying is hand on the other‘s arm,
“ are you sure of what you say ?'

“Bless you, sir, I know’d his
voice," said g, positivel ; “it's
a little pit thic er ike, an he do

uess like them sailors we see'd
( own at Boston—but it’s Hackett,
as sure as your name is Carstone.
Mum! Here comes one of them
blacking-pots.”

Andrew Carstone fell into the
arm-chair in which Ralph Regin,
as he called himself—or Hackett,
as Uorney Ragg supposed him to
be—sat so many hours, and began
turning over in his own mind the

)est way of arriving at the truth
with regard to his lost child. His
impatience knew no bounds. At
first he determined upon at once
challenging the owner of the
Frog’s o e; then he thought of
o ering him ardon and reward to
tell the trut -—bnt he hesitated.
He knew as yet nothing of that
den of the force of men whom the
landlord might call around him-—
and curbing his eager heart, which
beat as it had never beat before,
he determined to act with pru-
dence and caution.

It was too late.

Outside, Ralph Regin had listen-
ed and heard.

“ Andrew Carstone and Corney
Raggl Thegameisuleackettl
Hac 'ettl if ever in the course of
twenty years of crime and sins you
stood in need of fertile brains, ’tis
now. And the girl, where can she
be? If they see her all is lost.
'Tis well she thinks herself older
than she is. Can that villain Bar-
ton have taken her away 9—the
knave. He had better beware.
That girl is a fortune to rue—so
long as she lives, I receive my en-
sion. I will not part with er.
And yet, my wealth is rest. 1
could o where I am no known.
I coul live respected in Canada,
in Virginia, and leave that weari-
some woman behind. But I have
married her—bah ! She hates me
and will not press that claim 1 But
they seek vengeance. So ho my
masters, ye must find pretty Hate
first, and she comes not to-night.
The wild creature has perhaps,
camped at the hut. ’ is certain
-—I see by the moon ’tis ast mid-
night. She has quare ed With
the squire—I fear I said too much
about him—I began to fear her fan-
c would grow too serious for
change. My hints about his eVil
reputation told erhaps too much.
Nobody ever card of the fu-
neral of his wife! He forgot that.
But, tut! let me think of my own
dangers. Why did I quit the road!
It would have been over before
this, one way or the other. There,
my hearties, eat your fill—you
want it. They have ridden hard
and fast. But ah! who has be-
trayed me? who has told? Is Sir
Charles dead, and has the fool re-
pented? Your gentleman is an
odd rascal. If so, I had better
confess, receive a kick or two, .re-
tire—the drink and care is gettin
too much for me—I really shoul
feel wonderfully relieved—yes!”
he added, looking fearfull y around,
“ if I had not burned the Dutch-
manis house ——never mind, ’tis
done, and he was near dead, and I
wanted another mother for Kate.
And then I do cherish that girl—
once I quite loved her—then she
thought me her father. Drink
drink, drink, that mined all. i
told her the truth one day, that
she was no child of mine or hers,
and she has hated me ever since.
Oh ! ’tis a weary, weary life. But
up, Hackett, once captain of the
mad; awake, and hea man. They
wait."

And ceasing his disjointed talk,
which had continued while he de—
scended the steps, taking the
horses to the sheds, and gh'lll
them food, he once more turne
toward the house, turning over in
his mind the wisest plan of escape
from the consequences of his past
crimes, which had served him so
little for warning that he had re-
cent) attemth to murder the

pod er.

 

He rgiected the only truly wise
one, te ng the truth; at all events
until he should have found it im-

ossible to do otherwise. Time

im unity anddrink,hadhardened

deadened his heart. There

was scarcer a corner left for any
soft or kind emotion.

He found omey Rag and An-
drew Carstone eating anfi drinking
like men who had traveled far,
and he merely pointed out what
was plentiful in the place, and
then retired into a corner, where
he sat down, and closing his eyes,
appeared to doze, while the travel-
ers were tinishin their sup er.
The old negress a the while us-
tled about, growling between her
teeth at the way in which she %
been roused up to wait upon e
new-comers.

About twenty minutes later
Andrew Carstone intimated that
he had finished his meal, and alked
where he could sleep.

“Well, I calculate I can find a
bed or two,” said Ralph Regin,
rising; “the Frog’s Hole is gin’-
rally considered first-rate.”

“Show me a bedroom, then,"
replied the merchant, as carelessly
as he could.

“This way,” continued Ral h,
rising sleepily and rubbing is
e 3

ye .

“ Orr rite," said Ragg, who real-
ly was very tired and inclined for
rest.

“ I guess ou’ll want a room
to P” asked e landlord in an off-
hand we

y.

“ I’m not partlkler, never was;
so as I sleep it’s on rite—anyvera
’ell do ;” an Cornelius Ragg, who
had spared neither beer nor whisn
ky prepared to follow.

Ralph Regin took up two tallow
candles and led the wa . He as-
cended the steps alre y alluded
to, but instead of turnin to the
right toward the room gormerl
occupied by the eddler,he pushe
open a door acing the stairs,
which revealed a passage of some
length, out of which several other
passa es branched.

“ by, this is a large place of
yours,” said Andrew, secretly
much surprised; “you can sleep
a re iment."

“ e in’rally do sleep a few,”
replied lph Begin, in a humble
and obsequious tone. “ This is a
good room. There ain’t no cur-
tains, but that are a bedas is com-
fortable, strangea” .

“ Thank you,” said Carstone, as
he entered the room.

It was a small, square place with-
out any window, receivmg air and
light in the day from a kind of tis-
sure in the roof. On all sides the
walls were of logs, with mud to fill
up the interstices, but a glance at
the roof showed at once that it
was a compartment in a cavern.
The bed was a kind of shelf raised
on logs, with straw and horse-
cloths. On these Carstone at once
cast himself, and wearied, exhaust-
ed as he was, after a fervent prayer
for the success of his mission, fell
fast asleep.

Corney Ragg followed Ralph a
little further down the passage
until he came to a door leading
into a similar place, which he en-
tered withouta sign of suspicion
or doubt, took his candle, wished
the other good-night, yawned, and
threw himself on the bed. The
instant, however, the door was
closed behind him, he, without
the slightest noise, raised himself
on his elbow and listened. He dis-
tinctl y heard a heavy bar lowered,
a bar which he had remarkedas he
entered, and which entirely pre-
vented all exit.

in Nfibbed, by gun,” said Corney
Brigg, in a low ne. “ Ithou ht
as ow he knowed me. Ah, us-
i/er Hackett, you’ re very deep, you
are; but here’s von as is deeper-
Orr rite.”

He listened again, and distinctly
heard the retreating footstePe 01'
Ralph, and then the closing of the
bar against his master‘s door.

g grinned and gOt UP- He
examined the door. I was a great.
heavy door of lanks and bars(i
hung on hu e o d hinges, fastene
very strong y, while a couple of
bigwooden bolts promised pm”!

 

and retirement to the traveler if he
chose to take it. Corney Rag was
one of those men who never t rew
a chance awa . He made sure of
the bolts, an then proceeded to
draw several articles from his vol-
uminous pockets, and from the
saddle-bags, which he had taken
care to convey to his room. First
there came a pair of istols of
rather startling size, a antern, a
whole arcel of tools, a small saw,
a chise , and a number of skeleton
keys,not omitting a small crowbar.
When Mr. Carstone objected to
these questionable articles,the rag-
dealer had urged such a host of
arguments in their favor, from
his knowled e of the character of
Captain Hac ett, that the ex-mer-
chant yielded, and allowed the
other to act accordin to his own
experience, which,in onse-break-
lng and such little secret matters,
wa‘s far beyond any thing the ma-
gistrate was aware of.

“Now, then, for a quiet nap,”
said Corney to himself. “ It‘s orr
rite—let him go to sleep—and
then, my! von’t I startle his two
eyes !”

Having thus arranged his plans,
Cornelius retired to his couch
fully convinced in his own min
that he was a hero, and certainly
with an easier conscience than
ever he had enjoyed on any former
occasion when he had brought
fOrth his somewhat suspicious pro-
fessional im lements.

Cornelius g was far too old a
warrior to oversleep himself on
such an occasion. He subsequently
declared that he did not stay more
than two hours on his bed, and
yet that when he fumped up, there
was a flickering ight from some

lace on the roof. He had taken
he precaution to light his oil-lamp
in the lantern, so that he now
again lit the candle, and proceeded
to business.

After a careful examination of
the door, he came to the conclu-
sion that to saw a square hole
large enough to put his hand
through, was the best plan of op-
eration; and being a man of few
words and ready wit, he at once
began to put his plan into execu-
tion. An an er soon enabled him
to make a be e, through which his
long thin saw could penetrate; and
then, having well greased that use-
ful instrument, he be an to work
steadily, and yet With extreme
caution. Every minute or so he
listened attentively, and findin
that no alarm was given, proceedefi
with his task.

One side of the plank, which was
crossways from side to side of the
door, had been completely sawn
through, and the second was just
about to ive way and allow the
wood to l in, when Ragg dis-
tinctly heard a noise. He quietly
withdrew his saw, blew out the
candle, closed the dark-lantern,
and put his ear to the place where
he had been at work. It was a
sound of heavy but cautious steps
which came down the passage,
and soon reaching his own door,
halted. Then the bar was cau-
tiously removed, fortunately, it
appeared,without any sawdust be-
ing noticed, and the door pushed.
The bolts held firm.

“ He’s bolted it," muttered
Ralph Regin,between his set teeth,
while Corney Ra g clutched a pia-
tol as he felt the ar replaced.

“ At er old work, Master Hack-
lclitg’d” s d Corney Ragg,shakiug his

He listened again. The landlord
was going away. but quite in an
opposite direction from that by
which he came. Cornelius Rag
waited a moment, then wrencliefi
off the piece of wood, put his
hand through, raised the bar, slid
the bolts, and with his two pistols
in his belt, his lantern in one hand,
and the crowbar slung on his right
wrisl, he darted out into the pas-

e iust in time to catch a glimpse
0 Ralph Regin disappearing up a
filigléti of steps about thirty feet
a e .

Corney Ragg, determined to
penetrate the mysteries of the
lace, followed without hesitation.
fie had lost sight of the ruiiian-
proprietor of the Frog’s Hole, who

 

seemed to have improved the natu-
ral advantages of the locality to a
de ree that would have been sur-
prising, had not his long residence
there n part explained it.

But of this Corney Ragg did not
think. All he cared for was to find
out what the ex-highwaymnii was
really about.

He trod cautiously along,r the]
passage, until he came to a flight
ofstcps, or rather a ladder of wood.
against the side of the rock, and
which apparently led to another
fissure about ten feet above. Cor-
ney Ragg began to ascend the
creaking stairs with extreme can-
tion, and found himself, in a few
moments, at the mouth of a kind
of cavern, through which there
was a strong draught. Corney
did not hesitate a moment, but
pushed on, and soon caught sight
of a glimmering light a little ahead.
He now trod with all the cat-like
caution of a house-breaker, and in
a moment more found himself by
the open door of a room, once a
part of the cave, but divided off by
a strong partition. Beside this
door was aladder which led per-
penlilicuiarly up the side of the
roc

All this Comelins RagK took in
at a glance, but he quic 5y turned
to the door itself, and started to
find himself close to Ralph Regin.
His back was turned toward him,
and he stooped toward the floor,
over a hole. Then Cornelius Rag;
saw him draw a small bag from his

ocket, which, from the sound, he
'new to be money, and throw it
down upon other money, after
which he dropped a stone over the
hole and began to rise.

Cornelius gave him no time to
catch him, but turned back, and
reached his room as rapidlyas pos-
sible, quite satisfied with the dis-
covery he had made.

He slept soundly until next
morning, without further disturb-
ance, and rose late. He was about
to leave his room andset his mas-
ter free, when he heard voices, and
crept out cautiously to listen. He
distinctly saw the person of a sen-
try with his back turned to the
door of the room in which his
master was confined. He also dis-
tinctly caught the sound of many
men talking.

It was quite evident that Regin
had received a considerable acces-
sion of strength in the night.

Ragg quietly gathered up his
tools, 513p ed out of his door, shut
it behin im, and, turning to the
right, began following the path
which the master of the house had
shown him the night before. As he
ex ected, at the top of the last
1 der there was an opening. It
was in the center of a thicket.

Corney Ragg did not stop to ex.
amine the view. He saw a track
before him, leading eastward, and
be determined to avail himself of
his liberty to place as long: a dis-
tance between himself and iiiickett
as possible, quite satisfied that he
was thus best serving the interest
of his master.

To have attempted to rescue
him under the circumstances,
would have been to have run too
great a risk.

When Ralph Regin found in the
morning that Cornelius Ragg had
made use of his old schooling as a
housebrcaker to escape from the
Frog’s llole, his fury knew no
bounds. At early dawn a part ' of
Indians and white men, headc by
Simon Girty, had arrived at the
Hole on a secret expedition. in
which Regin was concerned, and
for which the use of his house was
required. This had made him, for
a short t’me, neglect attending to
his own private affairs, especially
as the arrival of this band to H. cer-
tain extent served his urpoi-e.

It was some consolation to know
that Andrew Carstone was «me.
He little feared the law, a hit li
could scarcely reach the outlaw in
his den, while it would haw been
equally hopeless to have contend-
ed against two men like the uier-
chant and g, had they remain-
ed free in their movements.

What dark thoughts 50d
through his mind—what g oomy
ideas. the necessary consequences

 

  

 

30

Beadle’s Dime, Ilibrary.

 

 

of former crimes, came to him in
the morning—it would be hard to
say. In detaining Andrew Car-
stone, he had no fixed object in
view; he knew not how he was to
get rid of him. Like many other
criminals, he kept him a prisoner
and trusted to the chapter of acci-
dents.

And Kate came not back.

This was another source of un-
easiness. He had, however, little
time to think, as one who had
much influence over him, and
whom he rather feared, required
his services. He was to aid in an-
other crime—of amuch lighter na-
ture, it is true , but when once he-
gun,who shall say where the career
of vice and guilt will stop?

Toward evening, the Frog’s Hole
was ain silent. It was tenanted
onlyagy Ralph, his wife, the ne-
gress, and two renegade white
men. The rest had started up the
count in the hope of rescuing
Amy oss from the Indians. Two

es were thus seeking to aid
or escape, though from very dif-
ferent motives.

 

CHAPTER XXII.
A nrrr IN run mrsranr CLOUD.

Wm Kate remained behind,
alter her interview with Squire
Barton. she proceeded slowly on
her way for some time, and then,
as if struck with anew idea, deter-
mined to pass the night in the hut,
and, on the morrow, commence an
expedition she contemplated. Her
mind relieved from the wei ht of
what she felt was an evil ream,
thinking calmly and seriouslsy, she
began to see the character of quire
Barton every moment in more hi-
deous colors, and, consequently,
to have awakened within her
strong sentiments of sympathy
for Am Moss.

She egan, too, to look back
with regret to the tlife she had
s nt With Ralph egin and Mar-

a, who, she well knew, were not
her parents. Then, who were?
Whence came she? Should she
ever be able to trace those who
had abandoned her, or from whom
she had been forcibly taken? These
were questions which came rush-
ing with tumultuous force to her

In nd.

How should she be

us she eontem la
n the first p see, she thought

that if she could but carry some
useful intelligence to the Moss, she
would at once raise up to herself
friends in the judge and his family.
N 0 longer jealous or fearful of the
beaut of Amy Moss, Kate deter-
min to free her from the tram-
mels of the s uire. She knew,
from some dark ints of Ralph Re-
gin in his sav e moods, that there
were secretsw ich would utterl
blast the ho es of that individual,
secrets whic Ralph had only re-
centl learned, but which he pro-
mise to make good use of when
the proper time should come.
From a conversation which assed
between the man calling h mself
her father, and Martha, it appeared
that he only began to unravel cer-
filn ideas in his mind, and was bi-

ng his time to obtain full know-
ledge, and then to use them with
effect.

The night passed away, and Kate
had scarcely sle twhen the bright
dawn came, an she was up, and
after a meal made from the dried
venison in a small wallet sallied
out into the forest, in the direction
of Beowl Hall.

The morning was bright and
beautiful, the sun was warm and
genial, the birds sung their tuneful
notes, full chorus, in the trees, as
Kate a little pale, but beautiful as
usual, entered below the arches of
the green forest. The ath was
along a slight rise, trend n away
toward the Moss, in the d rection
of which she moved for some time,
intendin to cross the Scioto at a
ford, wit which she was familiar.
The young girl, though with such
little prospect of fears from either
white man or Indian, still used
many of those precautions which
are induced by a border education.
Her principal desire was to avoid
being taken back to the Frog’s

the jour-

 

Hole, a consummation to be thwar-
ted at any risk.

Presently she came to a small
valley, inclosed by tiny hills—a
circular slope of brush and trees,
on one side thickly wooded, on the
other, which was very steep, part-
ly covered by grass; and in other
places rocky, steep and barren, ex-
cept at the summit, which was
fringed with bushes. Kate was

uietly descending one side of
t is, when her eyes caught sight
of two human figures, movmg
cautiously along the edge of the

ridge.

S 1e slipped hastily behind a tree,
but it was too late; the two men
imitated her example, at the same
time leveling their rifles. As they
did so, Kate was able to see that
theé were white men.

8 e at once stepped forWard
from her place of concealment
and presented herself openly to
view. At sight of her the two
white men came bounding wildly
down the steep side of the glen,
waving their rifles, and never

using until they were close to

er, when the slackened their
pace and looks with disappoint.
ment at one another.

“How came you alone in the
woods. young girl 1'” said the tow-
most of the two men, a handsome
youth.

“ I am going to the ford,” replied
the girl, quietly, at the same time
surveying her questioner with en-

riosiltg'.

“ now you not,” continued the
other, while his companion a
scout and hunter surveyed er
curiously “that the Indians are
out, and hat it is dangerous to be
here? The red-skins are killing
and slaying all they find.”

“ Strangers,” sad Kate, in asad
voice, “ unfortunate] I have noth-
ing to fear from the ndians.”

‘I know’d it,” exclaimed the
other, the one who as yet had not
spoken; “ ou’re the gal of that
catercorne old white Indian,
Ralph Regin, the friend of the
meanest man in creation, Simon
Girt .”

“ was called his dau hto: ” re-
plied Kate, p‘roudl ; ‘ but am
no child of is. i have left his
house forever.”

“ You are she they call Kate Rs-

in,” said the young man, curious-

; “ ou know, then, of Amy,
Miss my Moss, of the Block l‘”

“ You are—J?” asked Kate, eager

y.

“ Her brother Charles,” said the
young man, anxiousl .

“ I thought so,” exclaimed Kate,
with a crimson blush at her own
words.

n Why 1m

“ I do not know why, but I
thought so. She is safe. The In-
dians have taken her up to the

rest cave on the Ohio; no harm

intended her, and I believe mo-
ney would buy her; but I do not
know—I am trying to find out.
Don’t ask me any questions—but
I have something to discover, and
I mean to do it.

“You amaze me,” said Charles
Moss; “your present journey has
something to do with m sister.”

“ Every thing,” replied Kate
gravely; “but am not sure 0
any thing. All I know is that she
is more the prisoner of white men
than of Indians."

“ Of white men 1" exclaimed

Charles, passing his hand over his
brow.
“ Them rinigades is wuss than
aborigines,” said William Harrod -
“I shouldn’t wonder if the had
made some plot to rob the udge,
just by way of a ransom.”

“That’s not it,” insisted Kate,
positively. “But, Charles Moss, re-

am home. In a day or two, at
most, I will bring you tidings of
the truth. In the mean time, do
on return to the Moss, arm a par-
y of men, and go up to the great
cave.”
“ 0n the Ohio l’" repeated Har-

(t.Yw'I’
“ But Custaloga i” asked Charles,
anxiously.
“ Is hanging about the Indian
trail, I have heard,” said Kate.
“And Harve —chk Harvey i"
asked the your; man, musing.

 

 

“ 0f him I can say nothing more
than that he is a prisoner,” replied
Kate, evasively.

“ A risoner i” cried the two.

“So heard,” said Kate; “ there
was talk of taking him up to Chil-
licothe.”

“And my brother Walter Har-
rod ?” continued William, hur-
ried] .

“ our brother l” exclaimed
Kate. “Are ou the brother of
hinginwhose Wife the Indians kill-
ed

“I am, gal,” said the hunter,
striking the ground with the stock
of his gun—“I am; and the In-
jines had best keep out of my
sight." '

‘ Let us return ” put in Charles;

“ our advice, i iss—”

‘Katc,” said she, blushing, as
she saw him hesitate.

“Your advice Miss Kate, shall
be followed. we go to the ford
'also, and will keep you company.
Let us lose no time; my blood
boils to know the end of all this.
Amy a risoner Harvey up at
Chi licotfie, and Custa in the wood
—there is no time, not an instant,
to be lost.”

Saying these words, Charles
shouldered his rifle, and be an
once more to ascend the ri ge,
making a short cut to rejoin the
trail, which followed the skirt of
the wood on the other side. They
had to cross a small cane-brake
and swamp, after which they again
were to follow the path under the
forest trees for some distance.
They had got half-way through the
swamp, when suddenly they all
started and looked at one another
with surprise and alarm. Loud
bursts of laughter, cries of dis-
tress, and shouts and yells of a
very fearful description, broke sud-
denly upon their ears, proceeding
from the wood before them. The
shouts were Indian the cries were
apparently those of white men.

“ What s that ?” said Charles,
clutching his rifle.

“ Injincs torturing a white man,”

replied Harrod, dashing ahead at
cnce.
” Hist i” said Kate; “ be cautious
—the Indians are not man , and
you may surprise them. ollow
me.”

Stooping low in the tall grass,and
exhibiting a knowledge of the lo-
(-ulity which in awoman was sur-
prising, Kate who never went out
without her fight un, led them
with extreme rapi ity to the skirt
of the forest, and then along the
trees behind some bushes, until
they were close to the scene of ac-
tiou, which was another small val-
ley, one of the numerous dells
that intersected those vast forests.

Then they halted and peered
down through the bushes at the
persons who were the actors in
this tumultuous scene.

They were at the head of asmall
opening, the two slo es of which
lay right and left of t em. It was
a stony, bricry place, without any
pleasing vegetation, though the
summits of he lofty trees around
cast a dee shadow over the depths
below. n the center of the local-
ity, about forty yards distant, were
six Indians in their war-paint,
dancing round a white man. whom
they jostled, tossed, cast back-
ward to and fro, with loud shouts
of laughter, which were answered
by exccrations from the unfortu-
nate victim of their savage merri-
ment-an individual whom none
of the party recognized.

It was a man in rather a showy
livery, red, and ornamented with
gold, who made desperate efforts
to release himselffrom his captors.

“ Bojour, brudder—white man
dance—roast presently—flue chief
—grand—big oflicer.’

‘ Roast! yer sneaking, naked
crossing-sweepers,“ exclaimed the
White man; “ laugh away—yer vill
be tired by and by. I von't dance
—I carn’t—I‘m tired.”

“ Dance,” said a tall Indian, hit-
tin him gently with the handle
of iis hatchet.

“Now, then,” cried the white
man, “ none of yer lurks-it hurts.
Vy, vat are you, with your painted
mugs? Yer I) 1y enough to be
Old Scratch; ut there are too
many of you—bowl avav.”

 

“That oor man thinks it’s all

‘ fun,” sai ‘Charles,-inulow,hushed

tone.

“ He’s a green Britisher,” replied
Harrod, coldly.

‘ ‘ And are we not English—white
men—Christians ?” asked young
Moss, rather indignantly. “Was
not your own grandfather an Eng-
lishman, and was not Clara’s father
an Englishman? Let us save
him.”

“ You’re right,sir,” said Harrod,
with a blush; “here goes.”

Next minute three sheets of
flame, three cracks of rifles, star-
tled the wild group of savages.
But the prisoner was the most as-
tonished. He new first be an to
comprehend, it appeared, t e ex-
tent of his danger. Gazing wildly
around, he snatched from under
his coat a small iron bar, with
which he began laying about him
in so vigorous and startling a
manner, that the Indians, thus as-
saulted, and the chief part of them
severely wounded, darted beneath
the trees and disappeared.

“ Run for our life—this way i’
roared Char es, snowing himself
for a moment.

“Orr rite,” replied the other,
boundln up the valley with fran-
tic spee ,as two or three shots
from behind quickened his percep-
tion of danger.

In another minute Cornelius
Ragg was under the cover of the
bushes.

“ Veil, yer don’t mean for to
say,” he exclaimed, as he regained
his breath,“ that them ugly sweeps
meant nuflin more than fix: i’"

“ They would have roasted on
before night ” said Charles, drily'
“ but keep own—your red coa
is‘a Ofidmark." Rag

e , continued Corney ,
bobbing down ; “this here do 10$.
like earnest too. Vol], I never-—
much obliged to you gents—glad
to make your acquaintance.”

A rapid interchange of shots now
followed, which however, after
lasting a few minutes, ceased, as
the Indians gave way, evidently

cri pled by the first dischar e
and) 

made ofl‘ into the forest.
whole party then rapidly rejoined
the trail.

“Where are you going ?” said
Charles, curiously.

“ Veil, I ain’t partiklerl I’ve
just escaped from a place they call
the Fro ’s Hole—they’ve got my
master ocked up—a set of land
pirates, sir.”

“ Who and what are you ‘9” re
plied Charles,somewhat surprise
while Kate and Harrod listene
attentively.

Ragg, without explaining the
secret object of his journey, nar-
rated all that had occurred up at
the house of Ralph Re in. Charles
looked inquirineg at ate.

“It’s true, I have no doubt of
it,” replied Kate,quietly; “ Ralph
Regin is capable of murder. Ask
Ezram Cook.”

“Ah! he did say something be-
fore he left. This is worse than
the Indians!” exclaimed the young
man. “Stranger, you had better
come to my father s house. make
a declaration to him—he is a jud e
—and we’ll take a run up to tfie
Hole as soon as we have attended
to some more pressing business.”

“ Orr rite " said Ragg, nodding
his head; “he’s a judge hisself, is
my master.”

“Rely on it, your master shall
:3 ’saved, and the villain punish-

“Vell—I hope he viii—though
if ’ud answer a question or two
may be ve vouldu't say no more,"
observed Cornelius Ragg, philoso-
phically.

“Charles Moss,” said Kate,
pausing, “here we part. Your
path is to the right, mine to the
eft. Fear not for me. I am safe
aniywhere. Rely upon it that, in
a ew days, I shall have news of
importance for on.”

‘ I thank you eforehand—most
welcome will you be at the Moss.
Your hand, Miss,” said Charles,
respectfully.

‘ I shake hands freely,” replied
Kate' and then, nodding in a
friend] way to the whole arty,
she angered the forest and glasp-
neared.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Silent Hunter.

 

 

The three men walked on a little
way without speaking. Then sud-
denly Charles Mose broke the re-
vigus stillness and addressed r-
ro .

“ She seems a fine, 0 en-hearted
'rl—’tis a pity she s ould have
een brought up by Ralph Begin,"

he observed, thou htfully.

“ Vot i” said g, clutchln
his arm violently— ‘that are
is Ralph Regin’s .9”

“ Yes,” repli Charles, much
an rised; “ but why this surprise
an emotion ?” ,

“ Cos she’s vot ve’re cum from
England for,” said Ragg, striking
his head; “she's my master’s dor-

ter.
“Are on mad?” exclaimed
Charles oss, turning round and

looking hard at the cockney.

“ No,larn t," said Ragfi; “ you
just listen to me, that‘s a. .”

And rapidly, in his wild, dis-
jointed way, he told his story, to
which the two listened with great
interest, particularly Charles.
whose eyes flashed with great ani
mation.

“Well,” exclaimed the young
man, “be under no uneasiness.
I will take this ‘matter in hand.
In a very short time Kate will be
at the Moss. That Ralph Regin
is a terrible scoundrel, but he shall
pay for this.”

‘ Orr rite,” said Cornelius Ragg
who was excited to a pitch 0
rest enthusiasm. “Ah, Master
ackett, yOu’ll pay your debts
arter all."

“ Who’s Hackett l" inquired
Charles.

“Vy, Hackett, aliasRegiu, alias
Robbs; he’s as many names as a
cat has lives, he has—he vos vot
ve calls a highv an.”

“ A pretty fellow to bring up an
onl child of lovin rents,”
sai Charles; “but y n er is the
Moss. Letushasten. This scout
ing bassines:h has made them fanx-
ous. ee 0 to us mm
the Bloc 3’“ y Sign

Cornelius ‘at the
stockade, the oc -house, and
the whole building with feelings
of great interest. it was quite a
novel sight to him, as indeed was
every thing he met with in Amer-
ica, especially the Indians, who
at first had more amused than
alarmed him. g

The return of the scoutm 7party
was hailed with consider-ab e plea-
sure. The young man joined his
father and sister, while was
taken charge of by Harro , who
undertook to initiate him into the
mysteries of the forest residence.

“Well my son, what news 1’”
said the Judge, hastily. .

“Amy is safe, tho a prison-
er; Custa is with W ter, on his
track,;, but Harvey, I am sorry to
as

y‘ What of Harvey ?" exclaimed
J ane,tuming very pale,and clutch-
ing her brother‘s arm convulsively.

‘ He is a prisoner!” exclaimed
Charles tumin round and look-
ing curiously a her.

“ Poor fellow i” said J ane, bend-
ing her eyes on the ground, and
seeking to conceal, by attending
to some detail of the table, the
acute sufferin she experienced
and the tears t at she could not
rcstrain. Charles took no notice
openly of this demonstration of
feeling, though he thought of it
afterward often, but turnin to his
father informed him of he 111°
tends expedition to the cave on
the Ohio.

“ Heaven bless you, my son
said the judge, who was pale and
careworn from anxiety, during
flicse few days. “ But how learnt
you this news ?"

“ That, my dear father, is afresh
story,” exclaimed Charles; and m
a few words he explained all that
had happened in relation to Kate,
—~a‘story which, with that of Rugg
interested both until the hour of,
the afternoon siesta, when the
judge lay down, or rather retired
for the purpose, while Charles did
so in reality, after selecting the
men who were to accompany him
on his ex dition. .

MI-anw ile Kate hurned along
toward the ford, her ideas some-
what divided between the thouxht

I"

 

of Amy Moss, Barton, and the
young hunter whose acquaintance
she had so suddenly made. She
could not help being struck with
the manner and mien of the hand-
some young man, whose tone of
voice, whose look, were so gentle
in comparison with the men she
had been accustomed to. But as
she advanced, the thought of her
self-imposed task struck her, and
she determined,in accordance with
her plan of operation, to devote
her whole energies to this one
idea—this one thought.

There was an idea in her head,
which for some time had been
gaining round,hinted at by_Regin,
muttere by Simon Girty 1n mo-
ments of an or, which she conceiv-
ed it possi‘ e to unravel only by
ex lorin the mysteries of Scowl
H131, a p ace which Kate had long
been anxious to see.

Kate stood on the summit of a
green hill. Here she first caught
sight of the ford,and looking down-
ward along the trail, she could
hear nothing save the rushin of
the river’s waters over a pe bly
bottom, and the occasions note
of a bird, or perhaps that secret
hum of life which perpetually
arises over the waving tree-to s.

Satisfied, then,that she woul be
able to cross the ford unseen by
any of the emissaries of Barton,
and quite sure, from the beaten
path before her, that she was in
the right track, she tripped quick-
ly down the hillside, and stood
upon the water’s edge. Warily
again she looked around; then
stoopin , loosened her moccasins,
and tuc ed up her dress. With
one hand she held her un and
moccasins with the 0 er her
dress, an then springing from
stoneto stone, sometimes leap-
ing, sometimes wading, she was
soon on the other bank.

“What does party Kate Regin
doon in these parts .” said a well-
known voice, that made the heart
gf the young girl bound within

or

“ Simon Girty !" she exclaimed,
with a start, as that worthy ap
peared from amou the trees.

“Well, I ess i are Simon Gir-
gyfihe ginr ly is known about a

“I believe he is known," said
Kate, coldly, as she continued to
fasten her moccasins, “ and better
known than liked.”

“ Well, that may be true, m—l
ain’t much of a fayvorite, 1 know
—but I don’t want to be. How's

in ?"

‘ I don‘t know,” replied Kate,
movin up the bank.

“W y, how skittish you ayre;
but you ain’t told me wur you’re
going.”

“I am going to Scowl Hall, to
see S uire James Barton,” said
Kate ooking hard at him.

“ Well, I reckon he'ain’t at burn
-—but you can wait I dar’ say.
Well, good mornin’: ’m ofi‘t’other
way. Ho you will be less ryled
next time see you, Miss.”

And the rufllan, somewhat as-
zled at what Kate could possibly
want in that direction, turned his
back on her, as if thoroughly dis-
gusted with her short and angry
manner.

Kate. who knew the man well,
had affected with him a confidence
she little felt, and was therefore
much relieved when they parted
company. It is true that she had
never penetrated any further than
the point she had now reached,
and would have been all the better

for a uide; still, the track was
tolerab clear, and she knew that
Scowl all was not situated atan

very great distance from the for

She rejoiced, moreover, at the
ueWs that Barton was absent.

This gave her, she im ined, the
o portunity of making e search
s c desired—a search which, if
successful, promised to be of great
value to persons in whom she al-
read took an interest. Kate had
live so 1011 amid the bad and
the reckless %ilat she felt akind of
relief in the prospect of associat-
ing herself in any way with the
good and the pure.

Not that Kate had been tainted
inany material way by the enm-

 

panionshi of Ralph Rs in and his
rufi‘lan fol owers. She ad found
in books a constant refuge against
the cursing and swearing and other
evil habits which were so common
in the Frog‘s Hole; and when the
visitors became violent, would
shut herself in her room, and there
take shelter against painful asso-
ciations.

Martha, despite her weakness in
having become the wife of one
who had been the cause of her first
husband’s death, was not wholly
depraved. She was weak to the
degree that leads to crime, but she
sought by every means in her ow-
e: protect the young fishe
a? charge of from con ina-

11

What Kate had learned was a
kind of masculine character. which
in her position in the woods was
of considerable use to her, and
without which she would never
have undertaken the present jour-
ne to Scowl Hall.

11 a few minutes the usual signs
of the approach to a plantation
were seen. Fields of corn, open
meadows, a. few huts, were visible.
Still, on the side toward the river
the wood was thick, and Kate
kept on the verge of it, in sight
of the trail; for she had no Wish
to be seen by any of the overseers,
white laborers, or negroes of the
plantation.

She saw several working in the
fields, but they were too busy to
notice her.

Presently the sound of the
watch-dogs’ barking came upon
her ears, and she moved more
cautiously and slowly. She was
in quite a thick and tan led wood.

Suddenl she sta Voices
were hear near her, and one voice
she knew too well, that of him she
believed absent.

A moment she hesitated, and
then, remembering the object of
her coming, she crept forward, and
in another moment saw Jame!
Barton seated on a bench, smok-
in , while Phoebe poured out hit
co ee for him. Phebe was a mu
latto, only half a negress, and no!
ill-looking,as we have already said.
Kate felt a burning sense of shame
and disgust as she recollected that
even in her i norance and weak-
ness she co d have loved that
man.

Conquering all other sentiments
in one of earnest desire to fathom
the mystery of that man‘s life, she

lided a step or two forward and
istened.

“ Phoebe,” said Barton, “no
more whimpering and rumbling,
or I’ll sell you away gouth—you
are etting foolish.”

“ y no more,” replied Phoebe,
with a flash of suppressed anger
in her eye.

“ Listen: I have arranged with
Girty and Be in and others, to
snatch Amv rom that traitor.
Tecumseh. She will be here before
the week is out.”

“As your wife, I ’sggse,” said

h of

Phoebe, with another the
eye.
“As my wife—and hearken,

Phoebe; I wish her to be my law-
ful wife,” repeated Barton, who
was very pale.

“ How you man e dat, ch 7"
asked Phoebe, quick y.

“ I repeat, she must be my legal
wife,” said Barton, fiercely.

“Massa Barton ” cried Phoebe,
“I know you wicked, cruel man;
but on no murder her."

“ don’t want to murder her,”
continued Barton, suddenly; “who
talked of murdering ?”

“ How else you marry Amy le-
gal?” said Phoebe.

“Well I do not know,” added
Barton ; ‘ I haven’t the least idea;
but, 1 know this—if my marriage
with Amy Moss is nota legal mar-
riage free from all detraction, I
wil iiog you within an inch of your
life, and hunt you out of Ohio
with blood-hounds."

“Flo me!” screamed the wo-
man WI 1 . “Wat for l”

“ Yes, as Phoebe; you ain’t
too pretty to be flogged now.”

The woman bowed her head, an-
nihilated at the cool vxllany of the
man who had been her master for
so many years, and whom she had

 

served at the peril of her own
soul.

“You understand me now, I
hope " said Barton.

No,” said the slave, raising her
head, and confronting the monster
with a courage quite superhuman
in one who had so long bowad the
neck to the most abject of servi-
tudes.

“What do on mean?” roared
Barton, snatc ing up his heavy
riding-whip.

The mulatto stood still, crossed
her arms, and waited for the blow.
She had never received one before.

“ Take that !” shrieked the in-
furiated rufllan.

“ Coward! move and you die 1”
said a well-known voice. while a
rifle-barrel came into dau erous
proximity with his breas He
stood transfixed with surprise and
Error, his uplifted whip in his

nd.

“ Kate i" he cried, really alarm~
ed at the menacingposition of the
gun-barrel.

“ And James Barton would strike
a woman,” said Kate, with a bitter
sneer.

“ Pshaw i a mulatto—she ofi’end-
ed me! Ah l” he cried, as a sud-
den thought fiashed across his
mind, “ what want you here ? You
have been listening 1"

Said I not, the hour of venge-
ance would come .9” said Kate,
coldly, still holdin her gun point-
ed toward him. \ “ have heard all!
But I shall reveal nothing—on one
condition. ”

“ That condition .9” asked Bar
ton, who now folded his arms with
an assum tion of coolness, quite
coutratiéy, owever, to his real sen

en .

“That you Amy Moss
and reinstate her in her rights,’l
said Kate, quietly.

‘I Never !"replied Barton. “What
business is this of yours .9 what
know on of Amy Moss; and
whom 0 on mean by her?”

“ I won d not have Amy Moss
espouse a villain,” began Kate.

“Tush, (girl; this is folly—one
whistle an you are overpowered.
Lift. up your gim and let us talk
calmly.’

“ James Barton, think not I will
trust your word," said Kate, put-
ting her finger on the trigger and
moving back; “I have your so-
cret."

“ It will cost you your life,”
roared Barton with afeari‘ul laugh.

At that instant, the bold girl’s

n was dashed up in the air, 0—
ng off from the blow, and Eer
arms were pinioned by Phoebe.

She turned and saw the mulatto
who held down her e es, ashamed
of her treachery. Byut with re-
flection, dread of her master had
returned, and she had purchased
her own forgiveness by an act of
ingratitude wone whose generous
intervention in her favor was
iikel to cost her so dear.

“ ! ah! my fine young lady,”
said Barton, fiercely, as he r-nnrrht
her wrists,“ your mad curiosity ias
cost you your life. How could you
think that I would let you depart
with my secret?"

At the same moment, he drag-

ed her hurriedly along toward the
Eouse.

Kate spoke not a word from the
moment she felt herself overcome.
She was so astonished at the act
of Phtebe, whom she had saved
from a lashing, that she could not
speak. She was planning in her
own mind how to escape from a
fate which she knew must be seri-
ous, as the secret she had now dis-
covered was one she knew Burton
would not forgive.

She walked, then, between that
wretched man and that unfortu-
nate woman, with a calm, proud
step, that showed no fear. 'l'in-y
took her to the front of the house
and led her in.

A few minutes more and Piurhe
came out, lookiu about WIHHV
and very pale, an then a long,

iercing shriek was heard through

c house, a shriek that awuhe the
echoes with its horror.

Then all was still.

 

    

32

Beadle’s Dime Library.

 

 

' CHAPTER XXIII.
was soon FRIENDS.

WHEN Richard Harvey saw the
party which had possession of
Amy go their way, the last sign
of anxiety and nervousness depart-
ed from his countenance. The
Eccentric Artist prepared to die
like a hero of the woods, without
giving to the Indians any of that
satisfaction they are known to ex-
perience when an enemy dies with-
out nerve or courage, and exhaust-
ed nature yields to the torture.

There were no less than a hun-
dred and fifty warriors and boys
assembled now, and looking im-

tiently to the moment when the

rture should begin. In the mid-
dle of the camp was asmall, clear,
open space,where robably many a
deed of blood ha been done, and
here they took Dick Harvey and
set him in their midst. Then the
whole knavish and cowardly crew
commenced chanting, dancing,
yelling round him, stopping every
now and then to kick and beat

him.

Folding his arms, Dick stood
stoically resigned to whatever fate
thfI chose to impose on him.

e saw, with a burning face and
the mien of an indignant martyr,
however, that they were about to
make him run the gauntlet, for the
Indians were ranging themselves
in along double line about two
yards apart,and were arming them-
selves with stout hickory sticks.
At the end of this long human
line of men without mercy, and
boys more cruel still, Harvey was

laced, and then a shower of' blows
rom one of the nearest ave the
si al for him to run. is teeth
se , his head bowed, his thoughts
more full of anguish than at some
more cruel but less ignominious
death, he started away wildly,
evading the blOWs with consider-
able dexterity.

Suddenly his 3e caught sight
of one who sto a little ahead
of him, and who, instead of a hick-
ory, had in his hand a small, shin—
ing ax with which he intended
probabiy only to maim—his death
was too richaluxur to be wasted;
and he determine to balk this
dusky rufflan at all events.

The line through which he had
to run was right across the cam ,
from one side to the other. 0
his right was the entrance by
which Custa had escaped on the
occasion of his visit to the camp.
To his left was the council-house,
alar e and rominent buildin ,
whic , could s but once reach it,
he knew eno h of Indian customs
to be aware t he would not be
called on to recommence his odi-
ous task. There was no time for
indecision, and his mind was made
up with rapidity and vigor.

He suddenl turned to the left,
hurlsdan In ian to the ground
and then away he darted toward
the council-house, the post in front
of which was now the coveted
object of his desires. A shower
of hickory sticks was sent after
him to sta his progress if pos-
sible; but e was not to be check-
ed by tr es. The Indians were
behind him, yelling—screeching,
as he would have sai —like “ infer-
ual furies.”

The wished-for cat was not far
distant, and Dick arvey began to
hope for a successful issue to this

of his trial, when, suddenly,
ri ht before him stood an Indian,
w 0 had just entered the camp,
and who, casting off his blanket,
grappled with the unfortunate
risoner, and he, being out of
reath and fatigued, was easily
sent to the ground. The whole
ferocious gang of pursuers were
upon him u an instant, and one
and all began to kick and beat him,
laughi all the while at the fail-
ure of is attempt. They then
tore his clothes to ribbons, and
left him on the round uncon-
scious and faint. resently, how-
ever, a woman—for all the women
had not departed—brought him
some water and a little bread.
And there he lay near the council-
house, all butdcad.
About an hour later, the savage
and unscrtifiulous wretches took
him into a council-hail. after

 

 

washin his bruises with rum and
giving im a good draught to re.

ucea factitious strength. T ere
he stood glaring at his persecutors
with looks which told of undaunt—
ed and unchanged courn re, and
also of und 'ing hate. Die Har-
vey, the ccentric Artist, who
hitherto had looked upon Indians
rather with an eye to the pictur-
esque than any thing else, began
to feel something of that fierce and
burnin hostility toward them
which eiongs to nearly all those
educated on the borders, and who
had an opportunity of experienc-
ing their tender mercy

A warrior rose, and the rest
became silent, for to them one of
the rich parts of such entertain-
ments was the opportunity it of-
fered of boasting and taunting. It
was a sav e-looking fellow who
began, and ick Harvey welllm'ew
that the purport of his speech was
death—death without hesitation
and without mercy. The man
showed certain scars which had
been inflicted on him in battle with
the whites, and as he spoke of
these the expression of his coun
tenance was perfectly diabolical.
Holding in his hand a knife and a
piece 0 wood, he spoke with ani-
mation and flerceness, and though
Dick Harvey was not able to com-
prehend the words used he knew
very well their purport. The whole
party ap landed with frenzied dc-

ight. he speaker finally sat
down, and the old chief made a
notch on the piece of wood.

Two other speakers followed,
who appeared to speak on the same
side, and two notches were marked
for them. Then an old man, cov-
ered with scars and medals, rose
and pointed to the white man,
spreadin his hand gently over
him. H s voice was musical and

ersuasive, and it was evident that

e spoke on the side of mercy, as
the victim might have guessed b
the murmurs which arose on al
sides. Instead of grunts of ap-
proval, he met with grunts of dis-
approval.

hen the speaking ceased, ands

war-club was handed to the war-
rior nearest the door, and this man
struck the weapon violently on the
ground. And all those who struck

he round were recorded as votes
for eath, while those who declin-
ed to strike the ground were taken
no note of. They were the votes
for mercy.

The 0 d chief stood up in the
midst. He counted the notches.
He then summed up the number
of the marks he had made, counted
those present, and decided accord-
ingly. The majority for death was
very great.

A question now appeared to arise
as to how his death should be com-
passed, and all those outside the
wigwam made the “ welkin ring
with shouts of joy.”

At this moment a messenger or
scout entered the village, and
made a secret communication to
the youn chief, Tecumseh.

The risoner was for otten in
the excitement which fol owed the
news thus brought. The warriors
flew to arms, and the execution of
Dick Harvey was adjourned. It
had been determined to make a
national spectacle of the affair,
and the prisoner was therefore
given in charge to a small party
of five men, who were to take him
up to Chillicothe, and at the same
time carry thither the news of a
gathering of the whites, which
was rumored as about to take

lace on a most extensive scale,

reatening danger and ruin to the
Indian tribes on the frontier.

His arms were then bound be-
hind his back, and his legs tied
loosely, and while the rest of the
tribe prepared for the war-path,
the men who were to 0 up to
Chillicothe, started on he same
trail which had been followed by
Amy Moss and her captors. It
was a reprieve, however painful
and Dick Harve was not so bowed
down by brutality and the savage
conduct of the red-skins, as that
the natural characteristics of his

eshould be overcome. He hoped

en even against hope itself.

There was one old man and four

 

 

youn ones of the party, the old
man eing one of those few Shaw-
nees who had shown any kindly
feeling toward the suffering pale-
face. A cord had been fastened
to Harvey’s waist, which was then
attached to the tail of the horse
on which the old Indian rode.
The four young braves came be-
hind, laughing, chatting, and oc-
casionally, by way of diversifying
the subject-matter of their dis-
course, poking the wretched vic-
tim whom they were leading to
the slaughter. The trail they
followed was difficult, and it was
at rather an early hour that they
camped under a clifl‘, evidently
much exhausted with the events
of the day. They there made a
fire, piled up grass and leaves, and
impaired evidently for a carouse.
hey had an ample supply of pork,
the produce of poor Harrod‘s pigs,
said an allowance of whisky, which
was then beginnin to enervate
and destroy the re -men. While
one of the party proceeded to cook
their supper, the rest undertook
to provide for the unfortunate
white man. They took a piece of
wood and stretched it across his
breast, and to this fastened his
hands. They then laid another
piece across this, to which his
neck and ankles were fastened, so
that it was utter] impossible for
him to move. 'lhis was one of
their common and barbarous
means of securing a prisoner.

Presently the meat was ready,
and the brutal red-skins began de-
vouring their plunder with intense
satisfaction. They gave Dick one
or two morsels, which he contrived
to devour, as nature had exerted
her supremacy, and despite his
gosition, he was faint from hunger.

hen the savages saw once more
to his fastenings, and satisfied that
he could do nothing, put a little
wood on the fire, an laid down to
sleep quite at euseas to any danger
in that distant and secluded rart
of the forest._ They were al so
weary that in a very few minutes
he was significantly reminded that
the ' were asleep.

I is first impulse was to try his
bonds. They were fastened in a
way that left no hope of his break-
ing them. This hope had then at
once to be given up, and though
there was so little chance of any
plan succeeding, he did not, even
in this rricvous and melancholy
strait, w folly despair.

But the night were on, the wind
sighed in the trees, the stars twin-
kled over his head, the moon rose
and faded away. Exhausted, he
actually slept for a moment. It
secured but a moment, and then
he was awake. It was nearly day.
Harvey luy about three yards from
the Indians. lie could not turn
his head far enough to see his per-
secutors, but he knew by the
smoke of the fire that their posi-
tion was under the cliff. They had
not yet moved, and Dick Harvey,
s little refreshed by his night’s
rest, tried again to move the osier
band which bound his wrist. His
right hand cnme free away at once
--the knot had’ slipped in the
night.

At this instant a slight noise at-
tracted the attention of the young
man; he looked up and instantly
recognized a white man, a tall and

aunt figure he knew full well.
le was coking strangely at the
Indians, and did not as yet see the
prisoner. Suddenly his eye caught
sight of one making signs to him,
and he instantly disappeared. In
a few minutes he stalked slowly
out of the forest, with noiseless
step—if discovered he knew that
his Indian trader character (it was
Ezrarn Cook) would rotecthim—
and with a rapidity 0 action which
gave life and hope to Harvey cut
is bonds,ieft the knife, an re-
treated as rapidly as he came. In
five minutes he was once more on
the summit of the rock, leaning on
his rifle.

Dick Harvey was so stiff that
full ten minutes elapsed ere he
could move. lie gained his feet
with great difficulty, crawled to
the fire, took up a gun, and then,
every instant his blood circulating
more freely, hurried away to where

 

the horse was hoppled. Cutting
the animal loose,he drew him gent-
ly through the wood, along the
trail left by the peddler. He had not
gone a hundred yards when a cry
of fury and rage startled him, and
he staggered as the beating of his
heart grew tumultuous and wild.
Then using all his energy, he
mounted. A rifle-crack guided
him, and then a horseman came
galh’iping toward him.

“ urn to the right, stranger,
turn to the right—keep the wind
on yer left check; the trail‘s pretr-
ty good. Make tracks with yer
old hoss,” he continued, as he
rode up to Dick Harvey; “that
they come.”

They could, indeed, be plainl
heard coming crashing through
the bushes behind with loud and
furious yelling.

“ You’ve a deal to answer for,
stranger,” continued the eddler
—“udeal to answer for. I ere am
I, Ezrum Cook, a neutral Ingin
trader, brought into a scrimmage,
and amost afeared I’ve shot a
Ingine. Now, if one of them
devils sees me, my business is

one—right away—they’ll skin,

r, scarify, and lynch me anyhow.
But I couldn’t see a fellow-critter
prepared like a lamb ,for the
slaughter.”

‘ My sufferings have sorely
changed me in twenty-four hours,
Mister Ezram Cook,’ said the ar-
tist “that you don’t recognize
Dic Harvey.”

“My! Jehosaphatl Thin I tell
you what, Mister Harvey, I don’t
care if the hull bilin’ of the In-
gines sees me—I’ve done a ood

ay’s work—just keep that em-
lock right afore you—go it, pony,
jeel woh 1”

And the peddler reined in as a
small column of smoke rose above
the hemlock.

“Pontius Pilate i” cried the
peddler, “if we ain't done. In-
gines afore, Ingines behind. Never
mind, spur away. What’s that ?”

A yell of a very fearful nature
rose in the forest, bursting so sud-
denly u on the ear, and appearing

to be 0 ' such an unearthly charac-‘

ter, that Dick Harvey and the
peddler shuddered. It was no cry
they had ever heard before, and
both were already ve familiar
with the noises of the orest. It
was not an Indian yell, it was not
a wild beast, it was not an animal
in pain' and the two men, who
were sufficiently distant from gen-
uine civilization to be sn erstiti-
ous, looked uneasily at eac 1 other.

“What is that f’” asked Harvey,
in a low, hushed voice, almost
forgetting the Indians behind.

‘ Rattle-snakes and henbane!”
cried Ezram Cook, turning rather
pale; “ I don’ know.”

Up it rose again, that yell—once,
twice, thrice—until it seemed to
make the very arches of the forest
ring again, every time more shrill,
more horrid more unearthly.

“0n! on . ’ cried Dick, sudden-
ly; “it is a human voice, shriek-
ing for help‘.”

“I thin you’re about rl ht,
Mister Harvey,” said the ped er;
“ so here goes.”

The two men gave rein to their
horses, and darted down an ac-
clivity which led to the hemlock
tree. In ten minutes’ hard gallop-
ing, they entered an open glade,
and reined in their horses with a
shudder of horror. A sight met
their view which, not so common
then as it has been since, made
them look at one another with
amazement and confusion.

The shrieks had ceased an in-
stant, and they thought that all
was over.

On a pile of loose wood, that
threatened every minute to give
way, stood the negro Spiky Jonas.
His arms were tied behind his
back, and a rope was round his
neck, so placed that if he sunk
from exhaustion, he must be him
while the same would happen if
the wood under his feet gave way.
There he was, with eyes startin
out of his head, with a face 0
hideous hue, turned imploringly
toward the two horsemen.

“Now, Massa Harvey—don’t
let a poor nigger hang—now

 

 

 

Y
i
. l

i

l

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Silent Hunter.”

 

 

Massa Harvey, cut him down, tell
all—tell ebery ting—nebber hurt
yoii, Massa Harvey.”

“ Silence, traitor. You brought
death into the Moss—you tried to
betray the whole garrison to the
lndians. Doubtless it was Custa-
loga hung you up, and certainly I
,io not mean to interfere with his
'udrrrnent.”

The eyes of the negro rolled in
their sockets, his whole frame
shuddered, he raised himself on
tiptoe and looked uneasily around,
he turned an implorin glance 0n
Dick ilarvey, who ma e a gesture
of disgust. _

“Now, Master Harvey,” said
Ezram Cook, gravely, “you don’t
mean to say you’ll hang this black
ci‘etter. Consider the cruelty of
the thing. Besides, he‘s valuable

roperty, worth a mint of dollars.
fie’s skeared enough—cut him
loose.”

“No l” replied Harvey; and
then he added in a low tone, “ be
sure Cash). is only frightening
him. He’s close handy,l know.
So let us look for him. There
come the Indians too—to cover 1”

The negro, seeing them move
away, began again to utter his
wild shrieks of despair, shricks
that made the young artist shud-
der. Still he persevered and
quietly disappeared along a trail
on the edge of the small open
space,just as the.Indians came
bounding up, themselves curious
to discover the cause of these
horrid cries, irnprecations, prom-
ises, and threats, which came in a
fearful stream from the negro’s
throat.

Harvey and Ezram dismounted
and turned, rifle in hand. Feeling
certain that aid was near, they de-
termined to make a stand.

-“Myl” cried the negro draw-
ingalong breath as the indifir‘m
came up; “yah be friends. i i 'e
haste, ole red-skin—out dc rope—
won’tI skin darn whites now!”

And the neo'ro laughed a laugh
’of wild exultaltion as the Shawnees
hurried up to aid their friend.
But dire was the dismay of red-
skins and of the black, as four
rifles were discharged, and then
out burst Custaloga, liarrod, Har-
vey, and Ezram on the band, Har-
rod boundin ahead of all the resta
flourishing his gun in one ban
and waving his ax in the other.

Ten minutes later, to avoid de-
tails of a scene of sanguinary
horror, the four white men were
comp.ete masters of ,he field, and
the body of the ne rro lay beside
that of-his allies. n a moment
of eagerness he appeared to have
movud too rapidly, and the wood
to have slipped from under his
feet. Not one of the four had in-
tended the death of the negro.
They simply intended to obtain
from him, by means of terror, a
confession of his accomplices, one
of whom Custaloga suspected,
though he had no proof of his

uilt. The negro had stoutlyre-
used to confess any thing, and
Custaloira and the Silent Hunter
had left him to his rcticctions,

ersuaded that half an hour would
induce him to alter his determina-
tion.

“1 ’s a la my bad job,” said
Eznu’n Cogkfshakin his head;
“a plaguy bad job. wud rather
not kii the salvages, as worthy
John Smith says' but they thirsted
for our blood. hat that war cold
blood i”

“ltis done. When the light-
ning blasts the oak, it can not
am: it life again. The black‘was
wicked, but his Manitou would
have punished him. But wise
men do not w their tongues;
'im- negro is dea ; let no more be
snitl."

-‘ iiiistaloga is right,” said Dick
Harvey; “it is a very bad affair;
but the best thing we can do is to
say that Spiky Jonas is dead and
there end the matter.”

“llow did you escape ?" asked
the young Wyandot, rathergruiiiy.

Dick Harvey smiled, took the
other's hand, and told his story
succinctly. He then demanded
(Justaloga’s narrative in return.
Custaloga told all that had passed,
and Loch related his determination

 

of releasing Amy at any cost that
very night. All heard him with in-
tense interest, aud the plan of ac-
tion was discussed. Ezram Cook
simply listened and nodded his
head. Harvey was used to yield to
Custaloga, so that the Indian was
really master of the circumstance.

He told them that he believed
the cave to be guarded only by
two men, who, however, could, if
they made a bold defense, do them
terrible damage if the openly
attacked the place. I is idea,
therefore, was to enter the cave
in the night, trusting to the as-
sistance which the jealous Indian
girl—the aiiianced wife of Tecum-
seh—would give them.

Dick acquiescedin this the more
readin that he was exhausted with
fatigue, and his limbs were sore
and stiff with what he had suffered.

They had not been rone above
ten minutes when here was a
movement on the field; and the
negro, who had in reality been
cut down by one of the lndiaiis,
unperceived by the whites, rose
with difficulty, and crawled away
from the scene of his terrible
trial.

The four friends chose a spot
where the beeches rose towerin
to the skies, like the spires 0%
village churches in a doe wood——
where all around was cop and
gloom, forest, far away on every
side. Here they determined to
rest, Custaloga and the Silent
Hunter to watch in turns, as they
hadl had some rest on the previous
ni r it.

l‘he day seemed a perfect age
to Custaloga, who however, re-
strained his impatience, perfectly
well aware that by husbanding
his strength he was advancin " the
interests of Amy. Toward night-
fall he drew the Silent Hunter to
his side, Harvey and Ezram still
sleeping, and the following inter-
view—we can not call it conversa-
tion—took )lace:

“Harro ,” said the Indian,
slowl , layin his hand on the
others shoul er, “there is love
athmy heartifors the cousin of her
w o was 6 in in -bir
wi warn.” g g dor thy

fierce leam shot from the
eyes of the rage borderman, and
his whole frame shook with mor-
tal ony.

“ arrod,” whispered Custalogn,
wrth a heaving chest. and sneakimr
according to his new education
“I can feel for you. You wil
never repeat what Isay; but what
Clara was to the man with the big
heart, Amy Moss is to me."

Harrod raised his head and look-
ed curiousl at him. There was
even a certain softness in his eyes.

“ She is lost to you—Amy must
be lost to me.”

A strange, odd smile played

about the Silent Hunter’s month,

then vanished.

“ She will wed no red-skin, and
Squire Barton is her future hus-
band; but, what the air is to
the eagle, so is Amy Moss unto
me. can be to her only the
faithful hound, or watch—dog—

ood, I will be so. Custaloga
eves Amy of the Moss more than
his life, and every friend who aids
him to serve her is his brother;
but the big-hearted white man can
not go with Custa to-night—there
are two tracks ; they must art."

Harrod looked half angri y, half
inquirineg at Custa.

“ My brother’s heart is very sad,
his hate is like the hate of the
tiger; it can only be cooled by
blood—~he is right. The Shawnees
have killed his wili let him take
I scalp for every hair of her head
—but in the cave of the Ohio
there are women and children, and
Am must not hear their leks.”

\ hen he ceased, Ilarr d made
he re fly, but closed his eyes and
folde his arms.

“ Say, Harrod, how shall it be ?”
said Custaloga, anxiously.

Iiarrod looked up and took the
Indian’s han , which he wrung
warmly, and y a nod of the hea
intimated that he yielded.

“Thank you,” cried Custalo a,
warmly; “Custa will never or-
get."

lie then awakened hi. compen-

a

 

 

 

33'

 

 

ions, and ever thoughtful of what
they had to do, distributed a por-
tion of the food that remained
from a deer they had shot during
the morning. Then the horses
were fastened to trees. and the
four men. armed to the. teeth and
as silent as any ghosts of departed
chiefs and warrims who might be
supposed to haunt these woods,
went upon their way toward the
Great Cave on the Ohio river.
Custaloga led the party, the
others following in hidian file, an
arrangement which it had been
agreed should be strictly adhered
It was not long ere they were
on the banks of the beautiful river.
“ Hist !" said Custaloga, in a
low and somewhat husky tone, at
which all the men crowded round
him‘ “ if we part—Glen Hut."
All understood these brief
words, and then Cnstaloga settin
the example, a small hickory stic
in his hand, all entered the stream
and ventured under cover of the
darkness into the waters of the
river, which at the time was not

- so much swollen as on manyoc-

casions.

 

CHAPTER XXIV.
BOAT anor !

Sm CHARLES CAKSTONE lived in
a small, elegantlyiurnished house
in one of these streets which once
were accounted fashionable.

He and Lady Carstone sat in a
small breakfast- parlor, sipping
their chocolate, each on their own
side of the table, while Master
Geor e, a tall boy of thirteen, red-
haire , freckled, spoilt, saucy, with
every quaiit to make h m his
parents dar ing and the world’s
nuisance, stood on the other side
playing with a dog, a kind of

talian ray-hound.

Lady ‘arstone was a portly dame
of fort ,with a round face, over-
dresse , uneducated, and extreme-
ly vulgar; but she was rich.

Alderman Pepper had his foible,
however—a very common foible
in his country, one which marks
the weakness of “ civilization."
He worshi d the aristocrac ,
he venerate a lord, he shook in
his shoes if he happened to meet
a duke.

Sir Charles Carstone was a be-
ing to dazzle the worthv alderman.
Had an man alive attempted to
cheat {In Alderman Pepper out
of five pounds, he would have
failed; but he was coolly flccced
of twenty thousand pounds by the
polished courtier with the utmost
ease. He even felt obliged to the
man for takingl the money. He
had also taken is daughter.

Poor Lady Carstone was well
meaning, though she was ignorant,
while the society of the aristocracy
with whom she associated, instead
of improving, almost ruined her.

When breakfast was over Lady
Carstone retired to her chamber
to dress, the he ran out to join a

00m, who ha a pony to show
im, and Sir Charles was alone.

He had an appointment at twelve,
and was about to make a. move-
ment to keep‘it, when one John
Bart was announced.

“ at him come in,” said the
baronet, somewhat quickly.

A man entered. The visitor was
I. man of middle hight, slight, and
somewhat bowed in the back, with
a long, cadaverous countenance, a
hooked nose, li' ‘le restless gray
eyes, and a general air of poverty
and distress about him. lie bowed
meekly to the baronet, who threw
himself into a chair and motioned
to the other to be seated.

“And pray, Master Barty,” said

the baronet, in a stately tone,

“ what may procure me the pleas-
ure of your company this morning?
None of my bills are yet due, and
I did not think'of asking fora new
loan though, now you are here—"

“ Sir Charles!” exclaimed the
other, “ not money always—do not
talk of money like it was bread, or
cheese, or dust ; money is the thing
to take the hat off to, to think of
reverently, to use when it is really
necessary. ’

“Upon my word, John Barty
money is a very fine thing, but I
would not think of it as you do for

 

all the old of the Indies. You‘ll
be murt cred some of these nights.
Why, the very look of you pro-
claims a Crtesus."

“Hush i” said the other: “whv
say 1 am rich? You know I am
not. I try to be; I make a little
here, alittle there; I starve my»
self, I go errands, I introduce gen-
tlemen to inoncycd mcn~and, Sir
Charles, why do I do it?”

“ Ah, \vliy?-—that is a question
I have often thought of asking
you,” said the baronet.

“ I have a daiignter,Sir Charles.”

“ A daughter ‘3”

“A daughter. whom I wish to
leave happy, Sir Charles, and for
whom I do all that I do—a daugh-
ter, the image of what her mother
was, and she was beautiful.“

“ Upon my word, Mr. Barty, you
quite interest me; and if i had not
I most special appointment with
the prince I should ask you to
continue."

“ Excuse me, Sir Charles,- but I
am for etting important busi'
nose. I ave you not a secret in
America, 0f—?”

“ What means this introduc-
tion ‘2" exclaimed the baronet.

“Your secret is discovered,”
said the miser, coolly. “ Your
cousin, Andrew Carstonc, has let!
for America with an old pal of Dick
Blunt‘s."

The baronet rose hastily, and
moved impatiently across the
room, clenched hisiists, and seem-
ed painfully agitated.

“ Barty," he said, stopping sud .
denly, “ this is terrible bad news. _
But how do you know ?”

“ Well, sir, I was down at Green-
wich yesterdav, and I saw that
thief, Corney agg, coming down
the street with a bag in his hand,
dressed like a gen tleman’s groom.”

“ Who is Corney Ragg 2'"

“The man where Dick lodged
when we fetched him that night."

“G0 on.”

“ ‘ Eh, Ragg,’ says I, ‘you’re
mighty fine; where are you go-
ing ‘3’ ‘All right,‘ says be, ‘you
won’t split?’ ‘Split be han red,’
as. s I. ‘ Then it’s all right, fiarty
— ’m going to ’Meriky with Mr.
Carstone, to fetch home his daugh-
ter, as a villain called Sir Charles
Carstone stole from him.’ "

“’Sdeafh," cried the baronet,
-‘ then he knows all.”

“It appears so, Sir Charles,"
said the money-lender.

“Go on. While you speak I
may collect my thoughts."

“Just then a gentleman came
up and  joined him. They
hailed a boat and went on board a

barque bound for New York. It
sailed directly.“
“This is terrible. Who could

have betrayed me ?- But he may
not know—and yet the secret voy-
age to America, without communi-
cating with me. Barty l"

“Yes, sir," said the miser, look-
ing down on the ground meekly.
He felt the attack coming.

“I must have two hundred
pounds by this evening, and my
passage taken for America!" ex-
claimed the baronet, looking hard
at him.

“Two hundred pounds!" said
Barty; “it can’t be done."

“ llearken, Barty—it must
done. I am in no humorto band
words. Time is every thing. 1.
must act first. The furniture of
this house is new and good—take
it as security, but bring me the
money."

“ I dare say, Sir Charles, I may
find a friend iofiissist inc—the se-
curity is good; but, you may be
gone some months—Lady Car-
stone is very changeable."

“ What now 1’”

“You may be gone months.”

“ Well ?”

“Lady Carstone is very change
able," said Barty, tiinidly.

“Well, speak up; do not dis-
tract me.”

“Lady Carstone might wish to
change or sell it.”

“ Nonsense! I will leave strict
injunctions."

“ You had better leave mc in
the house, Sir Charles. They will
wa’nt a steward over them in your
absence."

The baronet laughed grimly.

be

 

 

'34

Beadle’s Dime Library.

 

 

m

The idea of leaving such a master
over Lady Carstone was too ludi-
crons.

“So, good Barty, you shall be
steward in my absence—keep good
guard over my house ; but now go,
and’let the money be forthcom-
mg.

John Barty bowed and left the
POUIII.

“There has been some treach-
ery,” said Sir Charles, moodily;
“ and yet I paid the villains well—
they should have been true. If he
finds her, all is lost. He must
know it is my doing; and then
adieu, even my pension. But if I
can arrive in America before him,
or with him, and find that Hackett,
it shall go hard but I will yet pre.
vent the fatal result.”

He then left the room and went
to his wife’s chamber, to whom
he bluntly communicated his in-
tention of going to America—a
piece of news which Lady Car-
stone heard with astonishment,
but without regret. She had no
reason to lament because her hus-
band gave her a few months of
liberty.

Sir Charles spent the day in
making his preparations, in bid-
ding adieu to his boon compan-
ions, and at seven o’clock in the
evening he waited for John Barty
in his room. That individual came
Bunctnally. He was dressed in a

oliday suit, and had a parcel un-
der his arm. lie was clean-shaved,
and had fresh linen on.

“ By my faith, Mr. Barty,” cried
the baronet, “ you are quite abeau

‘ — ou do me proud. I suppose
this is in honor of my poor
house.”

“ Why, Sir Charles, I could
hardly expect the servants to mind
me, if I did not look like a gen-
tleman.”

“ No, certainly not;” and Sir
Charles laughed heartily.

“ You are amused, sir,” said the
money-lender.

, “ No; but have you the money?”
asked the other, quickly.

“ Here it is, sir; and here is the
bill of sale.”

‘f‘ Bill of sale ?” cried the baro-
ne ..

“ If you repay me, it is void,”
said John Barty meekly.

“It is well. You are an honest
money-lender in your way.”

The man bowed and placed the
document for the other‘s si na-
ture. He took up a pen and sign-
ed hastily. The miser then hand-
ed him the money.

“ And about a passage to Ameri-
ca?” asked the baronet, secreting
the money about his person.

“ A worthy Captain Douglas
sails at daybreak—he would have
you on board to-night. Is all
read 1’”

“ very thing is ready.”

“ Does her ladyship know of my
position in the house?"

“That is a pleasure I have re-
served for her until the last mo-
ment, Mr. Barty. She will want
some consolation for my absence.”

Barty grinned, and would have
spoken, ut Lady Carstone at that
instant entered.

“So, Hi dear, you are really go-
ing,” sai she, with an affected
drawl, rubbing her dry eyes very
hard with a pocket-handkerchief.

“ Really, my dear, I am sorry to
say, the business on which I go is
so imperative, thatI must tear my-
self aw: .”

“ Vt'ell’: you know best, Sir
Charles ; I am not at all a business
Woman—I never was."

“ You on ht to have been
madam, considering the time you
spent in your worthy father’s
shop.”

“Sir Charles,” said the lady,
looking imposing and dignified,
“ what shop do you allude to r"

“ 'l‘he clothier 8 shop to be sure,
my Lady Carstone.”

“ My father." said she to John
Barty, “ was a banker.”

“ And breeches-maker—had lots
from him—boung a pair once a
Week when I was courting you,

list as an excuse hr ctting round.

at time is passing, y Carstone,
IndI must go. Good-by,my dear;
make yourself happy and i-oinlort-
able; for fear you should he dull,

 

I have left Barty in charge of the
house; he’ll find you in money
while I am gone.”

And the baronet, after an afl'ec
tionate embrace, went out.

“ Sir Charles,’ cried the money-
lender, “I never promised to ad-
vance my lady a enny.”

And he ran a ter the baronet,
without replying to a series of an-
gry questions which Lady Carstone
addressed to him. In his hurry
he left the deed of sale on the
table. Curiosit is the character-
istic of women ike the baronet’s
wife. She took up the paper and
read it, then smiled, folded it up,
and put it in her pocket. At that
instant the money-lender came
running back, to discover that the
document had disappeared.

“ My lady ! mylady l” he gasped,
looking round the room. “A

iece of paper—a deed—a business
ocument. ’

“ It is quite safe,” said the baro-
net’s lady in dulcet tones, “quite
safe, and Mr. Barty shall have it
back if he behaves himself. Ican
not think, however, of letting Sir
Charles part with his furniture for
so small a sum; I am too much a
woman of business.”

Barty darted a look of rage and
despair at the lady, and ran to the
baronet, who was getting impa-
tient.

That night the baronet, under
an assumed name, accompanied by
John Barty, went down to the
water’s edge below the hospital
at Greenwich. It was a cold and

usty night, and the ship could
e dimly seen across the stream.

Next minute the boat pulled
right up to the strand, the baro-
net’s luggage, which had been
brought down ,b strange orters,
was put on boar ; he shoo hands
with John Barty, and cheerily oh!
the boat put oil" toward the Sir
\{rVallter Raleigh, bound for New

or

At daylight the vessel sailed.

 

CHAPTER XXV.
um cava DELIVERY.

THERE is a sublimity in the vast
arch of heaven to which, however,
being accustomed from our child-
hood, it does not inspire us with
that overpowering awe which so

rand a spectacle would arouse in
he mind of one who opened his
eyes to it for the first time; and
yet no man ever entered within
the deep arches and gloom of a
vast cave, without fee ing a kind
of dread, or, at all events, a im-
pulse of admiration, at a vas ness
which is so little beside the great
vault of heaven.

Amy Moss, when first dragged
to her prison beside the waters of
the Ohio, occupied as a c iamber
trecess in the wry back of the
rave, but was aDowed durin the
day to roam about at will. one
suspected her of any plan to es-
ca e. A feeble woman and s
eh 1d could not be supposed ca a-
ble of fleeing from aplace guar ed
by two savage old warriors, and
b women scarcelIv more entle,
iiywe except the ndian glr , who
was in that first freshness of love
which makes even the rudest less
rude, and the naturally sweet and
refined so (pleasing.

Amy ha little opportunity for
neditating any particular plan,
being closely watched, so that she
generally, to avoid the prying eyes
of her captors, kept within her
cell, talkin with the child. She
told himo the cave and its -le-
(ends, and amused the child by
tales invented on the spot and so
doing, amused herself. ut in-
deed her thoughts were far away
with others, and her stories were
somewhat disconnected.

It was some time after the dusk
of evcnin had set in, and the
Indian gir slc t in the cell the
sound sleep 0 youth and inno-
cence. The boy, too, lay hushed
and still, and none moved in the
cavern. But Amy could not rest.
The night was sultry and hot
her thoughts were burning and
anxious, the cave was close and
unwholesome. Alter debating
with herself for some time she
determined to rise. and if she

 

 

could not breathe the fresh air of
the river, at all events to wander
awhile in the larger part of the
cave.

Having come to this determina—
tion, she rose with extreme cau-
tion and crept out of the little
division occupied by herself and
her more immediate companions.
She paused on the threshold and
looked out. Above was the vast
canopy of heaven, that seemed to
rise to infinite space, displayin
no roof or check to the blac
darkness of night; behind she
heard the water of a spring fallin
into a deep hollow, the bottom 0
which had never been fathomed.
Before her was the opening bg
which the cave was entered, an
by this penetrated a glimmer of
the moon. About ten feet below
was the tire of the Indians, and
round it the whole party was con-
gregated, either sleeping or wak-
n .

‘There were seven women and
two men, all to a certain extent
armed, and to pass them Amy
knew to be a useless task, as they
would wake at the first step that
came near their camp-fire. The
ordinary path to the entrance of
the cave was beside these sleepers.
But Amy had already taken suffi-
cient, and she hoped unobserved,
notice of the mysteries of the
caveni, to be aware that there was
another road. True, it was dan-
gerous and unpromisin , but in
ier present state of min , longin
for a sight of the outward worl ,
she determined to try it.

She crept then across the cave,
like some ghost in middle-age
romance, treading with slow and
cautious step, until her out-
stretched hands came into contact
with the opposite wall. She then
paused, and again listened. After
a few moments of hesitation she
felt about fora ledge that com-
menewl somewhere in this direc‘
tion, and ascended to aspot above
the usual orifice by which the cave
was left.

There was a similar ledge, of
somewhat different character, on
the other side.

This, however, Amy did not
know, else, it bein much wider
and safer, she woul have selected
it, especially as it led directly to
the ordinary outlet of the cave.

She commenced her ascent with
a beating heart, the very sound of
which she imagined, in her present
state of mind, awoke too loudly
the echoes of the cavern. The
ledge was rough and stony, and
sometimes rose and sometimes
fell. Amy had actually to feel her
way, holding now to crags that
projected, now crawling on her
hands and knees. Once or twice
her heart smote her, and she felt
inclined to give way, but an invin-
cible desire to witness the light
of heaven impelled her on.

Presently she halted and almost
fell off the ledge, so unconquerable
and sudden was her terror. The
light was in the center between
her and the opposite side of the
cave, and the fire, which burnt
very low, cast from its hot embers
a lurid glare on the small spot
around the sleepers. And yet on
the other wall of the cavern, on
the dark rock, Amy distinctly saw
the outline of a figure so exactly
like her own, that she could not
doubt it was her shadow.

She breathed not, she stooped
low, and looked across with fixed
eyes at the spectral shadow that
was there almost motionless. The
side of the rock on which a ray of
moonlight fell faintly was perpen-
dicular from the ledge alluded to
for some distance upward, and it
was on this surface that Amy dis-
tinctl w a human shadow mov-
lll . » fter a few minutes she

a nod all her courage and moved
orward. The shadow moved also,
but did not follow her; it shook
with a tremulous motion, and then
stood still.

Amv Moss drew along breath,
and looked behind 'no more, but
advanced slowly along the ledge,
with palpitating heart, stopping
now and then to listen. She was

now above the group of sleepers
and next moment was in view 0

 

a narrow aperture at the end of her

rude atb which led into the open

air. he crept very cautiously, and

in a few minutes was on a platform;

afew feet above that which was
cnemlly used by those entering
he cavern.

It was a lovely night, and Amy
leaned against the rock a moment
to enjoy its freshness and its
beauty. She could not see the
Ohio at her feet; but she and on
the other shore, and alt-way
across, and over the dark forest
that stretched on all sides; and
far over all she looked as if seeking
to drive into the distance towhere
stood her home.

Suddenly she tnmed, and became
aware that she was not alone on
the platform.

She shuddered as she recognized
Spiky Jonas the ne r0, and would
have retreated, un erstauding the
shadow that had played upon the
wall. The no ro was sitting on
the ledge panting for breath, and
swinging himself backward and
forward. He had spent the whole
day in coming there, and had
arrived in time to warn the inhabi
tants of the cave of the dangers
which threatened them.

But retreat was impossible. The
negro sprung up, and caught her
by the arm.

“ Wah you go?” he said, in a
husky, menacing voice.

“ I am breathin the fresh air,”
replied Amy, much alarmed.

“ N o true—you try run—dis child
know it berry wcll.”

“ I have left the child asleep—
do you think Iwould leave him ‘2"

The ac rro let go his hold and
folded his arms. Amy leaned
a ainst the rock. The negro rais-
e his right arm, and began to
narrate the story of his fearful
escape. The young girl heard him
with extreme horror, hightened
by the air of menace which accom-
panied his words

“ I am very sorry, J onus—it was
cruel, very cruel,” she said, sooth-

inglg.

‘ on say dat cruel,” hissed the
negro; “ what dey say when I kill
you; yah! yah! yah 1”

Amy shuddered. Gazing full at
him in the moonlight, there was
something of unmistakable mad-
ness about him. His terrible trial
had turned his brain. At the mo-
ment he was unarmed, which was
perhaps the reason she was still
alive; but how long would this
endure ?

“Spik Jonas,”sald she, ently,
“ you wi 1 never kill Amy oss—

ou could not do it—no! you used
play with her once!”

‘ Yes! Spiky Jonas, him berry
happy den—now him all one—
him not fit to live—him e die
altogether, Amy die, Spiky die—
come i”

Seizing her with one hand he
inted to the river below. Amy
new that..they stood upon the
edge of a precipice, which, though
not deep, and havin at its foot
bushes and grass, sti was a dan-
gerous fall.

“ Come l” he said.

“ Surrender, wretch i" said a
voice in menacing tones.

“ Nebber," cried the negro, (a.
he felt himself grasped from be-
hind, and turnin , saw Custa and
Harrod on the p atform and the
heads of Harvey and Coo peering
over the edge of the rock. As he
spoke, the unfortunate negro,
whose mind had partly given way
under the fearful influence of re-
venge, hate, and sufi‘erin plun ed
over the edge of the cii , and ell
headlon into the depth below.

Amy ainted.

When she recovered, she found
herself surrounded b her friends.

“Where is he .9" as ed she wild-
ly, azing around.

“ .'ho was 'it ?" asked Custa,
anxiously.

“ Spiky Jonas,” she said in a
tremb ing voice

“ Spiky Jonas 1" said Gusts,

a shudder—“ impossible l”

“ I see‘d him dead,” cried Ezram,
startin back, “it are his spurrit l’

“ I’l believe in ghosts forever-
more,” said Harvey, solemnly.

“It is no ghost, but the negro .

himself who was cut down. and

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Silent

 

35

 

 

._. n.._.

lay as if dead toescape your omel-
ty, Custw—it was wrong to put the
poor wretch to death.’

“ Never," ieplied Custaloga,
~.llcr some further explanation,
“ never was I more glad. We
meant not to slay the black. Poor
l'cllow, he is gone now; but come,
\liss Amy, the road is safe.”

llarrod made a sign to enter the
chU.

“ 'l‘hc child, Custal" exclaimed
Amy ; “we can not leave the
child."

“True,” replied the young man,
ravely; “ how many men are
here 2*"

“ 'l‘wo,” said Amy.

“ They sleep soundly, but the

cave is high above the round.”

“Yes,” said Amy, “ ut inside
we hear no sound from without.
I could go in and fetch the child——
the girl would explain to the war-
riors.“

“ Yes," replied Custa in a whis-
per, gluncing at llarrod, “ bid the
warriors hide. Tell them Harrod
is here—that will be enough. He
has promised not to touch the
women; let the men be saved
too.”

“ Noble Custa,” said Amy, shak-
his hand, “I will go."

“ Wait," replied Custa; “let
them know we are here."

He whispered a word to his com-
panions, -who advanced to the

roper mouth of the cave, entered
it, and discharged their rifles up-
ward into the hollows of the
cavern.

The effect was terrific-the echoes
seemed as if .they would never
die away. There was a crash like
thunder, aroar, and then a rum-
bling noise of a kind perfectly in-
Jescrlbable. Amy stood back per-
fectlv speechless. ”

Then Costa spoke in a loud
voice, told those inside that resist-
ance was useless, the mouth of
the cave being held by white
rifles. Any attempt at resistance
would only bring u on them cer—

't.-nn destruction. 0 answer came
to these words, and then, the four
inch holding guard over the en-
trance, Amy Went in, speakin
aloud, so as to be recognize .
The cave appeared lighter viewed
from this point, and our heroine
at once saw that all had disappeared
from around the watch-tire.

In a few minutes Amy was at
the back of the cave, and here, be-
hind a projecting rock, she found
the whole party men, women and
children. The Indian girl, whose
grace and beauty had won for her
so many e lithets, but who was
commonly ‘iiown as Blue-bird,
advanced quickly, and caught her
by the wrist.

“ What they want—eh ? tire gun
all heap—eh? Bad pale-face, kill
Woman," she exclaimed, speaking
with extreme volubility.

“ ’l‘  will not hurta hair of
a Woi. :i‘s head—they tired but to
let you know their strength,” said
Amy, earnestly.

“ Then what they want Y” said
Blue-bird; “ kill men?”

The two old men stood like
statues, as if not hearing a word
that passed, but in reality drinking
in chi‘y sound.

“ There is one, the husband of
Clara of the Crow‘s Nest,” replied
Amy, solemnly, “ who Would take
thc life of the two warriors.”

The whole party shuddered
whch they heard this implacable
foc was it their gates,

“ But Custaloga is there, and
Custuloga will not consent—go l"
she continued, turning to the war-A
I lors, “go—let my friends see none
but women—Amy Moss answers

‘ for their lives with hers.”

The two old Shawnees made no
p-ply, but glided away toward
iln' gloom recesses of the cavern,
and in a ew minutes had disap-
iu-an-d in some place lnaccessih e
to ordinary eyes. There were,
indcl-d, small holes and_ recesses
in the cavern of the Ohio, where
a man could have lain bid for
(law. H \
hilly now called to her friends
L'ustuloga and liarrod were b be:
silll- luamoment, but Ezram ‘oolr
and Harvey still held the entrance.
'int tuild n...dc one bums-l, gave

 

a shrill cry, and was clasped in
his father’s arms.

“ Pit—dear pa—where have you
been ?—where’s ma?” sobbed the

boyl:i

arrod replied by a grow] so
fierce that the women, who had
been staring with awe at that huge
man, so fierce, so powerful, so
terrible, started back alarmed.
And well might they feel dismay,
as, illuminated by a brand from
the tire, held by Blue-bird, they
saw his eyes glare around like
those of a wild beast, and. his fin-
gers clutch his long knife.

“ Come 1” said Custaloga, grave-
lly, laying his hand upon his shoul-

er.

Harrod loosened the hold on his

knife, and carrying his boy, turned
to go.
“Good — by, Blue - bird i” said
Amy, kindly; “ when peace is
between my people and your peo-
ple, come and see me.”

‘ Ah!” cried Custa, starting as
if stung by remorse; “Blue-bird
—your father, what of him ‘2”

“ lie was slain by the red hand
of the Eagle Eye,” said the girl,
mournfully.

“ No l” replied Custa, earnestly '
“ I found him wounded, and I
saved his life—I left him in acache
—he was lame, but there was
water and food. Blue-bird will
find him alive.”

He then explained his meeting
with the wounded warrior, how he
saved him, and how in the hurry
of subsequent events he had quite
omitted to see him. lie had, how-
ever, food for days, and unlimited
water, but was, be suspected, too
weak to get out of the cave with-
out assistance. Thc girl heard the
tale of the young Wyandot with
admiration. The young man then
explained minutely the position
of the cache, and this done, he
turned from the Indians and was
about to depart, when Amy spoke:

“ The negro,” said she, in a low
whisper, and with a shudder, “ he
may not be dead.”

Custalo a explained the accident
which h occurred, and requested
four of the women to come and
see to the matter. The women
readily agreed, and the young irl
accompanied the party. In a ew
minutes they were all on the plat-
form, which was occupied b Ez-
ram Cook only. Harveyh dis-
appeared.

“ Where is he ?” asked Custa.

“ Well, that ar’ nigger is hard in
kill; he‘s been a-moaning and cry-
ing, and I ’spcct Harvey’s gone
down to finish him.”

“ Never!” cried Amy, impetu-
ously; “ I know Harvey better
than that.”

“Thank you," said Custaloga,
simply.

“ (Jome down,” cried Harvey
from below, “the poor fellow is
all of a heap. I expect he may be
saved.”

Oustalo a, after requesting the
others to cad Amy to the water’s
edge, hurried by a circuitous path
to the bottom of the cliff, where,
by the light of the moon, he saw
the ne rro lying nearly on his face,
with his hand graspin the bough
of a tree which he h broken off
in his fall.

“ Are you much hurt ?” said
Custaloga gently, all his animosity
now "one.

“ IPs done for!” groaned Jonas,
his groans turning to yells when
they turned him round.

It soon was evident that his
body was only bruised, but his arm
was broken. Knowing the skill
of the Indians in these matters,
Custaloga had no compunction in
handing the ne rro over to the
women, who wit afew sticks and
b0 hs proceeded quietly to make
[III-lifel- on which to carry him

“ And now, Jonas,” said Casts,
gravely, “ twice has your life been
saved—tempt it not a ain. You
must never show your ace to the
{ridge ; but, when you are well,

et me know, and if you Will prom-
ise to ccase 'our evil conduct,
your wife shal join you."

“ You no Indian,” replied Spiky
Jonas. amazed at the other‘s
apt-och.

liarvcy and his companion new

 

_ . _. _,.__._

 

left him to the Indian Womcn, and
hurriedly rejoined the party, who
waited for them on the bank of the
beautiful river. They halted a
moment to confer as to their pro-
ceediugs.

“ The water is deep,” said Custa-
loga to Amy, “and you can never
walk.”

“ What is to be done ?“ replied
Amy, much distressed.

“Harvey, I think you might
bring round one of the horses,”
exclaimed Crista, aftera moment’s
reflection.

Harvey nodded his hood, and
without a moment’s hesitation en-
tered the stream, and, slowly and
carefully following the ledge, was
in a few minutes lost to sight,
The rest sat down upon the bani:
to await his return.

The moon had disappeared
though it was not late, and dark
ness now vailcd the whole scene.
It was not, therefore, without a
shudder that Amy viewed the pro-
s )cct of traveling that night.
There was, hovvever, consolation
in the fact of their having horses.
But licr thoughts soon turned to
her father, to Jane, and that dear
home she longed so much to see.

Suddenlyfiustaloga bounded to
his feet. The long, low, wailing
cry of a bird, which at that time
of year did not frequent the river,
had roused him.

“That is Harvey, and there is
danger,” he cried.

The men clutched their nuns,
and Amy caught the child to her
arms. ‘or a few minutes all was
still, and then Harvey was seen
making his way through the water.
noldinw his gun on high, but he
led no orse. In another minute
he was close to them.

“The horses are gone,” he said,
lna tone of deep dcjcction; “ there
have been Indians on the bank.
I think I heard them up river; but
no time is to be lost.”

Custa made no reply, but catch-
ing Amy in his arms before she
had time to make any objection,
entered the stream and led the
way. Harrod followed with his
child, while Harvey and Cook,
after a whispered conference, dart-
ed up the bank by a path which,
thou h dlflicult, they knew was
prac cable to men.

The current was swift and stron ,
and Custaloga was almost exhaus ‘-
ed by the superhuman exertions
he had made for several days. It
was, therefore, by slow degrees
that be advanced with his precious
burden in his arms, his ears open
to every sound, and his heart bcut»
ing with a feeling of alarm and
dread he had never before expe-
rienced.

“I could walk,” said Amy, en-
tly seeking to disengage herse f.

“Impossible,” replied he; “ do
not speak. There is danger in the
air.”
~_They were within a short dis-
tance of the shore, and Custa dis-
tinctly saw figures moving on the
bank. He stood still and turned.
He then first missed two of his
companions. IIalf guessing what
had happened, he gave one of his
usual signals, and this bein r an-
swered, hurried forward, and the
whole party were once more to-

ether. No words were spoken,

ut away they went along the skirt
of the forest, crossed a small strip
of wood, and then found them-
selves in a barren clearing, which
It would have been shorter to
have crossed than skirted. They
were about to make use of the
trail that could be traced out by a
practiced eye even at that hour,
when they distinctly heard a body
of Indians talking at some dis-

('6.

All sunk to the ground and lis
tencd. A few words explained
the plan of the Indians.

A prowling Shawnee had found
the iOl‘SC-s‘, with which he had
galloped away to his companions,
an outlying war-party. It was in-
stantly guessed that the cavern on
the Ohio was the destination of
the scouters, and the Shawnees
were hurrying to catch the white
men, as they expected, in a trap.
They moved carelessly, as if quite
Cei‘lniH of what lhcy were about.
Suddenly Custalogu whispered

 

‘ (led.

low to be ready, and his own rme
fell to a level, whilc Amy shut her
eyes and stoppcd llcr cars. The
Indians were runnng within ten
ards of thci l. 'l‘hcy, liowcvcr,
ay in the deep shadow .of the
trees, and the Shuwnccs, little
suspecting their own danger and
the proximity of thc party they
sought, ' hurricd by, and buried
tlicinsclvcs in thc forest

In a few ihinnlcs liicir footstcps
Wcrc no longcr heard, and then
away w'cnt the fugitives in solcinn
silence lllzlil lllcy l't‘dt’lll‘tl ilic \‘M‘ll'
known ncighb‘orhood of the (lien
lint, which appcarcd as if it had
been :ibandoncd as usual to the
birds of the air and the beasts of
the iicld; for who could tcll that
ilicrc had takcn place an intcrview
but ‘.\'t‘.'ii Squire Barton and thc un-
fortunate Kate, of such impor-
tance to UN fate of both those
pcrsonagcs? Custa, however, left
his companions on tlicskirtof the
Wood, at some little distance from
the place, and advanccd alone into '
the clearing. The night was dark,
the hcnvcns wcrc obscured by
clouds, and there appeared every
sign ol'astorm. Cristaloga, aware
how impossible it was for'Amy and
the child to reach the Block-house
that night, had determined to rest
for some hours—~in fact, until day-
brcuk, “him he could guide his
companions by sccrcl. and secluded
paths to the home they all, save
one, so wished to gain.

The Silcnt Hunter’s intentions
mmc could make rut. lie walked
so gentiy, s) quietly beside his
boy, holding him by the hand,
carrying him at times, that all
thought him moved from his more
tcrriblc purpose of revenge.

Custaloga stalked across the
clearing, entered the but, felt
about in a secret corner for flint
and steel, and soon made a blaze,
to his great surprise finding every
sign of a very recent lire. Upon
this, however, he did not pause
to reflect much at the time, as the
signal was given, and the whole
party were approaching the house.

It was not without a feeling of
:1va that Amy gazed upon a hut,
tliehistory of which had been re-
latcd to her; and seen as it was in
the gloom, amid those iitful gusts,
and with that canopy of black
above, with tall lcaliess trees
around, victims of the ('irdling
system, it was not an inviting
place for one used to such homo
luxuries and comforts as Amy
Moss. The wild solitude, the
hour of midnight, the sulllltl of
rushing waters, the distant moan-
ing of the trees, all carried terror
to her heart. And yet, her posi-
tion had not bccn so hopeful and
enviable for many days.

But the clearing was soon cross-
ed, and the but reached, where
the cheerful blaze of a lire acted
with considerable force to reassure
Amy. Ezrnm Cook, too, was de-
lighted, for he was weary, both
with physical fatigue and mental
anxiety. Hurvy was too elated to
feel the fatigue which in reality
weighed him down.

The place being announccd as
safe, the whole party cntcru’i the
hut. Amy silcntly took a place
beside the lire with littlc Willy;
Harrod cast his huge frame on the
ground as if to sleep. while (.‘usta
and Harvey drew forth from their
own and the pcddlcr‘s wallets all
the provener they could muster.
Supper was ('(iil:~lllllt‘d in silcnee,
and then a conference was held.

“ Miss Moss," said Custaloga,
speaking, in deference to his mis-
tress, without figures or lrn‘u's.
“ you must sleep besideihe child,
but it will be right for the men to
watch."

“I am of your opinion,” rcplicd
Harvey, \VllOrL‘ manner of spcak-A
ing in polite company always as-
lullihlfl‘tl Ezram Cook; “1 could
not sleep—3‘

“ But," bcgan Amy, “this Will
never dd You must all be wear .
Could not one of yOu watch in
in rns ‘?"

" There are many ways of at
tack," said Custalogu, submi»
sively, as if he disliked to dilch
from Amy in even the most trinmg
way. “They lllllnl all be deitn
I propose U 'nllilitZ‘ZPC he,

  

    

36

 

 

“that llarrod should outlie to
the right, Harvey to the left,
lvlnram Cook behind the but, over-
looking the river, while I stand
sentry over the hut door;” and
his voice shook a little as he
showed his anxious desire for the
post of honor.

Ere he had finished speaking,
Ilarrod rose and moved away to
thc right withouta moment’s hesi-
taliou; Harveyprepared toim' ate
him, taking up his rilicand bid ing
adieu to Amy; while Ezram Cook,
cursing the Indians with all his
heart, went out and posted him-
self on a ledge behind the house.
Custaloga remained alone with
Amy, who looked rather rraver
and more stern than she be done
when in the company of the whole
party.

“ There is a pile of leaves and
grass, Miss Moss,” said Custaloga,
‘in the corner, and here is IIar-
vey’s blanket coat. The sooner
you lie down the better, as I must
let the tire fall. It has already
burnt too long.”

“Custa,” said Amy, in slow,
timid tone, very unusual with her.

“ Yes,” replied he.

“Do not go further than the
door—I shall never sleep if I know
you are more distant,” continued
Amy, gently.

“ I will watch by the door," said
Custaloga, quietly.

He then drew the ashes over
the embers of the fire, and going
out into the open air, sat down
on the ground, his back against
the fallen door, his rifle on his
knees, his heart beating so tumult
uously that at first he felt quite
unlit for his duties. Soon, how-
ever, his forest education gained
the upper hand, and he was once
more the careful sentry guarding
the treasure he loved best on
earth.

The clouds sped quickly across
the darkened heavens, the wind
howled amid the tree-tops, whist-
ling, croaking, rushin r round the
but, making eddies of leaves, and
dying away in the deep chasm be-
’hind the house, over which Ezram
Cook nodded and dozed with the
fearful belief that he was the very
perfection of a sentry. But there
was no other sound. Nature seem-
ed to sleep; and it seemed as if
the forests for the time were quite
abandoned by all living things.

Custaloga tried to detect the
slightest evidence of the presence
of Harvey and Ilarrod close at
hand, but he could hear nothin
save the guarded movementso
the wolves in the clearing, which,
as usual, hadfollowcd in the track
of aparty of whites. IIclistcned,
too, for the sound of the soft, low
breathing of Amy; but, despite
the quickness and sensitiveness
of his car, he could hear no sound.

And there he sat motionless and
still, keepiu himself awake only
by rreat eflorts, and succeeding,
which unfortunately was not the
case with any of the other guar-
dians of the hut. In every instance
the immense fatigues of the pre-
vious days overcame their vigi-
lance au watehl'ulness.

But, terrible was to be their
wakening.

 

CHAPTER XXVI.
'rna FIGHT roa ers.

Sunnssnr Custaloga started as
If a serpent had stung him, so
surprised was he at the interrup
tioo to his thoughts.

“ Costa," said the soft voice of
Amy Moss close to his shoulder.

“ .Viiss Amy," was all he could
reply. .

“ l can'not sleep—the gloom of
this place, and my anxiety to be
home, have made me feverish and
restless. If I do not disturb you,
I would watch with you an hour)
perhaps then I may sleep.”

“ Miss Amy knows," replied
Custaloga, “that her company is
the greatest happiness Custaloga
can cujoy.‘\ ‘

“ You overrate the little I have
done for you," said Amyin tremu-
lous tones.

“ Little 1” exclaimed Caste.
“ Little! you know not half you
have done for me. You found me

 

a savage. hating the whites, look-

ing on killing and scalplng as a
duty, and you have made me see
that all this is vain and wicked."

“ I am pleased to hear you speak
thus, Custa,” said Amy, gently.

“And do you call itlittle tohave
taught me to read ‘3" continued
Custa.

“ But never did youth of four-
teen learn to read so easily,” said
Amy. .

“ Yes, I know it. ’Tis strange;
butI don’t seem to have learnt
then for the first time. Never
mind—you taught me, and I read,
and my savage mind was softened ;
I knew the pleasure of knowledge.
I continued to learn, and in seven
years, you, who were children
when you first found me, have
made me an educated man.”

“And yet you remain an In-
dian,” said Amy Moss, in melan.
chon accents.

“ Miss Amy Moss, you are the
aflianced wife of a man—a white
man— (i may not often hear
words 'e those I am about‘ to
speak.”

“ Nay, utter no words,” hur-
riedly exclaimed Amy, as if about
to rise and depart.

“ Listen, Miss Amy Moss. Why
have you tamed my savage ener-
gies ‘B—why have yod taken from
me the taste for rapine and blood

why have you opened my eyes
to the beauty of civilized life ‘3—
why have you made of me what-
ever you pleascd, though you have
been cold, and stern, and haughty;
but because I loved you always,
because I love you still.”

“Hush!” rasped Amy, deeply
distressed; ‘ I may not hear these
words."

“Amy Moss, you say I am still
an Indian. Ilove you, and yet,
James Barton lives.’

“ I know it,” said Amy, with a
shudder; “ helives. Good Custa-
loga, you have indeed learnt
much.’

“I have learnt much,” contin-
ued Custaloga, significantly. “1
have learnt that Amy Moss—for
reasons she only knows—is willing
to wed a man she hates."

“ IIow know you ?—how dare
you say so ‘1’” exclaimed Amy,
proudly.

“Miss Amy Moss, I say you
hate, despise, loathe Barton, and
yet you have promised to wed
him; and love you, oh, Amy!
more than my life.”

“ Why talk thus l’" said Amy,
wildly. “I must marry Barton,
and 'ou—you are an Indian /”

“ on will never marry James
Barton l” exclaimed Custaloga,
with a burst of triumph he could
not restrain; “and I am not an
Indian, though Indian educated.”

“ I shall never marry James Bar-
ton ?” said Amy, in accents which
she tried to make cold and sarcas-
tic, but which were indeed elated
and lad.

“I ever!” replied Custaloga,
flrml '; “you can not marry him."

" ngplaiu yourself.”

“ I am a white man, Amy
Moss,” said Custa, gently, forget-
ting to use the Word Miss; “ till
lately I was ashamed of it, and
kept up my color with the sumach
stain, with which my Indian moth-
er always (1 'ed my skin; now I
am glad of it, and only appear
an Indian under the advice of the
person who is to tell me all."

“All this is very mysterious,Mr.——
I mustn’t say plain Custaloga any
more, and I can not say but \vhat
I think you deceive yourself.
When you came to us you were a
pure Indian.“

“ My enemies had wished me to
be one, it appears. It seems,”
faras hints can tell me, I stood
between some one and rest
wealth, and was put out o the
way."

“ What!” Amy, clutclnd his
arm with such violence as to bring
a cry of pain. “ lit-peat that."

“ Becausel stood between some

one and great wealth,” repeated

usta.

“If this should be true—but no
—it is impossible—it can not he,"
cried the young girl, in a state of
frenzy.

“ hat mean you ?” asked Cus-
ta, himself now much amazed.

“ That I begin to suspect the

Beadle’s Dime. Library.

 

 

 

truth; but until there Is some
clue, some idea, that it is so,I
dare not breathe my suspicions.
Wait, Custa, wait until the hour
when the truth shall be revealed
unto you; aml I vow—listen, Cus-
ta, at this terrible hour of peril,
when Heaven only hears my words
-—if what I suspect be true, I will
be your wife.”

And Amy Moss sprung back in
to the but and lay down.

As Custaloga turned he came
face to face with an Indian warrior
of gigantic frame, who, so pitchy
was the darkness, did not see him
until he was actually touching
him. The warrior started back,
and then gach curiously at Custa,
as if suspecting him a moment,
and then was apparently reassured.

“ Are they all inside ‘3” he said
in a low tone.

Custaloga made one bound, and
ere the other could utter a cry,
knocked him down with his toma-
hawk, and killed him without
mercy on the spot.

Then the crowing of a cock
arose from the hut, a plain, unmis-
takable crowing, that might have
deceived a farm—yard servant.

No reply came from either right
or lel’t,‘or from the rear of the
hut. Custaloga gave a second cry,
this time much louder, and then
hurried round to the back of the
log, where he found Ezram Cook
fast asleep.

“lip!” he said, shaking him
violently; “up! the Indians are
on us.”

“ Eli? What, Where Y" ex-
claimed Ezram anxiously.

“Hush! stand by for a signal.
Do not move,” said Custaioga.

And he glided away back to the
hut, and fell on his face on the
ground. Ile now looked over the
clearng in every direction, and
presently distinctly sawa line of

adians coming straight toward
the hut, treading one behind the
other with extreme caution.

Custaloga fired, and giving a
shout that woke the echoes of the
trees, bounded inside the hut,
pulled down the door across the
doorway, llnng a beam of wood to
support it, and then his ax and
knife ready, began to load, hur-
riedly begging Amy to lie close
and to still the child’s cries. Three
cracks of the ride from three
different quarters followed ade-
sultory lire from the Indians, and
then Cook, Harvey and Ilarrod
came bounding to cover. Custa-
loga quietly took up a post at a
think, and examined as far as he
could the state of affairs without.

The Indians were so startled at
the multiplicity ofquarters whence
the liring came, and apparently so
amazed at the number of persons
who occupied the place, that they
had at once retreated to prepare
some other mode of attack, and
thus left the fugitives a few mo-
ments‘ peace. The hut was in
total darkness, nota glimpse of
light could now be shown with
safety. .lIarrod and Cook stood,
one on each side of the door, their
guns and axes ready, while IIarvey
C'rept round to the side of Custn.

“ Crista.” said he in a low voice,
“this is about the worst fix of all.
We must make up our minds to
die this boat.”

“Then we must die," replied
Custa, coldly- “ we must fight un-
til the last. lint for her and the
child we might light our wa not——
it can not be thought 0 now.
Look 1“ he continued, turning to
llarrod and Cook, “close by the
charred stump isa black man, who
wasn‘t there a minute ago.“

The rille of the Silent Hunter
and of Cook spoke at the same
time; the man fell forward, and
then came a series of yells from
the forest, which proclaimed the
force of the Indians. Custaloga
was quiet for a moment. Ile ap-

)carcd to be thinking deeply.
uddcnly he made a sign to all his
companions, aml drew them into
a corner.

“There isa ventle one and a
child in the hut, ’ he said in a low
whisper; “four mcn might hold
behind these logs for a week; but
a stray ball might kill the daugh-
ter of Judge Moss, and Custaloga
could never see the father's face

strain”

 

“Well, what is to be done ?"
asked Ilarvey, in an anxious tone.

“ The bank is steep, but the
water is shallow—the rcntlc one
and the child must go gown into
the Haunted Pool, while three
hold the hut.”

“ But how on airth ayre they to
git down ‘3” said Ezram Cook,
rather quickly.

“ The cord of the bucket is good
—Custa has tried it,” replied
Custa.

“By the ringtailed roarer of
Kentucky, that‘s good,” said Ez-
ram. “ I’m for absquatulating at
once—I don’t mind a scrimmage
new and then; it jist blows the
dust oil“; but, Goram Shakes! it
don’t do every day in the week."

Custaloga made no reply, but
turned to the corner of the hut
where lay Amy and the child, and
exchanged a few words with our
heroine.

“ Any thing that you propose I
will go through,” said Amy,
quietly.

()ustaloga, assislcd by Harvey,
examined carefully the strength of
an old chair which had been left in
the but, from the fact that after
the massacre of the owners no In-
diaus had ever visited the place.
It was found to be solid.

“ Now then!” roared Ezram
Cook, “ give it to the san ruinare-
ous heathens—blazc away. ’

A party of Indians had made a
rush, and, nothing daunted by the
fire of two guns, had succeeded in
reaching to within a few yards of
the door, which fortunately was
barricaded. The two Americans
stood ready; the Shawnees came
whooping and yellin r on, and dash-
ed up to the door. hey were met
by the cool tire of the two others.
The besicging party, meeting once
more a resistance which promised
to cost them dear, retreated, and
began a desultory fire from the
trees and bushes which surrounded
the clearing, an attack which be-
came every minute more erilous,
as the darkness became ess, and
the clouds flew from the horizon
as-the storm abated.

Custa now announced that the
time was come to make the danger-
ous experiment he had proposed,
as, if left much longer, it would be
light, and the weakness of the
fugitives be betrayed.

All prepared to act their part in
the undertaking. Custa quietly
remOVed some planks at the back
of the hut, and passed out into
the open air, standing alone on the
little platform behind the house.
The rope, which had hung to the
crook because of its utility in draw-
ing water, was quickly passed
through his hand, and examined
in every part. Then he fastened
it to the chair by thongs and bits
of twine, hecdless of the crash of
rifles and all the shouting and
screaming of the Indians. He
then, calling Harvey to his side,
proceeded to execute the more im-
portant part of his duty.

A log, which had once formed
part of the wall of the but, was
quietly lifted over a hole indented
in the steep bank. This hole was
a cave about six feet inward, and
was formed by earth having given
way between two rocks, which,
though separated by this opening,
were joined a little further in.
Amy and the child were now
brought out and seated in the chair,
to which they were tied in such a
way that the girl could untie the
thongs herself when at the bottom.

“ As soon as you touch the rocks
below," said Custalo ra, in a hush-
ed, anxious whisper, ‘ untie your-
self, uml step back under the rock.
As you value your life, not an inch
forward i In front there is a gulf
of twenty fcct of water."

Harrod and Cook were now sum-
moned to hold the cml of the rope
while Custalogu and Harvey passed
the chair ovcr the log. This they
did very quietly, the child being
submissive and still from sheer
terror.

“ Lower away," said Harvey.

“Defend the hut!" shouted
Ezram Cook, loosening his hold of
the rope so suddenly, that, but for
Custa, it must have jcrkcd from
liarrod’s hand. The \Vyandot
dashed at the cord, Hunt.r himself
on the ground. his feet against the

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Silent Hunter.

 

3'7

 

 

lo , and held on—not however,
be ore the chair had fallen two or
three feet with a velocity which
extorted a shriek from Amy, and a
wild cry from the child.

Then Custaloga board, after two
or three shots mm the rifles of
the Indians, a fearful chorus of
cries, howling, curses, and pain,
inside the but. The three men
were engaged in a grap ling com
bat with anumber of e enemy
But he lowered the chair quietly
though not without extreme dr -
ilculty, the weight being very
great.

Presently the cord hung loose
Quick as lightning he darted to his
fee fastened the rope and sprung
to t re hole he himself had made.
The four rifles of the party were
standing against the wall on the
inside. Custa drew them to his
side with extreme rapidity, listen-
ing all the while to detect the
result of the fierce struggle within.
He could hear nothing but stamp-
lug, rolling, hard breathing, and
such cries as come from men in the

.last terrible struggle for life; but
on the other side he distinctly saw
a grou of Indians, who appeared
unwill ng to enter the hut, which
was already more than occupied by
the combatants, and who could
scarcely have been told from one
another in the darkness.

By a desperate efl'ort Custa raised
two rifles, one in each hand, and
fired. The echoes had scarcely
died away when, peering ain
across, he saw that the group ad
disappeared. He flred, however,
two more guns, and then, in the
clear, ringing voice of an Ameri-
can backwoodsman, began shout-
ing to supposed companions to
come on.

Then he saw, while loading, one
figure dart through the open’xloor
and fly, and next instant his three
com anions were near him, clutch-
ingt rcir own rifles. The diversion
in do by Custaloga had,it appeared,
alone saved Harvey, ,who was in
r the clutches of an Indian even
more powerful than himself, but
who fled at the sound of the guns,
believing the whole force of the
whites to be down upon them,

“Go,” said Custaloga, pointing
to the ro e, which he had secured.

Harm nodded, went up to the
log, IOWered himself with his
handy, and slid down without a
word, Cook did the same, and
then, after Hittle hesitation, Har-

ve . .

Sustaloga remained alone on the
platform, awaiting the signal from

elow, which, however, was speed-
ily given. Stepping forward—he
had sent his rifle down with Her-
vey—the youn Wyandot was
about to descen , when he saw a
grim warrior stalk round the back
of the hut—one who had cast him-
self on the ground when the volley
had been fired, and who now,
hearin all quiet, came peering
roundTO discover the true state of
affairs. He saw Cnstaloga. and
would have retreated; but he,
thinking his secret betrayed, dart-
ed to encounter the Indian, who,
however, fled, tut not before he
had noted the other‘s purposed
mode of escape.

Quick as thought, Crista darted
into the hut, raked u l the embers,
drew some out on a p ece of wood,

laced them on the rope, after giv-
ng it a slight cut with his sx, and

then, after farming the embers,.

rushed himself to escape.

Down he went, with a rapidity
that surprised those below—only,
it appeared, just in time; for in an-
other minute, the rope came down
after him, to the great surprise of
his companions, to whom, without
another word of explanation, he
addressed himself:

“Quick! they know the ford.
Harrod, carry your child—follow
mc. Miss Arny Moss, your hand
—lct no man spcak 3”

0n the young man went, leading
Amy by tlrc inlml, kccping close
undcr the bank, at the summit of
which he could distinctly hear the
indians conversing. They were
ascending the strcam, but from the
peculiar formation of the (did, they
could not see those below. At the
end of a hundred yards Custaloga
halted.

 

The stream was here wide and
placid. It ran. swiftly by, as ifhur-
rying to sink in the deep pool be
low, at the end ofadesccnt, down

.which the water ran with extreme

velocity. Tire opposite bank was
low and skirted by trees, which
were clearly defined ainst a sky
becoming lighter and learer every
moment.

“ Cross,” said Custaloga, in a
low tone, “and when under cover,
fire.” -

They all obeyed, darting through
the water with a rapidity that runs-
ed it in clouds of spray behind
them. A loud yell from the In»
dians announced that they were
discovered, and then the whole
body congregated above where
Custaloga stood, discussing how
they could follow the fugitives.

There was a sound of whizzin
bullets, followed by the crack 0
rifles, and there was a shriek of
alarm or pain, and all in a minute
Custaloga bounded forthe shore.
He reached it, flew to cover. placed
Am fainting on the bank, and
s ather feet lifeless. His alarm-
ed companions surrounded him,
and saw that he was wounded in
the shoulder. But this did not
account for his state of syncope,
which indeed was caused by the
terrible exertions he had made, and
the mingled emotions of joy, ter-
ror, and dread he had felt relative
to her who so wildly clung to him
for reservation.

“ here am iI?” said Amy, ris-
ing suddenly—and then she saw
the lifeless body of the young
Wyandot before her. “ Is he, then,
dead ? No! no! it can not be
true.”

She kneeled by his side, and
pushing away the others, raised his

ead gently, and just as she placed
it on her knee, the young man
drew a long breath and opened his
eyes.
His look of wonder and delight,
his glance of gratitude and plea-
sure, brought the rich blood man-
tling to his cheek, and by sym-
pathy made Amy blush as she re-
collected the frantic tone of her ex-
clamations when she thought him
dead. She gently assisted him to
rise, and turned to the child to
hide the excess of her emotion
which she the betterconcealed that
the child had to be hushed. A few
minutes sufficed to restore Custa-
loga, to bind up his wounds, and
to make him as active as ever.

“ We must go,” he said, quick-
ly; “ the bun ry wolves are on our
trail—they thirst for our blood.”

“If we only had the horses,” re-
filled Harvey, “it mi ht be done.

at to my judgment, or Miss Amy
to reach the Moss Without rest isn’t
possible.”

“It must be,” said Custalo
fiercely ; “ we must carry her, bu it
must be done."

And he led the way. taking the
sand of the you ng girl, who at once
without aword, prepared to follow.
The object Custaloga had in view
was to strike the Scioto at a place

‘where he had a small bark canoe

concealed, and this before the day-
light became so bright that all
hope of their being undiscovered
would be out of the question. To
hide was impossible, with ahun ry
crew of Indians in their rear. or
the first time in his life Custaioga
felt the inllucnce of despair upon
him. He started at every bush
and he listened as if he expected
every minute to hear the yelling
of the Indians behind them.

But they advanced on their way
for some time without interrup-
tion, passed the first ford, and then,
pushing for the second, reached it
Just as the day dawned, revealing
the wan, haggard and anxious faces
of the whole party. Custalo a at
once signified his intention to ralt.
One glance at Amy had been
enough. It was clear that for some
time she lrad been crawling rather
than walking, while the young
Wyandot himself was very nearly
exhausztcd.

In eightof the ford they station-
ed themselves amida collection of
bushes, and all lay down alter tak-
ing a deep draught of water, which
was most Welcome and rcfrrslmr'r.
Amy was indeed worn, forscm'eef
had she laid down on a rule 0

 

green grass and leaves ere she was
sound asleep. The men all imitaq
ted her example, clutching their
rifles, and sleeping with one ear on
the ground, so as to catch the
faintest sound.

But none came for a little while
to break the stillness of the scene.
Indeed, the whole party, Amy exv
cepted, were up, and Harve ' was
fishing in the stream, when usta
loga gave, in a low tone, the croak
of the raven. Harvey fell flat on
his face, and Harrod and Cook, the
latter muttering irnprccations be-
tween his teeth, clutched their
rifles, on which, with their cunnin
and perseverance, all depend .
Again came the warning croak of
the aid bird, as Harvey crawled up-
on hands and knees to rejoin his
com ianron.

“ Vhat is it, Custa ?” he said,
geravely,.while his eyes fell with

nder interest on the sleeping
form of Amy.

“ The Indians,” replied Custa, in
low, sad accents, almost of despair,
the natural efl"e tof his own weak-
ness and exhau. ion.

“ Then, Custa,” said Harve sad-
i , “ Amy must fly with zram

00k, and we three must die here
to save her—it is the only hope.”

“ My brother," exclaimed Custa,
clutching his hand, “you are
ri rht.”

‘he heart of the artist bounded
within him at these words. There
was somethin so strange in the
sensation of being called “ my bro-
ther,” that he could scarce think
for an instant of any thing else.

Custaloga was all unconscious of
the feelings awakened byhis words,
and quietly roused Amy, whom he
told to 0 forward with the ped-
dler, while they waited to see if
any enemies came in sight. This
was said with so much unconcern
that the young girl readily accom-
panied the merchant, who, how-
ever, was rathcr unwilling to aban-
don bis friends.

“Cross at the Devil’s Gully,”
said Custa, impatiently. “ Wart a
quarter of an hour. If we come
not, fly, and make the best of your
Wig to the Block.”

zram Cook bowed his head and
went, fully aware of the import-
ance of his char e, and impressed
in a most strlk ng manner, with
the devotion and self-sacrifice of
the three young woodrnen ; for
Custaloga, Harvey, and Harrod
seemed on the present occasion,
actuated by one thought, guided
by one mind.

Searccl y had Amy disappeared
when the band of Indians came in
sight. They were about ten in
number, and walked in Indian file
on the opposite side of the stream.
But both by their signs and their
words it was clear that there Wore
at least as many on the side which
was occupied by the fugitives. To
retreat was impossible.

“ Pass me our horn," said Cus-
taloga, as an ndian appeared close
at hand.

“ I haven‘t a char e left,” re»
plied Harvey, sadly; ‘ the game's
u

“ Let us hide our guns,” contin-
ued the Wyandot, quickly, “and
then give up quietly.” .

Harvey and Harrod both nodded.
To run without a gun-load war
useless. To surrender might per
haps save their lives; atall events,
it aincd them time.

ustaloga then advanced into the
open clearing, followed by Harvey
and Harrod, and waved his hand t(
the Indians in token of ceSsatior
of hostilities. With a cry of do
light that shook the air, the wild
troop of Shawnccs bounded up,
and the three oung men were pris-
oners. The udiaus were exceed-
ingly flercc in mien; they had lost
many of their companions, while
their surprise at the exact charac-
ter of their prisoners was prodi-
gious.

The Indians gave a yell of rice.
sure, and so great was their de ighi
at having captured the mar. whom
they knew by rcport to have vow-
ed to aven e the death of his wife
a hundre folo, that all other
thoughts were crushed in their
bosorns. A brief Conference was
held, and at its termination, the
three unfortunate young men
heard that. to prevent any accident.

 

and to make sure of the destruc-
tion of three such enemies, their
death by the fire had been resolved
on.

Three saplings close at hand were
rapidly cleared of their boughs, and
to these, without a moment’s dc.
lay, the three victims were tied.
Then a large heap of brush and
wood was piled round them, and
every reparation made to fire it;
The ndians seemed aware ihail
theyhad no time to lose, for they
spared their prisoners many of
these preliminary tortures which
usually precede the last agony of
death.

At that instant something seem-
cd to dart from the wood, which
instantly took the form of Amy
Moss, who, jumping amid the star-
tled savages, dashed the burning
wood about the ground and scat-
tered the flames ere the savages
could interfere.

“ Wretches I” cried Amy, stand-
ing boldly before the whole tribe,
“ They had your wives and little
ones in their power, and they harm-
ed not one—not even he whose
wife and child you have slain. Why
do on murder them ‘2"

“ ar," said the chief, courteous-
}y, “is not the affair of women.

t my sister stand on one side—
she is welcome. There is a wi -
warn ready for her at Chillicothe.
My young men will light the fire
again."

“ Wretches, monsters!" shrieked
Amy, “ you shall not do it—nay, I
will be heard. They are my friends,
my brothers. Let me go—have
mercy, or you shall yourselves ask
it in vain.’

At that instant a loud hurrah,
such as only comes from Amcrican
throats, was heard behind, then
the heavy tramp of near footsteps,
and then as Amy fell back upon the
pile of wood, avolley of rifles that
proclaimed a powerful rescue.
Away flew the amazed and startled
Indians to cover, and then out burst
from the forest Charles, William
Harrod, and witha numerous body
of dependents of the Block, Ragg,
known in this worthy company as
Tobias.

To cut the three prisoners loose,
to provide them with ammunition,
was the work of a minute. There
was no time to be lost. The enemy
were quite double their number,
but the weight of metal and skill
was on the side of the whitc men.
Hurriedly biddin Amy lie close to
the pile, the who e party dartedin
pursuit, even Ragg obeying the
summons, and quite exhilarated
by having a brush with the red-
‘5 ns.

Amy sunk upon her knees and
prayed. In such a state of things
it was all she could do.

The battle was fought with all
the fury of rage and despair The
white men were burning to avenge
the massacre of Crow’s Nest and
Bi Bottom, and all the other ter—
rib e scenes which had lately en-
gendered fcelin never to be crad-
icatcd; while he Indians, “cak-
cned, dispirited, and dcmoralized,
fought wrth the sullen valor of de-
Spair. They be u by retreating,
and the sound 0 the rifles proved
that the whites were pressing them
hard. '

Gradually the sound became
quite distant, and Amy began to be
alarmed at her solitary position,
when a rushing was heard in the
bushes, and a youn Indian, quite
unarmed, appeare , running for
his life.

“Stop thief!” roared a hoarse
voice behind and then Ragg came
in sight, puffing and blowing site:
along chasc,lraving taken a Wound-
ed warrior by surprisc, and forced
him to run to save his life.

“Spare him," said Amy Moss,
rising before Ragg; “ he is unarm-
ed and hcl less. ’

The Indian halted, laid his hand
upon his heart, and before lire
valiant rag-dealer had rccm crcd
his surprise, disappeared in the
wood. '

A loud hurrah proclaimed the re.
turn of the victorious party, and a
litter was now made, on which
Amy was placed; and thus, under
an escort that was mighty indeed
for those woods, Amy Was taken
toward the home of her father,

 

38

 

Custaioga now marching proud! ,
though with weary steps, besi 6
her, in conversation with Charles.
The child was near her, but the
Silent Hunter was nowhere to be
seen. The moment he saw his
little one in safety, he dropped be-
hind, and began following the trail
of the retreating Indians. He had,
however, promised Custa, by
signs, to appear at the Block next
y.

CHAPTER XXVII.
A RIF’I‘ or LIGHT.

Mnammn the judge and his
young daughter Jane were in a
state of painful and deep sus-

euse.

“ Oh that I had never come 11 to
the woods !” at last said the 'u ge.
“It is all my own fault. n the
towns I was safe with 11) little
ones, at all events. Deargiri, who
knows, at this moment you may
be In only one ?”

“ ather,” said Jane, solemnly,
“ on have taught us in all times
0 trouble and sorrow to put trust
in Him—lie will not desert us !"

“ His will be done!” murmured
the udge, bowing his head.

“ ark l” conti‘nued Jane, start-
ing to her feet. “ I hear the sound
of horses galloping!” ‘

H  1”

“’Tis close by—there on the
bank!” she cried; and then she
added, in an accent of considerable
disappointment, “ the squire and
a stranger.”

“They may have news," said the
jud e, rousing himself.

Tie ferry-boat was already mov-
ing across, the negrocs having
heard the sound some little time
before, and in a few minutes
Squire Barton and the stranger
were being sculled across,‘their
horses swimming behind.

The judge advanced and welcom-
ed the squire, who introduced the
stranger as an English traveler,
who, despite the disturbed state of
the country, was wandering about
the woods in search of scenery and
sport. He was a man of much
polish of manner and elegant in
a pearance. He vc his name as

r. Gregg, but his real name was
Sir Charles Carstone, Baronet. He
was on his we to Frog’s Hole
when he met wrth the squire, and
being wearied, had gladly accepted
the offer of a meal and rest at the
Canebrake-block.

“Have you any news,” said the
jn e, after the ceremony of intro-
dnc .ion had been gone through-
“ news that ma relieve the an Kiety
of an anxious ather .9”

“Judge,” replied Barton, who
was very pale, haggard, and care-
worn, ‘there is news, and not
badnews. Amy Moss issafe. All
the Indians want is a heav ransom,
and that I have agree to pay.
Tecumseh wants to keep her as a
hostage—I think the accursed red-
skin loves her; but the tribe will
be unable to resist the temptation I
have held out to them in the sha
of whisky, tobacco, beads, bian -
ets knives, and so on."

‘ Heaven reward yo , Bartoni”
said the judge; “bu I believe
that Custaloga is trying to rescue
her without ransom. Charles is
out to aid him.”

“Any act of folly will spoil all,”
replied Barton, who really had no
intention that Amy should ever
return to the Block except as his
wife; “ the Indians are exasperated
at a series of murders committed
by Harrod.”

“Murders, squire l" exclaimed
the judge; “did they spare his
wife and child?”

“ I am not blaming IIarrod—for
my part I do not care how soon
the whole brood of Indians be ex-
terminated; but all I mean is, that
if violence be attempted while I
am treating, all will be spoilt.”

" Enter, sxl'ni the judge, “enter,
and you can tell me more of this
ransom. How is it to be conveyed
to the Indians '3"

“ That notorious rascal and thief,
Simon Girty," replied the squire,
“ has taken the thing in hand.
He asks but a tenth part of the
spoil, the vermin, and he
arrange it."

 

 

At this instant there came a joy
ous shout, a cry of triumph from
the skirts of the clearing on their
side of the river, which made the
judge and Jane clasp their hands,
the squire turn pale, and all in the
Block to leap to the gate, which
flew open and gave exit to the
whole of the inhabitants. They
understood all ata glance. At the
head of the procession wasa litter.
beside which were Custaloga, Har-
vey, and Charles, all waving their
arms in token of success. There
was not a stc of the processhnto
warrant one ecling o dread.

In another minute Amy had
bounded from the conveyance they
had made for her, to meet Jane
half-way; and in another minute

_more, the two fond sisters were in
each other’s arms, whi‘e the de-
lighted father stood vinking hands
With Custalo a 9.... Harvey, one on
each side as if they had been his
own children, and not one a poor
Wyandot, the other an artist who
knew not even his arents.

“You have k your words,”
he said, ferventi , “you have kept
your words, like brave and good
young men, and Judge Moss is
your riend forever. Ask and you
shall have. There is nothing in
my power to give which you may
not tell me you wish.”

The two youn men made no
verbal reply, but heir looks testi-
fied their pride and satisfaction.

“My father,” cried Amy, who
had been soothin her. sobbin
sister, “do not thin Iam unmin -
ful of you. But this poor silly
thing is so overcome, I can not
leave her. Thanks to our brave
friends, however, we are home and
once more all to rother.”

And moving Jane gently from
her rapt embrace, she turned to
her father.

“They haven’t done you much
harm, my beautiful child,” said the
judge; “ a little thinner and some-
what paler you are, but please God
that will soon be untrue. Come,
my child.”

And the judge, with a light and

mud step, drew Amy‘s am) with-
in his own and reéntcred the Block,
amid the cheers of all the garrison,
one of the most lusty of whom
was Cornelius Ragg, who request-
ed to be taken to the kitchen,
there to recruit the inner man
after the great fatigues of his suc-
cessful campaigln, and prepare for
another which e had very much
at heart.

The whole part —the' udge,
Custaloga, Harvey, harles zram
Cook, the squire, and Sir Charles
who had kept in the background
since his eye had caught 31 ht of
the remarkable features of ome-
lius Rug r—now assembled in the
breakfas -room, where Amy, look-
ing all the better for a change of
re ment, with Jane, soon joined
tham, the child having been putto
be

For many a day there had not
been so smiling a group assembled
at that hospitable table. Thejudge
sat with one daughter on each
side, and Custaloga and Harvey
next to them, an arran rement that
brought a frown to 0 face of
Squire Barton. He, however, con-
trolled himself, and congratulated
Amy on the fortunate deliverance
she rad experienced,with a warmth
of manner which was very signifi-
cant.

Amy shuddered imperceptibly.

“I fancy, judge,” said he, in
continuation, with a forced laugh,
“ I fancy I must call upon you to
keegqyour promise about Amy.”

“ ot yet! not yet!” cried Mr.
Moss, hurriedly. ‘ No, squire, we
all know that you are dear Am ’s
betrothed. It is no secret, an I
will mention it then without re-
serve ; but after these horrid events
I can not part with my child.”

“I don‘t mean to-morrow ” said
the squire; “but soon. have
Waited the full three years, judge.”

“ You have, and my word is m
bond—you shall not have the we -
ding put off too long. But say,
Amy, you do not Wish to leave
your old father just yet ‘3"

Amy leaned on her father’s
shoulder to hide her face. But
there Was no maiden blush there,
none of those coy looks which

Beadle’s Dime Library.

 

 

 

usually exist where there is love

in a youn girl. .Custaloga saw
her look. t was one of horror.
“ I think Amy romised me to

morrow fortnigh ,” said Barton.
pointedly.

“ Did you, Amy ?” asked the
judge. in an anxious tone.

“I did,” replied Amy, firmly,
but coldly, at the same time raising
her head.

Suddenly a voice was raised—a
voice that seemed strange to most
present, so changed were its ae-
cents.

“Judge Moss,” said Custaloga
gravely, dropping once for a
every si of ndian manner
“ you sa (1 that Harvey and I
should never ask you any thing in
vain i"

There was no reply for an instant.

“ You heard my question,
fj’gdge i?” said Custalo , who mis-

ok the motive of his silence.

“ I did, my son; but there was
that in your voice that amazed and
startled me. It was avoice Ihave
heard before—a voice as of an old
friend. Alas! that can not be; he
is dead ion since, and has left
none behin . But, Custaloga, I
do remember my promise l”

“Then, jud e, as your word is
given before eaven, I adjnre you
not to allow the marriage of your
dau hter for five weeks.”

“ hy ?” said the judge, in
blank amazement.

“ Jud e,” replied Custaloga,
with a rmness that appeared to
partake of prophetic knowled e,

‘ because I ope before then to e
able to ask the hand of Amy Moss
myself—Amy Moss, whom I love
with all my heart and soul l”

“ Custa, ’ cried Amy, with flash-
ing eyes, “ you forget yourself !”

‘ N y friend,” said the judge
lgindiy, “you know this can no

e.

“If you wait the five weeks, it
will be; because, when that time
is past, Miss Amy Moss will refuse
to marry James Barton, as she
would refuse to marry Simon Gir-
t ,

“ Villain,what mean you ?” cried
Barton, choked with rage; “ what
change will five weeks bring
abou ?”

“ What five weeks ,will bring
about I know not,” said Custa;
“ but this I know, that I have been
told by one on whom I rely. that
that time will bring a mighty
change. I have sworn to reveal
nothing; but I have leave to say,”
exclaimed Custa lookin Barton
full in the face, ‘1 thougngl do not
understand the meaning, that, on
the 27th of June next, Reginald
Morton will be twenty-one years
of a c!”

“ on lie 1" roared Barton,clutch-
ing Custa by the throat; “ you
lie, fiend in human shape!
naid Morton is dead i”

Custaloga, without noticin the

tremendous effect of his wor s on
all present, pushed the squire back,
who leaned ainst the wall with
rlaringHeyeba is and hot, flushed
ace. e gazed at Custalo a for a
few minutes in silence, as E
whelmed.

“I am readyto fulfill my con-
tract,” sald Amy; and Barton,
turning to her with a look of grat-
itude, respect, and thankfulness
which quite removed for an instant
all trace of evil expression from his
face said : “ My whole life will be
too ittle to repay the debt I have
incurred. I knew your promise
was sacred.”

“ A solemn romise, James Bar-
ton," replied my, gently, “must
alwa s be kept.”

“ es, it must," exclaimed the
jud 0, much relieved by the s -
gest on thus, it seemed, accidetrlig-
ally thrown out to him. “I have
made a promise to Custaloga, and
that promise shall be kept. Amy

f‘ over-

Moss can not be married thus in a,

hurry, and five weeks is not a very
long time to wait."

The squire at once rose and left
the room. He was heard outside
bidding the negroes call him at
daybreak and saddle his horse. He
then entered his room and slam-
med the door vioientl .

“ Custaloga,” said the judge, as
soon as Barton was out of sight,

 

“ have you any certainty of provv
ing all this i?”

‘I wish 1 were as sure as I am
of Miss Amy Moss’s cold indifl‘er'
ence to me, ’ began the Wyandot.

“I am the affianced wife of
James Barton,” said Amy, with
much emotion.

“ You will never marry him,”
continued Custa, eamestl .

“If before the 27th of nne you
release me from my vow, a vow I
can never break of- my own free
will,” said Amy, bending her eyes
on the ground in great confusion
“then will I become the wife 0
Reginald Morton, if he desires it."

‘ Of Reginald Morton !” ex-
claimed Custa, wildly; “ why of
Re naid Morton ?”

‘ I will tell you on the 27th of
June ” said Amy, in a low tone.

“ ustaio ,” said the jud e,
pressing his and,while all the o -
ers listened in amazement, “you
have not answered my question.”

“One who has reason to be

rateful to me for saving her from
the brutal violence of that man,
told me, not ion ago, that she
would tell me th of him, on
the 27th of June, w ch would an-
nihilate all hope of his ever be-
coming the husband of Amy Moss.
She said that ri ht should be done,
and Reginald orton restored to
the home of his father.”

“ Then,” said the. judge solemn-
g, u if indeed Reginald Morton be

we, thou art the man. Your In-
dian speech has kept my eyes vail-
ed; but just now I knew your
voice, the voice of your dead, mur-
dered father l"

“ I Reginald Morton l” exclaim-
ed Custa. .

“But for your dusk hue I
should swear to the eness,”
said the jud e.

“M dus y hue is all false "
replie the other. “ But my ear y
Indian education has made me
ashamed of m true color. I have
always used c dye given me by
an Indian woman. ’

“Wash it off," said the judge;
“ be quick—I would be sure."

Custaloga, while all azed at

him with breathless exc tement ‘

rose and went away. He was not
long1 absent and when he return-
ed, 0 was dressed in the costume
of as American gentleman.

“As like my old friend Morton
as a twin brother!” cried the
judge.

Amy Moss was he so over-
whelmed by her emotion that she
retired with Jane, alleging her
late fati e as an excuse.

The s ranger took advantage of
this move to rise also, to .take his
departure, after receivin full ex-

lanation as to the route e wasto
oliow to reach the Frog’s Hole,
with a hint from the peddler to
mind how he acted there, as the
owner was a great rascal.

“ I only escaped with my whole
skin, stran r,b means of agglu-
diferous girl c led Kate. ph
Regin meant to cut my throat ;
there ain’t no in ways about that.’

A long and interesting conver-
sation took place between those
who remained, and the li hts and
shadows of the s uire’s c aracter
were discussed th considerable
ener y.

“ here was something," said
Custaloga, in a low, musing tone;
“ there was something in the wo-
man’s look to bear out the hope
you give me, judge.”

“ aid she nothing of the other
child i” asked Dick Herve , in a
husky tone, the tears stan ing in
his e es.

“ hyask on?" said the judge.

“ Because too am an orphan
and never knew my arents,” cried

the oun man. ‘Let me tell
mg‘s ory.’
he following is a brief outline

of his story :—

Mrs. Girty lived in a small cot-
tage outside the town of Boston
where the first thing Harvey could
remember was being placed at
school by a law er named Warton,
who supplied is mother, as he
used to call her, with money. This
lawyer, who was reported to be a

ood man, used to come down to

e cot e and indulge in what he
used to t ink very wearisome leo-
tures to Mrs. Girty about hb bring-

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Silent Hunter.

 

  

39

 

 

in up, and in very strong observ-
at one about Simon, who was only
not hung because he was not
caught. She used to say that per-
haps he was not so bad as peo 10
said, because he always sent er
money ever now and then to sup-
port her an the poor boy.

“ That boy,” would the law er
say, “ that boy’s proof against him.
He’s got him here for no good. He
is not his boy ; then whose boy is
he ?”

“I am sure I do not know,” said
the old woman; “Simon would
never tell me. He only says, ‘ Be
careful of him, he may be a for-
tune to us.’ ”

“ Rank knavery !" would Warton
cry ; “ but take care ofhim. Time
will show time will show!"

When arvey was ten years old
he would ramble away from his
home for da s at a time with a
sketchbook, raw animals, houses,
scenes, and then come back to
study with great diligence. It was
soon found that he was passionate-
ly fond of drawin , and this art
t e lawyer directe he should be
specially tau ht.

At fifteen t is lad had made such
progress that his productions be-
gan to strike peo e with surprise
and wonder an he was e rerly
sought to give lessons to others.
A esire for a roamin life, how-
ever, made him neglec ful of this
0 portunity, and as soon as he was
a e to procure a gun, he started
u into the woods, there to ursue
n 5 studies amid the won ers of
nature. It was durin these ex-
peditions he had visite the Moss
and became the drawing-master of
the two girls and the friend and
com anion of) Custalo Ira.

“ here is a Provnlence that
watches over us,” said the judge,
solemnly, “ which in its good time
will explain all. I hope your sus-
picions are correct—for two more
worthy inheritors of my friend’s
estate I would not seek.’

“ And I ask no better brothers,"
said Charles, takin their hands.

The judge started.

“Eh, what?” he cried; “an-
other enemy of my peace! Am I
to lose both my girls 9"

“ Please God,” said Custa, “if
all this be true, you will lose nei-
ther of them.”

Harvey held down his head in
too reat confusion to speak.

“ s it true that you too love my
dau htcr ?” asked the judge.

“ do,” replied Dick, tiniidly.

“ And does she know of it 1”

“ I believe not,” continued Har-~

vey, in earnest accents; “I have
never spoken to her on the sub-
ject.”
“ Then there is time to speak of
gllsl’iis. It is late. Let us go to
e

At daybreak next morning James
Barton left by the ferry and gal-
loped ofl‘ in the direction of Scowl
HalL

An hour later the screams of the
attendants on Amy and J anc arous~
ed all the inhabitants of the Block.
Hebe had gone into their room to
inquire if any thing were wanted,
and had found the bed untenanted.
The girls had not undressed, it was
easy to see, but had fallen asleep
wh le talking, and that outside
the bedclothes. There Hebe had
indeed found them, when she took
them gruel the preceding night.
But finding them asleep, she had
cast shawls over them and left
them.

The r e, fury, and despair of
the fricn s can not be described.
Custaloga and Harvey lost their
self-possession uttcriy, and darted
away into the wood in various di-
rections, in a few minutes followed
by Charles, leaving the bereaved
father utterly prostratcd by this
last blow. A large party soon.
afterward started to scour the
wood, to the great indignation of
Conley ltagg, who was impatient
to return to the Frog‘s Hole, the
more so as he had nuspiciulh rela-
tive to the stranger who ha. -irt-
ed up there throu rh an lllll\.,l.)Wll
Indian country. {is determina-
tion was, however, soon taken.

——

 

CHAPTER XXVIII.
a menu BOLVED.

Tuna was, on the banks of the
stream nearly facing Scowl Hall, a
tree which was quite worthy of
being mentioned beside the most
celebrated in the natural history
of the world. It was an elm, and
had spread its boughs ri ht and
left, until it had oversha owed a
large space of ground, where
naught was to be seen but the
decaying leaves that formed a new
soil beneath its arching shadows,
and here and there the sproutin
of tiny elms—natural-growing o -
shoots from the forest tree.

It was scarcely daybreak after
the atrocious ontra e had been
committed at the i oss, when
Custalora—for by this name we
must sti 1 call him, until he obtains
another—emerged from the forest
and shaking off the dew, stood
within the shadow of the tree,
gazing sternly at the house where
ie knew Squire Barton dwelt.
In his own mind, he had come
to the conclusion that Barton was
the author of the abduction of the
sisters, and this from a variety of
reasons.

Custaloga was convinced that
the passion of the squire was not
retumed—that, indeed AmyMoss
rather hated than loved him.

He was equally well aware that
from some mysterious reason,
which to him was inexplicable, she
felt herself bound to fulfill her pro-
mise to marry him.

He was equally well aware that
the squire felt his prey escaping
from his asp, and would there-
fore be likely to use measures
which were not strictly within the
bounds of honor to insure his
marriage.

'Iherefore, unwilling to make
his injurious suspicions known, he
had come of his own accord to
prowl round Scowl Hall alone, in
the hope of discovering how the
squire had contrived his criminal
abduction.

He was too well acquainted with
the character of the place, not to
be aware that there might be dan-
ger in his advancing upon the house
in too great a hurry. The men
who formed the body-guard and
retainers of the squire were noto-
rious in the whole country for vil-
liany. The young man, therefore
determined to use all the caution
of his acquired habits which seem
ed to come to him instinctively,
and by second nature.

He knew that there was a ford
across the stream just at the tree
under which he stood,some strange
feeling having often brought him
to that place to gaze at the house
with eyes of curiosity and longing.

The part of the mansion toward ,

the river was clearly visible from
the place where he stood. There
were four windows on the two
upper floors, but the basement
story, which was quite on a level
with the water, had a kind of
grating instead of a window, over-
grown thickly with ivy and other
parasitical plants. In front of this
was a garden tended with exceed-
ing care, which was surrounded by
a kind of rude stoekade.

Two large dogs roamed about
this garden, over which in reneral
one of the wild band of re ' are
mounted guard.

There, was no one there on the
present occasion.

Ciistiiloga peered round and list
ened attentively; all lay still as if
“The rude ax with heaved stroke,

Win never heard the nym ii“ to (hunt,

Or fright them from their nilow’d haunt.”

He was surprised that even from
the outliouses on the other side
there should be no sound of voices.
There were on the estate, a large
colony of blacks and oversccrs and
and servants, but they appeared
either not yet riscn,or departed at
early dawn to their labors.

llc dctcrmincd at all risks to
cross the river. The stillness and

ulet of the place made him uneasy.

e could not make it out, he could
not understand it. Why were
there no busy servants about?
Why could nobody be heard mov-
ing about the house 1' lie was not
aware that it was strictly forbidden

 

to everybody connected with Scowl
Hall ever to come round to that
side of the house.

At this instant he heard behind
him in the distance, a little to his
right, a cracking in the bushes, a
tramping as of one dashing alon
in a hurried and angry way; an
then instantly he heard another
sound to his left of the same kind.
He smiled a grim smile, for he
almost guessed who in a few
minutes were to be the companions
of his solitude.

He, however, was in no way
careless or he lectful of those pre-
cautions whic had become to him
a second nature. He drew back
into the deep shadow of the tree,
and gave, .With tolerable certainty
that his sirnal would be under-
stood, the ow hoot of the owl.
His keenest senses could not detect
for a moment the sound of lnunan
footsteps. But then the noise was
heard once more, and they came
dashing along, and in another
minute two men came from the
cover of the wood.

“Custalogal” they both cried
with one voice.

“Harvey! Bennett!” said he,
advancing to meet them.

The three. yonnr men grasped
each other’s han s with energy,
and fora moment in silence. They
gazed at one another with a glance
of peculiar mcanin r.

“ Custziloga! Harvey l” suddenly
said Bennett, who, as a retainer
of the Moss House, took upon
himself to represent the famly,
“speak to me; why have you
come here ‘9"

“To find Amy Moss,” replied
Custa‘lo ,quietly.

“ To ind Amy Moss 1” repeated
Richard Harvey, emphatically.

“My friends, I came here, also,
to look for my mastc r’s daughter—
I thank you—~thrcc will have more
chance than one. But tell me why
you came here for her ‘2”

“Bennett,” said Custaloga,
gravely, “there are instincts of
the human heart which never de-
ceive us. I have long suspected
that the squire has been the cause
of all the misfortunes of your
house. It must have been he who
allowed the Alligator and the
ne ro to escape—it is he who has
abducted Amy.”

“But why—-"

“Why l—liave I not said she
shall never marry him ‘3”

“But she is his allianced wife.”

“She is—but could he induce
her to marry him by the use of
force or terror, he would do so.
There is a mystery behind that
man, which I long to penetrate.“

“Then let uson,” said Bennett,
impetuously; “ I would hurl him
to the earth myself. He has, I fear,
been a hollow traitor to us all.”

Clutching their rifles, without
further speech, the three young
men entered the stream, following
the ford and making straight to-
ward the house. In afcw minutes
they stood upon the oppOsite bunk,
near the garden of the house already
alluded to. Again they listened,
and they fancied they heard low
murmuring voices.

“Voices of women,” said Ben-
nett. “ Follow me.”

“Hush!” replied Custziloga,
clutching his arm to restrain his
impetuosity. “Be slow.“

And he glided round under the
house, scarcely seeming to touch
the ground until he reached the
front door. He placed his hand
upon the latch. It was unfastcncd.

“ It is unfastened l” he said with
a sh rht shiver: “ she is not here.”

" et us search,” replied Harv
Vev. “I heard women‘s Voices.”

hey raised the latch, opened
the door; not a soul was stirring
in the outliouses, which Were at
some considerable distance from
the mansion, though the watch-
dogs barked violently from every
part of the building.

Before them was a long passage
from which many doors opened
They tried each as they passed
The rooms were all richly and even
elegantly furnished, though slight.
1i tarnished; but in no room did
t ey findaliving soul. They were
at the end of the passage and
about to ascend the stairs scarcely

 

noticing a last door, which was
concealed in the shadow, when
they distinctly heard several
voices in altercation. They listen—
ed a moment, and then discovered
the door which had escaped their
first examination. They opcncd
it rapidly. It was the )rivatc run!”
of Squire Barton. he shutters
were closed, and most of the room
was in obscurity; but what astound-
ed thcm all was, that light strcain—,
ed up from a hole in the floor, and
from that hole came voices.

There were the chuckling sound
of a negrcss, the angry tones of a
white woman, and the feeble moan-
in«r as it were of a child.

hey looked at each other as if
for an explanation, and then tread—
mg cautiously on the heavily-
carpctcd floor, they moved round
the trap-door and looked down.

 

That morning, a little before the
arrival of Custnioga, Phoebe—the
handsome ncgrcss already alluded
tO—hnd risen from her bed, and
come down, without awaking any
of the attendants who usually
ministered to her wants and cap-
rices. She had gone to the kitch-
en, which was near the front of the
house, and there cut some slices
of bread and meat and tilled a in
with water. All this she ha
placed upon a tray, and then had
advanced to the private cabinet of
the squire, which she opened with
a key that hung from her girdle.

As if familiar by long llM‘ with
the place, she had laid down the

latter of meat and bread, and the
antern which she also bore, and
had raised the trap-door formerly
mentioned in the early part of this
narrative. Then with a grin on her
face she had listened, but hearing
no sound, had quietly descended
the stairs that led into the cellars.

They were not very extensive,
and toward the river were not un-
der ground, the land lnu'in -- -nd-
denly sloped down and been taken
advantage of to make a garden,
and what had been intended for a
strong-room,wherevaluables could
be confined and concealed. The
door of this room the negress slow-
ly opened and pccrcd in.

It Was a long, low room, with a
barred window, which was deeply
overshadowed with ivy and other
plants, and about a yard of it near
the door was divided from the rest
by means of strong wooden bars,
through which not more than a
human hand could pass. Within
this division l’hiebo entered, push-
ingthedoorbchipdhcr. Tth she
laid down the platter, opcned a
wicket, passed it inside, and then
rung a bell and waited.

The light came dimly into the
room, dimly and gloomin through
the bars and through the ivy—
shedding but little influcncc upon
the scene. It was a sight to ex—
plain all the squire’s fears and
anxieties—his puliid brow, his i-izi
lcn manner, his dread ofsocicty, his
wish to remain forever blockcd up
in his own castle, where none
could reach or intefcre with him.

There were two Women in that
room, or rather cage.

One of them was a pale, delicate
young creature, of about livcund-
twenly—pale from want of light,
which is as iiecdful to the proper
nourishment of the human frame
as it is to the flower, which droops
and dies when excluded from the
sun. This young girl had pretty.
interesting features, long curling
hair, white teeth, gentle eyes half
consumed with Weeping, and a
temper so yielding and lovable and
tender, that she had never once
complained of the crime of whit h
she was the victim.

There could be no doubt that,
despite the vigilance of U\cl‘~ccrs
and white Indians, in the (burst!
of time some person must have
passed that way and licnrd hr:
cries, if'cries she had uttered Hui
she uttered none. She kissrd ‘9 0
hand that smote her, and prayed
dav and night for him.

She had a stock of books, cliicfly
of a devotional character; and
having become reconciled to the
idea of utter seclusion from the
World, she endeavored to think
only of another and a better -even

 

 

 

4O

Beadle’s Dime Library.

 

 

 

sometimes thanking Heaven that
had removed from the temptations
of society, her who in the world
had been a laughing, giddy, merry-
hearted child. She had never been
happy. From the first dawn of
womanhood she had known sor-
row. Shehad married very youn ,
an’d had found coldness, neglec,
unkindness, and, finally, had been
removed out of sight and buried
from the world.

And this was the wife of Squire
James Barton.

He had seen Amy Moss, and
loved her with as much sincerity
as belonged to his seared and rug-

ed nature. He was a man of few,
fany seruples. He at first, dimly
» darkly, somewhere in the deepest
recesses of his soul, had dreamed of
murder. But he shrunk, appalled,
from the suggestion, when, coming
home, he gazed upon his young
and innocent wife.

He however set afloat the rumor
that she was very ill, and then that
she was dead, and even had a coffin
buried beside the bodies of his
mother, her husband and children.

Little did the mother of Helen
Jay sus ect that-her child was
lmmure in a living tomb, that her
place might be supplied by anoth-
er victim. Had but a breath of
this suspicion oozed out, not all
the dread of Scowl Hall and its
gang would have kept the relatives
and friends of the Jay family from
storming the place.

The female beside this entle
girl was one of very di erent
mold. She stood erect beside
the 'gentle, retiring tgirl, and gazed
at e mulatto wi a frown of
scorn.

“What want you ?” said she, in
a nick, sharp voice.

‘ Yar your break’ast.”

“Leave it there and 0; but
again mark my words. ewarel
There will be vengeance for all
this. Your wretched master has
all but run his race.”

“No—he bring home nice wife

soon—yah! ah! He very fond of ’

white little ady.”

Kate took the food through the
grating, and Phoebe, angry at the
contem t shown her, turned to go.

“My.” was all she could say.

“Give me the keys,” said Cus-

ola sternly; “make haste i”

‘Massa Reginald,” cried the
woman, quite terror-stricken,
“sabe me life, and I tell ebbery

ting.”

‘ Friends! friends i” cried Kate,
clapping her hands.

‘ riends indeed " cried Custa
lo a; “but speak beseech you.

0 are you? Secure this wo-
man,” he added, utterly forgetting
his own affairs in his anxiety to
free the young women.

“lam the wife ofJamesBarton,"
replied the gentle being, advan-
cing. “I am his wife—but let no
harm be done him; I hope that he
may be forgiven by man and
Heaven."

“How shall I bear all this i’”
cried Crista. “ Barton married?
Then Amy Moss is free—free! free
to reject this man who holds mys-
terious power over her.”

The negress here intimated her
willin ess to explain even this.
But ustaloga’s first thou ht was
to retreat from the hall be ore the
return of any of the outlying part-
ies. He at once intimated his
intention of taking the three wo-
men with him, as the were ne-
cessary to his plans. elen hesi-
tated a little, doubtful of her right
to leave her husband’s house
against his will. But Custaloga
spoke in such indignant lan uage,
and Kate so ably seconde him.
that she was forced to yield.

Custaloga su ported her trem-
bling weight, ennett offered his
arm to Kate, while Richard Harvey
secured Phoebe, who, overcome by
terror and apparently by remorse,
offered no resistance, even volun-
teering to tell everything, and de-
clarin that she had only consented
to be t e instrument of the squire’s
crimes from fear of his servants
and myrmidons, she herself hating
and despising him from the bottom
of her heart.

They left the house as cautiously
as possible, and struck into the

 

woods by a well-beaten trail. They

roceeded a mile without halting.

hen Custalo a drew a little off
the trail, an proposed, out of
consideration for their more deli-
cate companions, that they should
breakfast, he having secured ma-
terials for this purpose from the

hall.

All the part gladly acquiesced
in this pro osi ion.

Helen arton seemed almost
helpless. The sudden lure of
light, the hustle and activi y of life,
the sun, the birds in the trees, the
waving forest, were all so new and
confusing that it was with diiiicult
she con (1 collect her ideas su -
flciently to tell her melancholy
tale; which, however, she at last
did. The bustle of the outward
world, the beauty of creation, the
voices of friends, appeared to rouse
her somewhat to a sense of her
husband’s crime toward herself -
and yet there was very little of
aspenty in her tone and manneras
she narrated all that she had suf-
fered from him.

The three young men heard the
story of her several years’ imprison-
ment with an indignation that
knew no bounds, while all felt a
thrill of delight at the discovery
that Barton was a married man.

“ The monstrous villian!” said
Bennett, moodily; “ and our fam-
ily made him a companion and
friend.”

“I never liked him " said Rich-
ard Harvey; “never.’g

“ AndI have always hated him,”
cried Custaio ra, impetuously.

“ No,” said elcn, gently; “you
must not hate him. He is not a
good man, but let us hope—”

“ You know not half his crimes
dear lady. Listen to this wretche
woman. and then I think you will
understand wny our hand can
never press in {org veness the hand
of the mlirderer.

“ Murderer !” cried Helen, wild
1y: “no! not a murderer."

“Listen to his accomplice,” said
Custoioga sternly.

Phoebe, after a few minutes’
hesitation, told a story so terrible,
so fearful, that all listened to it
with horror and amazement, which
changed to other feelings as the
woman ended her tale.

“If you lose a husband, you find
two brothers,” said Custaloga,
cordially. “ But there is one more
thing to be done, before we deter.
mine our course of action. Now,
Phoebe, explain why Amy3 Moss
feels bound to marry arton,
though evidently hating him.”

The negress readily acquiesced
in this demand, and continued her
narrative, which was no less excit-
ing in its nature than the preceding
one.

 

CHAPTER XXIX.
'rnn REASON WHY.

IT was about a ear before the
events recorded 11 our present
narrative, and on a bri h.t May
morning, that a young ad in a
hunting dress and mounte on a
gallant steed, came galloping
through the woods on the upper
waters of the Seioto in company
with a cntieman. He, too, was
mounte , and rode by her side.

“ ’Tis a lovely day,Amy,” he said,
“ and lovelier still because you are
by my side.”

“It is a lovely da ,” replied
Amy, dashing forwar to escape
his searching looks, “and I am
glad that you are happy.”

“ ’Tis now eleven months to the
day of our marriage,” continued
the squire; “a long, long time!”

She dashed on still along the
path, cutting the boughs of the
trees with her whip.

“A year is soon gone,” she
replied again, with a augh that
sounded somewhat forced.

He hit his lip

“A year, ma , perhaps, go too
soon for some,’ he said, moodily.
“I fear Amy Moss has changed
much in a year."

“ James, have I ever said sword
to indicate any change in my
intentions?" as ’cd Amy, turning
this time gravely to him.

“ Never," rep led James Burton;
“but I do fear a change in your

 

 

afl'ections. You seem glad that
there lies this long interval be-
tween the present and the future.”

“ A young girl who is happy and
petted at home,” continued Amy,
again making her horse eurvet be-
fore his, “is never in a hurry to
change her name.”

“But you do intend to change
it 2” said Barton, almost fiercely.

“If you wish it,“ replied Amy,
lookin forward at the trees.

“If wish it !” roared Barton in
a state of half frenzy, “if I Wish
it! So it has come to this. All
your promises and gentleness have
come to this. You will marry me
because you have promised to do
so.’

“I have promised, and, if it is
desired, I Will keep my promise,”
said Amy, coldly.

“What means all this, I ask ?"
cried Barton, screaming in a pas-
sionate tone, unfortunately for
himself, that sounded shrill and
angry; “who has robbed me of
your heart ‘3”

“Mr. Barton, that is an imper-
tinent question,” said Amy coldly.

“Impertinent it may be, but I
will have it answered.’

“ Will i’”

“ Yes, Amy. You have rom-
ised to be my wife, and, as live,

on shall be. This strange change

n you has unmanned me. I can
no longer wait the year. Amy
Moss, my house is but four miles
distant. It is ready to receive its
mistress. In two hours I will find
a priest who will unite us.”

As he said these words he
snatched the bridle of Amy’s horse,
and darted away along the trail.

Amy lost all command over her-
self for a moment.

“ Coward,” she cried, and struck
him with her Whip.

Barton muttered a deep curse
and plunged on. _

At this instant other horses’
footsteps were heard, and Amy
uttpred a loud cry.

“Hurrah!” s outed Charles;
“ is that you, Amy ‘3”

Barton reined in his horse and
quietly loosened his rifle from his
saddle-bow. His face was livid
with passion.

“As surei
dies ” he sai .

“ arton !” said the girl, wildly,
“ are you an assassin i”

“Promise, then.”

“ I will be your wife, Barton,”
said Amy, in a low but distinct
tone; “ and I will never breathe a
word of this interview.”

“ You swear it i‘"

“I do,” replied Amy, proudly.

“This way,” shouted Barton,
turning round and responding to
the other in a cheerful tone.

In another instant they had
joined young Charles Moss, and
Were ridin back toward the Block.

Just as t icy turned, a man, who
had been dogging their ste s, came
out of the thick bushes an looked
after them.

“That air’s a goodish secret to
it hold on. I guess she’d pay
idy to hayve that told. Well, if

he don't mind, I will, by gum.”

And the fellow cast his rifle on
the hollow of his arm and pursued
his way through the forest.

._—

CHAPTER XXX.
moan Discovnmns.

WHEN Harrod said adieu to his
com anions, he turned back on
the rack of the Indians with ter-
rible resolves in his mind. The
sight of his child, its salvation
from the hands of the savages, had
slightly moved his soul to softer
emotions. But during recent
events, while (logging the ste oi
the Indians, Harrod had foun out
from the man’s own boasting the
actual murderer of his wife.

This man he had determined to
sacrifice to his revenge.

He traveled many a weary mile
without showing sirn of fati us.
He had soon found t e trail 0 the
Indians who had escaped the com-
hat, and his eye dilated as he
marked how they struggled with
weariness and from the effect of
Wounds. He felt himself a match
for half a dozan at least.

It was, perhaps, after six hours

as he comes, he

 

of hard walking) In the woods,
when the tracks ecame so recent,
that he began to use extreme cau-
tion in his proceedings. The In-
dians were, doubtless, not many
hundred yards ahead. He had
passed a place where they had
rested some time, and he there
had counted seven marks of seven
warriors. This number by no
means daunted him, and in a few
minutes more he caught a glimpse
of the last straggler, a warrior of
the band, as he disappeared be-
neath the arches of the forest up
a slight acclivity.

It was now with all the art and
caution of a cat that Harrod dog-

ed the weary band, among whom

e soon reco nized, with a thrill
of delight, t e murderer of his
wife.

His whole frame shook with
agony a moment, and then he

aused a while to let them go on,
earful that he might otherwise be
seen, and his hopes and desires
balked.

The Indians, unconscious of the
proximity of their stern and un-
relentin foe, made beds for the
wounde , tended their sores,which
the washed and then bound up
wit leavesansl thon . They then
made a fire, and col ecting round
it 3 he in low accents and in a
kin of chanting tone, of) the many
disap ointments and defeats which
had alien upon their tribe in a
short time.

It was only subsequent to the
murder of Clara at the Crow’s Nest
that the terrible vengeance on
their tribe, inflicted by some auda-
cious and unseenhand. had com-
menced, and all the members of
this party combined to regret the
occurrence, looking with sullen
and reproaehfui eyes at the man
who had killed Clara with his own
hand.

The Indian bowed his head and
said nothing. There was none of
the ordinar boastin and fire in
him now. evaunte not the ter-
rible dl'l‘il, but in his heart of
hearts regretted it. This in an In-
dian was unusual, but so was the
dire calamity which the act had
brought upon his tribe and race.
He did not then join in the con-
versation, but sat apart brooding
on the events of the last few days.

Harrod was so near that he
heard the speaking of the men,
and a stran e and novel feelin
came over im when he hear
these wild and savage creatures
re retting the murder of his gentle
wi e. e almost felt soothed and
calmed, but not toward the trem-
bling wretch who sat cowering
and silent by the fire.

It had been dark an hour, and
the Indians had lain still all that
time, ere he moved.

Then he leaned his rifle against
the tree, ulled from one of his

ockets a ong leather thon , drew

is knife from the sheet , and
stalked out into the open air. He
seemed the incarnate spirit of war
as he glided along—remorseless,
his blood boiling only with rage,
his soul dead and cold to every
feeling of pity, tenderness, or love,
for his fellow-creatures.

There burnt still a few embers
of the fire, round which the In-
dians slept, with their feet inward
toward lie hot coals, and these
embers were the Silent Hunter's

aide to lead him like astar to his
eed of blood.

Harrod coolly picked out the
murderer of his wife. He lay a
little apart from the others, in a
restless, agitated slumber, as if
perplexing and annoying dreams,
from which he sought to esca ,
tormented and worried him. Epo-
rod. with a look which was for the
moment like one of the faces
which artists love to (give to Luci-
fer, slid to the groun and lay be-
side his enemy. There had been a
night sign of waking in one oftne
1n ians, and he had noticed it in
time.

Harrod scarcely breathed. One
false step now was death. Were
he discovered, he could scarcely
hope to cope with seven Indians,
even though two Were wounded.

But all was still; the slee rs
scarcely moved, the signing o the

 

--....-m..wn ‘  ‘

«fits—m... - .~.

 

 

 

1m?

i watched him w
ing his own head, made an attempt

The Silent Hunter.

 

 

wind and the rustling of the trees
above made even their breathing
inaudible. Then up rose Harro
once more, and with slow and
cautious motions quietl pinioned
his wretched prey. he man
moved so often in his restless sleep,
‘twas matter quite easy for accom-
plishment. Then he clutched in
one hand a handkerchief, and rose.
lie now acted with the ra idity of
thought. He kneeled qu ckly on
the Indian’s chest, and thrust the
ready gag into his mouth. The In-
dian opened his eyes and gazed
wildly at Harrod.

He knew him but too well, and
allowed him to act as he pleased.

In another minute he was utter-
ly helpless.

Then Harrod turned and cut ofl‘
the scal -lock of the nearest In-
dian an laid it upon his breast.
Satisfied with the bravado, he rose
—he who the night before would
have killed all seven without re-
morse—and seizing his huge bur-
den, plunged once more into the
forest.

Harrod went quietly round to
where his rifle lay, and there he
loosened the bands from the In-
dian‘s feet and bade him walk be-
fore him. The Indian shuddered
and hesitated. It was in the direc-
tion of the Crow’s Nest. Harrod
etemly pressed his rifle against his
back and cocked it. The Indian
bowed his head and advanced.

Oh they went beneath the form-
less wild the wind howling in the
darkens air, from slope to slope,
up hill, down dale, by quaggy
marshes, quenching their thirst
occasionally at some fresh fountain
by the wayside, but never halting
for a moment; until presently the
black night began to grow less,
there was a ‘gray light in the sky,
the leaves 0 the trees became dis-
tinguishable one from another, and
then, with a burst of joyous mu-
sic from myriad throats of birds,
morning broke.

Harrod stood and looked out
,upon the waste before him—the
charred and ruined but, the deso-
latcd field, and the grave of her
who had been all in life to him.
«He turned with a withering scowl
to the prisoner, and bade im, by
.a fierce gesture, advance. The In-
dian bowed his head and went in
Ythe direction to which the other
pointed.

Under a tree he halted.

Harrod cast his rifle and his knife
to the und, and using his im-
menses rength in a way that seem-
ed to betoken incipient madneslI
be bound the Indian to the tree.

Then he spoke for the first time
since the murder of his wife.

“Indian,” he said, “murderer,
assassin, on stand on the grave
of m wie."

“ hi" replied the other with
a shu der as he looked down at
the mound on which he stood.

“Indian, on are about to die,“
continued 0d, brandishing his

nlfe.

The Indian looked proudly and
ha htiiy up. He understood
deat , and glanced fiercely and
savagely at t e threatening white
man.

“ N 0, Indian, I ain’t goin tokill
you right off—no—perhaps mor-
row, )crhaps next day, perhaps in
a wee ," said Harrod, with an ac-
cent of hate, rage, and despair
quite terrible.

The Indian was eowed by the
terrible prospect of wait for
death in that ositlon. He ung
his head upon is breast.

Ilarrod sat down upon the
ground.

Presently he closed his eyes, and
seemed to “2:8. The Indian

y, and then rais-

to burst his bonds.
on him in an instant.

“ Ah 1 coward—I expect you want
an tilt—yon ain’t g0ne yet thou h.
But it ain’t no use, Indian. You re
tied up tight and you don't escape
this fixin . But you might, andso
the best thing I can do is in kill
you ri ht ofl‘.

“ li' ll” said the Indian, coldly,
“ big pale -face—much talk-
a ua w.‘

‘ Indian 1" replied Hatred. grave-

Harrod was

 

ly, as 8' he, so used to Indian cus-
toms, understood the sneer ; “ have
you then a squaw ?”

“ I have,” said the other.

“ Ah 1” and the white man’s eyes
glared with redoubled fury. “ A
squaw—and I reckon you love
her.

“She is the li ht of Moniwah’s
heart—the mot er of his little
ones,” said the Indian, with some
emotion.

“ Moniwah l” hissed Harrod close
to his ear; “ life is very dear.”

" A brave is always ready to
die,” said the warrior, coldly.

‘ An Indian warrior don’t lie—
I expect, if he says a thing, it is
right up and down, and no mis-
ta e.”

“ Moniwah has no forked tongue
—he is called True Heart.”

“ If I said, ‘Go, Moniwah, see

our wife and little ones, and come
hack in three suns to die '—would
Moniwah come ?” asked Harrod,
with a searching look.

“Moniwah would stand at the
foot of the tree as the sun touched
its top.”

“ Then I reckon, Indian, we can
come to terms,” said Harrod, with
eyen greater wildness than ever.

“ I listen."

“ And you ma live if you like,”
continued the S lent Hunter.

“ Ugh—speak I" said the Indian,
distrustfnlly.

“ Look ye, Moniwah—you killed
my wife and child—now you go
back to the camp—bring here your
wife and child, and 0 our gays—
then I reckon even ustice be
done. I am alone, and youwillbe
alone—we are quits.”

“White man dog!” roared the
Indian; “kill—no speak!”

“ So you won’t, to save your
life Indian give u thy wife and
little ones i” said arrod, moodi‘

1y.

“ No l” replied the Indian, cold-
ly, even scornfully.

“ Will e give up yer s uaw?"

“ No l ’ continued oniwah;
“ kill—no talk."

“ You have five minutes tu de-
cide " said IIarrod, shaking in ev-
ery imb and clutching his knife.

“Kill.” cried the Indian, fierce-
ly; “ the Manitou will take care
of my wife and little ones."

“Indian i” said Harrod, while
the scorching tears came rolling
down his manly cheeks, and his
whole frame uivered with wild
emotion, and h form dilated, and
his mien was d' ified and sub-
lime: “ I never killed adeer when
it do ended its young. Your love
for your wife and child has saved
your life. Gol Harrod will kill
no man in cold blood again.”

So sayi , he cut the the of
the astoun dShawnee,who, ow-
ever, quite understood the cause
of this wonderful change, though
he sunk to the earth when no lon-
ger held up. Harrod stooped and
raised him up. He shock a little,
and something of his old rancor
leavened his present Christian em-
otions when he saw Custalo
Harvey, and Bennett burst e
cover and come running up; but
he had felt too dee 1y to be sud-
denly changed, an he rose to
meet them with a faint smile.

He shook them all by the hand,
and listened to the story of the
abduction of Amy and Jane with
his usual silence. He nodded his
head however, when they asked
him to ’oin them.

At this moment the Indian rose
and made a motion to speak. All
turned toward him.

With much emotion, in the

tive language of his race, he
re ated every detail, the events of
the ni ht, the terrible resolves of
Harrog, and the way in which he
had been brought round to change
his ideas. All listened with won-
der, though the conclusion of the
Shawnee’s speech scarcely sur-
prised them. IIe wound up his
oration b an offer to pilot them
to the thee of concealment lof
Amy ans Jane Moss, which oflcr,
however, was not accepted. He
named the place which was quite
sufllcient, and then the party at.
(incl:- started toward the Frog‘s.

o

 

 

41

...Q

 

CHAPTER XXXI.
a BEVY or 300m.

Ranrw REGIN was now in a po-
sition which few men would have
envied. He had within his walls,
as a prisoner, a man he had deeply
injured, while the person, to se-
cure whom he had acted in this
manner, had escaped his grasp.
Kate had not reappeared at the
Frog's Hole for reasons well
known to the reader, though Ralph.
had been unable to learn any ti--
dings whatever of her. This Cir--
cumstance, so inexplicable to the
man of crime and guilt, acted on
his mind with a force which her
trayed itself in startled looks, in
sullen mien, and continual appli-~
cations to the bottle. To Martha.
he was savage and morose, while:
whatever cheerfulness he display--
ed, as usual with drunken bus--
bands, was to his boon compan-4
ions.

At times he determined to re»
lease his prisoner, w ose presence,
after the escape of jg, was to a.
certain extent dangerous ; for Ragg'
would doubtless in the end reuse
the indignation of the country.
Then he resolved to tell the truth.
to the merchant, and throw him--
self on his mercy. But how was
like“? account for the absence of

ii

Racked b doubts, tortured by'
fear, genera ly overcome by drink..
Ralph‘s whole existence was now'
extremely wretched.

He stood before his door one:
morning—his boon companions.
were within drinking—musing sad--
1y on his past life, regretting much
that had been, and looking for—
ward with dismay to the future.
IIis crimes appeared to tread upon
his heels with a re. idity and swift-
ness he had little reamed of.

Suddenly the sound of ahorse-
man galloping roused him from his-
lethargy. He raised his head, and
at the same moment the new ar-
rival bounded from the cover. It
was a man in the dress of one of
the better classes of society—a

I'entleman, in fact, whom Ralph
did not know. Instinctively alive
to every thing that looked like
danger, he was about to retreat,
when the other came dashing up
to the foot of the stairs.

“ Is this the Frog’s Hole it" said
he, in a loud, imperious tone.

‘ Well, I guess it is,” replied
Ral h, shaking in every limb.

he man made no reply, but dis-
mounted, fastened his horse to a
rail, and came slowly on the ste .

Ralph stood motionless. is
senses seemed about to leave him.
That voice, too, was not unknown
to him.

“ The very man," said the stran—
ger, as he came close. “ Hackett,
as sure as I live.”

“ Sir Charles here 7” replied the
other hesitating.

“ Yes—am I too late f” asked.
the guilty cousin hurriedly, as he
noticed the man’s uneasiness and
alarm.

“ He is in there, and she is one.”

“In there ‘9” cried Sir C arles
hurriedly, his face becoming livid
in its pallor at the prospect of con-
fronting his victim.

“ He a safe under lock and keyi"
said Hackett, recovering himse

“ Well done 1" continued the
other, drawing alon breath; “but
why is she not here . ’

‘ That I dont know. She’s been
unruly lately. She’s not easily
managed, Sir Charles, I tell you.

"Are you alone 1’" asked the ..

other, musing and striking his
boots with his whip.

“ Well there ain’t but two inside;
but We can be private, Sir Charles,
if ygu have any thing to say to
me.

“ I have much to say to you,”
said the baronet, “ much and that
must be said quickly. Have you
wine up here ? ’ '

“ Well, you see Sir Charles, it
ain’t much asked or up here, but
we have first-rate spirits.”

“ Well, come on, and let me have
brandy. Is he out of hearing t”

u Quite.”

“ How does he bear it i” said
the other in slow tone, as if afraid
his (-old-bloodedness \should be
whispered to the air around.

 

 

“ Well, he does abuse me a few—
he’s mighty quiet to-day; but I
face he trusts to Bragg.”

“ g!" said Sir harles, tot-
tering, and clinging to the railing
over the pool ; ‘ he here 2""

“ Yes,’ replied Hackett \ ravely,
“he is here, and was lock in like
the other, but he escaped. It
seems he always carries the tools
about with him.”

“ That man has turned evidence ;
but how could he know ?"

“ He’s an old pal of the post-

)1

“Is it then so?” roaned Sir
Charles, as he waved is hand to
the other to lead on, speaking to
himself; “ is this the sure conse-
quence of crime—hope deferred
and detection 5’"

And the miserable man entered
the Frog’s Hole, in the principal
room of which were two men
drinking. At a sign from Hackett
they rose and went out. Martha
and the negress, who had both
been attending to household du-
ties, disappeared also, by order of

‘ the master of the house, who then

produced brandy and glasses.

The baronet drank ofl‘ a large
draught of the raw spirit, and then
sat down on a chair, his arms rest-
1 on the back, his legs across as
if e were still on horseback. He
closed his eyes for a few moments,
and then looked sterniy at the
landlord of the Fro ’8 Hole.

“ Haekett, ” sai he, “ ’twere
better, perhaps, this crime had
never been committed. I should
have been happier. But repent-
ance is now too late. Andrew will
seek to punish as well as to recover.
I can not,I will not stand a felon
in the eyes of my friends. I must
end what I have begun, and you
must still be my instrument. "

“ 1, Sir Charles? I think I have
done enough !" exclaimed Hackett
in a hurried tone.

“ You have done nothing,” con-
continued the other, coldly.

“Why, I’ve stole the girl, I‘ve
kept her here—”

“ But you have been found on
the cunning fox has been earthed,’
bitterly added Sir Charles' “but
if the dog has escaped, the unter
is in our toils. You have the game
standing at bay, and you must kill
or die.’

“If I kill—" began Hackett.

“ Swear nothi ,” interrupted
the baronet, “ but isten."

“ I listen.”

“ Who told you tost my cousin's
child, Mr. Hackctt f” asked he,look-
ing the other coolly in the face.

‘ Why, you did,” said Hackett
wildly.

“ Did I? Pray, did I give you
any written order 2'"

“ N o ; but you came tome, and
asked me to join you.”

“ Where are your witnesses ?"
sarcastically inquired the baronet.

“ Why, the post-boy—” said the
bewildered highwayman.

“ Th .* witnesses are yourself and
another highwayman,’ persevered
Sir Charles, with a bitin tone of
irony, which he allowe himself
the more readin that he played all
the time with the handle of his
pistol.

“ But you were with us i" shriek-
ed Hackett, tearing his hair with
impotent rage.

“ Was I indeed? Why, Master
HackettJ have a dozen witnesses to
prove that I neVer left my room
[or a fortnight — Mrs. , my
house , who knew to theeontrary
is dead ’ '

Hackett groaned and wrung his
hands. The educated villain had
taken precautions of which he had
never thought.

“ And pnuy, Sir Charles, what
does all this mean i?" asked Hack—

tt.

“That I have a great mind,"
said Sir Charles, raising his pistol
to a level with Hackett’s head,
“ to drag you to my cousin’s room,
reveal to him all your rascalities,
and hand on over to his mercy.
We shoul have no difficulty in
getting you to En land, and I will
undertake to find irate. '

“But what am I to do 1" groan
-ed Hackett.

“ You see, my ood fellow, iiiu‘;
either you or An rew must be Ping,
out of the way. If you iikr- m

C

 

42

 

 

han , 1 will nndertaketobe recon-
cile to him; but if you wish to
live,”the young girl knows noth~
n

“ Nothing,” repeated Hackett,
mechanical y, at the same time
draining off a goblet of rum.

“Then, if you wish to live, and
keep the girl and the annuit ,
WIrlR', you know the alternative.’

he baronet spoke coldly and
distinctly, as if it were the most
ordinary matter of business. This
however, was merely an assumed
ease, to crush the resistance of
. Hackett. His heart beat all the
time tumultuously, and it was with
difficulty that he ke t the pistol
in his hand from shalEin .

“ If it must be, it mus be,” said
Hackett, with a shiver.

“ And how do you propose to do
it 9” asked the baronet, coldly.

“ Well,” said Hackett, fixin his
eyes doggedly on the ground, ‘ the
game’s up in this part of the world,
—so I tell you what, Sir Charles—
I’ll just take what few things I
gut, and then I’ll fire the place.

are will be plenty of time for
the others to escape, (mt he can’t.”

“ Well, Mr. Hackett,” contin-
ued Sir Charles. “ when you try
your hand at arson, perhaps you’ll
give me fair notice.

“ I will,” said the other.

“ But I hope you will do it pro-
perly—I suppose it will be your
first, appearance as an incendia-

“ No I” said Hackett, wildly, and
in choking accents, “ it will not—-
but that matters little to you, Sir
Charles.”

“ Not a bit, my flue fellow," re-
plied the other; “but now show
me a room where I can rest my
weary limbs, and wake me at
dusk.”

Hackett rose and showed him to
Kate’s room, and as he heard him
lock himself in, shook his fist at
the door. He was then about to
return to his seat, when the two
men announced the return of the
expedition, at the head of which
'was Simon Girty.

' The sup osed Ralph Regiu mov-
ed towar the door, and saw the
motley grou of Indians and rene-

ades, head bySimou Girty. In

heir midst walked Amy and
Jane Moss, scarcely able to sup-
port themselves, it strue, but en-

eavoring to show a resolute front
to the vil ainous gang who had suc-
ceeded in capturing them.

“ Welcome, ladies,” said Hack-
ett, alias Regin, affecting to con-
sider them as travelers; “welcome
to my house—it’s not a first cho
hotel,but it is pretty comfortable. ‘

Amy entered slowly, sweepin
by the highwa man as if he ha
not existed, ollowed by Jane,
who trembled and shuddered, less
accustomed than her sister to the
wilds. They were both dressed.
They had been gag ed in their
room before undress ng, by four
men they found ready concealed
there, and borne away to the woods
through the wicket gate when all
was still in the Moss.

“Where are we to go ?” said
Amy, imperioust fixing her eyes
on the innkeeper.

“ Well, miss, I reckon I’ll show
you aniceish room, anyhow,” re
plied Regiu, bowing.

He then led the way, Amy and
Jane quietly following, until they
reached one of the many rooms
similar to that occupied by An-
drew Carstoue. On their read
they were joined by the negress,
who was introduced to the two
young irls as their future attend-
nnt as on as they honored the
Fro r’s Ho 6 with their presence.

Tie room was the best of the
whole number, and stood midway
between those occupied by Andrew
Carstone and Ragg] on the night
of their arrival. e girls retain-
ed their composure until they
Were left alone. Then they fell in-

to each other’s arms and wept.

“ 0h, Amy, who has done this i'”
said Jane, sobbing in a way that
seemed to threaten the breaking
of a blood-vessel.

“ I know not,” cried Amy wild-
iy. “l have strange sus {clone
but I can say nothing. W e must
wait my dear girl, and put our

 

trust in Him who atone can save
us.

And by an instinctive impulse
the two young irls knecled down
and raised their voices aloud in
earnest and heartfelt prayer.

Meanwhile Ralph Begin—we call
him by the name he went by in
that house—had gone back to the
common room, to attend to the
wants of the numerous party
which had just arrived, all clam-
orous for drink and food. This 00-,
cupied him for some time, and
drowned his thoughts, which were
not of a very pleasant character.
However we may be hardened in
crime, the prospect of a new one
will always painfully afl‘ect even
the most callous.

Presently the motley group of
radium dispersed themse ves over
the house in search of rest, some
outside even behind the wood-pile,
each where his fancy took him.

Ralph and Martha were again
alone. He looked at her sternly,
and with some de ree of hesita-
tion, as if undecided what he
should do with her. At last, how-
ever. he spoke.

“Martha,” he said, “he read
by dark. Most likely we sh
leave this place to-ni ht for ever.”

“Eh! vat ?" excl med the am
fortunate Dutchwoman.

“Pack up as little as possible
We shall have only two horses
and I shall have my load! Hush !’

And he turned to greet anew ar-
rival in the shape of Squire Bar-
ton, who entered with a flushed
and e or countenance.

“ l is well,” said Ralph Regin,
quickly.

“ I knew it,” re lied Squire Bar-
ton, hurriedly. ‘ All is well in so
far that they are here. But do
the suspect any thing?”

“ can not say,” answered Ralph;
“I did not ask any questions.‘

“ Ralph, no nonsense,” cried
Barton, impatiently; “shut that
door, and let us talk. You per-
fectly understand me. I am sup-
posed to come here to the rescue,
and save them from Girty and his

gang.” .

“ o it was explained to me,” re-
plied Ralph; “ but, Squire Bar-
on, this is the last time you and
I does business together.’

H why, pmy gn

“ Because before midnight I shall
have left the Frog’s Hole, which
will be burnt down—by accident I”

“Ah!” said Barton, looking cu-
riously at him; “ why by acci-
dent? ’

“ Squire Barton, I don’t do bus-
iness only with you. If I tell you
other people’s secrets, why should
I keep yours from other people?”

“There is some reason in that.
Have you seen Kate lately ?” he
added, looking hard at Ralph.

“ No! but I ve seen Butler, the
colonel, you know, and he says—
mind the 27th June.”

“Again!” shrieked Barton, ex-
hibiting every sign of abject ter-
ror, “ again that date.”

“And, squire, since we are pret-
ty thick, I must tell you Kate s fa-
t er has turned up, and wants to
lkill ,every body as interferes with

or

“Indeed!” said the squire.
mocdily, as he remembered where
he had left Kate.

“And Colonel Butler did say
that Robert Jay would. give you a
call about that, some time,’ con-
tinued Ralph, who enjoyed the
terrors of his fellow-criminal.

“There is no time to be lost,”
cried Barton in a tremulous tone;
“the time or action has come.
Ralph ! at eight this evening I will
be ready!”

“ Very good, squire.”

“ See that my knaves make them-
selves respectable by that time,”
said Barton, “so that Amy may
not know them.”

The iunkeepcr acquiesced, and
then Barton went to a recess be-
hind the bar, and throwing his
Weary frame on a couch, was soon
in a sound sleep. .

The shades o evening were fall-
ing, the band of desperadoes hid
unpainted their faces and as fiiras

sible made themselves look
ike the 'decent retainers of a Weal-
thy house: Ralph was eating his

Beadle’s Dir-neulfibi'arY-_

l

 

 

 

sup er, having (got every thing
rea y but his gol , when an Indian
came slouching into the place. He
was a man of middle hight, with
hideous paint all over his body,
streaks of varied hue, especially
those which usually characterize
the half-drunken conjuror. He
had an ample supply of bells upon
his person, that jingled as he
went.

The guard outside let him pass
unnoticed, but looked lazily in to
see what reception he would meet
With.

“ Boozoo, brudder—glass whis-
ky !” said the Indian, in a guttu-
ral tone.

“ Take it and be hanged to you,”
re lied Regin savagely.

‘ Herc dollah,” said the Indian,
with a grin.

“Oh, if you have a dollar, it’s
all right!” exclaimed the molliiied
innkeeper, holding out his hand
for the coin, which he pocketed
without offering change; “you’d
better take a bottle, I ness.”

“ Me no want bottle. continued
the other, in broken English, “me
want drink, eat, sleep.”

“ Well, we’re pretty full of stran-
gers, but you can sleep outside, I
guess—”

“A pretty fellow you,” said
Barton, advancing from behind
the bar; “you expect gentlemen
to put up here, and you give shelter
to drunken Indians.”

“ Drunken Indian goodas you,”
replied the Shawnee, with offended
dignity.

arton started, looked nervously
at the Indian, and advanced nearer.

“ Who are you, and whence
came you ‘3” he asked, curiously,
as he surveyed his paint and fea-
tures.

“ Him Muskwash,” said the
other, moving with all the gait of
a drunken ninn.

“ Ah !” exclaimed Barton, quiet-
ly, for he knew Muskwash well,
“and since when have on taken
the name of Muskwash .”

“Since Muskwash, my brother,
was killed by the whites."

“ Mr. Cusuilo ra,” exclaimed

:arton rravely, “ have long wish-
ed for is o portunity—at last I
have you. old the door there;
at the peril of your lives let none
pass. llackett, on him !”

Custaloga—for it was indeed our
hero—stepped back, flourished his
tomahawk, and looked about for
a safe retreat.

“It is useless—you have come
into my quarters as a spy, and on
must take the consequences. hy
would you track me 1’”

“I seek Amy Moss," replied
()ustaloga earnestly ; “give her up
and I will ro.”

“There is no Amy Moss here,”
answered Barton, coldly, leveling
his pistol; “but 1 have business
here I choose not you to know.
Surrender, or I fire.”

“Fire!” said Custaloga, watch-
liig him with the eye of a tiger,

and slowly raising his glittering ax.

CHAPTER XXXII.
FIRE !

As Barton and the Indian Cus-
taloga, stood confronting each
other, the former with his finger
still on the trigger of his istol, a
dark form rushed in etween
them. It was the negro woman,

Judy.

“ Nebber !” shrieked the old
negress; “nebhcr, Massa James,
you no kill you (rrmlder Reqilmldl"

“ Silence, you old hug—you lie,”
roared Barton, catching her by the
throat. “Down with him! away
with him—tie him up.”

And while Custaloga was drag-
ged away, himself‘overpowcred by
the new light in which he saw
things, Barton continued to scream
and shake the "egress, until liegin
and himself Were alone with the
old woman.

“What mean you, wretched old
black idol .9" he then said, his
teeth chattering in his head.

“ Ole Judy spik de trute,” said
the negress, sullen .

“ Out of my sight!” roared Bar-
ton, reIi-using her; upon which
the poor old woman fled in dismay.

 

 

The traveler’s door was opened
several times during this scene.

“ You are roing to burn the
house ‘2” said Barton, hurriedly.

“ I am,” replied Ralph who had
watched this scene with little sur-

rise. The secret, unknown to

ten, was known to Girty, But-
ler, Phoebe, Judy, and others.

“Begin,” hissed Barton in his
ear, clutching his arm with his
two hands madly, “let him be
fastened in a room as well as the
father of Kate !”

“ But I never said—” exclaimed
Rcvin, with blanched cheeks.

‘?But I know,” continued Bar-
ton, with extreme volubility, “and
Isay it must be done,” added he,
sava rely.

“ t shall be done,” replied
Regin, who began to feel the mad-
ness of crime come over him.

In a few minutes the men re
turned from taking Custaloga to a
can, and all began to prepare for
de urliirc.

:irton was the first who was on
the move. He went out at the
front door, with a select party of
his men, and ascended the valley.
The rest, with instructions to re-
gainl Scowl Hall, went down by the
poo .

There remained Ralph, Martha,
Judy and Sir Charles.

Ra ph and Sir Charles were dead-
ly pale. The latter came and went
hurriedly to and fro, muttering to
himself, chan ing his mind, mak-
ingit up again, and unniaking it.

be old Dutch clock of the house
struck eleven. Martha and Judy
were told to go down and saddle
the horses. “

Ralph and Sir Charles an

‘ firing the house. They place a

huge pile of furniture in the very
center of the apartment with s
guantity of dry fuel, and ignited it.

hen they entered the ong pas-
sage, and pulled down one or two
logs that mi rht have impeded the
pro rress of t ie flames.

“ l‘he place is on fire!” roared
Andrew Curstone, as a volume of
smoke was driven by the wind up
the passage,- penetrating every
nook and cranny.

“ Fire! monsters l ” repeated
Custaloga, rushing with violence
at his barrcd door.

There came no sound from the
room in which the girls were con-
fined.

“Come on,” said Begin in a
husky tone; “ come on, Sir Charles,
or I shall let them out. I have
my treasure to get yet. There is
plenty of time.’

“ 011! on i" cried Sir Charles, in
a menacing voice, himself return-
ing to his room.

“Sir Charles!” exclaimed An-
drew, in a tone of agony and
despair, and he fell senseless on
the floor of his room.

Custaloga continued frantically
to lgittcrhat his floor. The two
flen sin uman s a e don
and the place was flIleJ by dense;
columns of smoke.

When Amy and Jane Moss were
placed together in one of the many
rooms of ,the mysterious building
familiarly known as the Fro ’3
Hole, they stood motionless or
some time, so overwhelmed were
they by this cruel and double mis-
fortune. They clasped eaeh other’s
hands, too much overwhelmed
with woe and grief to speak. The
room, to which their eyes grew
rapidly accustomed, was neat, pro-
vided with a bed, a table, and some
chairs; the whole illumined in a
dim, mysterious way from the roof.
All this was- taken in at a glance,
and then the sisters sat down. ‘

“Amy,” said Jane, in a low
whisper, creeping close to her, as
if for protection, “what is the
meanln of this? Are we dream-
ing? this some dreadful night-
miire from which we shall presently
awake 1’” .

“ No, child,” replied Amy, who
had from experience more courage
to bear the ill-fortune that had
again befalleu, them, having so
liitcly passed through much that
was worse; “ this is, unfortunately,
reality.”

“ Whereare we f”

“I know not, and yet I suspect,”
replied Amy. ‘I have heard so

 

 

 

 

 

 

.. 4-? _.. . . «IRA

 

. wwflgm A_._._-.<_ 

 

The Silent Hunter.

 

much of the Frog’s Hole, that I
feel persuaded this is it.”

“ .‘he Frog’s Hole! Why, they
tried to murder Ezram Cook
there." said Jane with a shudder.

“They did,” continued Amy,
quietly; “but they will not at-
tempt to murder us.”

“ Why not?” asked the terrified
girl.

“ We are taken from the Moss,
lane, by one who has reason to
fear the iiiture. It is to force me
to become his wife that Barton has
done this.”

“ Barton—do you think it is
Barton, Amy .9”

“ Who else, my dear sister, could
have done it?—who else could
have penetrated to our chamber
and gagged us while we slept?
Doubt it not, Jane: we are that
man’s prisoners."

“But wh has he done this 7"
exclaimed ane, wildly.

“Jane, he must feel in his heart
that (Tiistaloga has made no vain
boast, and dreading exposure, he
has dragged us away.”

“Yon-think, then, that what
Custaloga says may be true ‘3”

‘I H

“ I mean that Custaloga is really
Reginald Morton.”

“I am almost as convinced of it
as ofmy life,” replied Amy warmly.

“But he may have been de-
ceived,” continued Jane.

“Father said his features were
exactly those of the parent he
claimed. Besides, I saw enough
of Barton‘s look of dread not to
doubt that even he believed it.”

“Then all that story of the In-
dians having killed them is un-
true."

“Jane, if what we suspect be
true, it is horrible. Barton, re-
leased from all influence at his
mother’s death, must have invited
a band of murderers to assault the
hall, slay Mr. Morton, and steal
away the children.”

“Horrible! Barton can never
[be so wicked,” urged Jane.

“I doubt if Barton be not capa-
ble of anything,” said Amy coldly.

“ Then it is quite possible," said
Jane, hiding her face, “that if
what Custaloga says be true, IIar
vey may be his brother."

“From his story I should think
it most probable. Simon Girty is
known to have been present at the
attack on the Block ; he must
have saved one child at lciistmwiio
saved the other we shall know in
time.”

“ "l‘is very strange,” said June,
“ that I never could think Custa-
loga quite an Indian.”

“ I did,” replied Aniy; “ butI
thought him a noble fellow for an
Indian.”

“Did you know he loved you
before i‘” asked June with a blush.

“I always knew it, ‘ said her eld-
er sister with a strange smile.

“ Since you knew Barton ?”

“ Of course. When I first knew
Barton iwas achild, and i received
his adresses and accepted iiisiiand
out of ride—it was not many
months. owever, before I began to
understand his character iiiid to
appreciate the silent affection of
Oasis. You recollect I gave up
teaching him."

"I know you did; you handed
him over to me;I could never
understand it before," said Jane,
quite startled.

“ I began to feel that, consider-
ing my position, I had no right to
be on such intimate terms with
any one. I am sorry for the pain
I gave him.”

" You were always very unkind
to poor Custa," said June gently,
“ Very unkind.”

, “ llow could I be otherwise?

Wih an atfianced bride, and lie
was an Indian. Had I been free, I
could not have accepted his affec-
Lions."

" i know it," repeated Jane,“ I
know it—and yet ‘tis a weak and
sill y prejudice. Why is not a good
Indian as good as— 2‘”

“ That would take us too long
to argue, dear rirl. We must think
now, not of t e past, but of the
future. It isa terrible one. As
for our imprisonment here, I care
not. We are here for ransom or
for :11: If for iansom, our dear

 

 

father will soon rescue us; if for
sale, ’tis to Barton, and I shall
know how to deal with him.”

“What a strange place!” said
Jane, gazing around at the walls
of their prison.

“ Strange indeed. Many an evil
deed, I fear, has been done in this
Frog‘s llole. Jane, dear, do you
not notice a strong smell of burn-
ingr ‘2” exclaimed Amy, startiing up.

“ Yes, it rushes through the
chinks in the door,” replied Jane,
wildly: “the room is filling with
smoke.”

“ What is to be done ‘2” said Amy,
pressing her sister to her heart;
“ the place is on fire !”

They stood for an instant utterly
overwhelmed with horror and sur-
prise, and then clasping each other
round the neck, began to weep
bitterly.

“ Can nothing be done ‘2” said
the sobbin Jane, gently disengag-
ing hersel .

“I will knock; perhaps they
may hear us," replied Amy, tak-
ing up a piece of wood and strik-
ing the door with violence.

No ansWer came, and yet the
smoke became thick and oppress-
ive, curling in dense clouds over
their heads, and exhibiting every
sign of entirely filling the dace.

“ We shall be stifled, ’ cried
Jai'i’e wildly, “the smoke is thick-
er .

At this moment they heard the
heavy footsteps of a man passing,
while cries began to resound from
various parts of the great cave.

“ Help! the place is on fire,“
said Amy, as the man passed the
door.

He did not even dei rn to answer.
A horrible suspicion f ashed across
the minds of the two girls, and as
they felt its full force they fell on
their knees.

“ Jane,” cried Amy, inexpress-
ibly shocked, “ Jane, loVe, this is
dreadful ! I fear we are left here
on purpose.”

“ It can not be—no—they are
not so-cruel,” shrieked Jane, who
began to lose the ordinary calm-
iiess of judgment which charac-
terized her.

Still the smoke flooded onward,
and they could hear the crack-
ling sounds of the tire.

‘ Let us pray, Jane;it is our
only hope,” said the elder sister
in a tone of agony. “ Man has
abandoned its — we must trust
wholly to God.”

“My sister, we can open that
door—‘tis hard to die thus,” ex-
claimed Jane, who rose hurriedly
to her feet.

“ Jane, my dear love, do not de-
ceive yourself. Escape is impos-
sible, unless aid soon comes from
without. Let us hope to the 1513
dear girl; but while we hope, is
us also fear and pray.”

And she gently drew her sister
(.0 her side, and raised her rich and
musical voice in prayer to Him in
whom alone she now at her
trust. It was a haunt an and
touching lcture—one of those
scenes wh eh are known only to
the Christian, for in him alone is
the faith and the belief that could
utter a distinct prayer in such a
time as this.

And still the smoke and heat in-
creased.

“Harkl” suddenly exclaimed
Amy, rising. “llarkl footsteps
approach."

“ Help! help i” shouted Jane.

A hand was heard u on the
door, its bolts were an astcncd,
and it flew open.

The flames burst quickly over
every part of the front of the build-
ing known as the Frog’s Hole—so
long the theater of many a plot
and crime—and now the prison of
Amy and Jane Moss, and of Cus-
taloga and Andrew Carstone.

There was no time to be lost,
and Ilackctt knew this well. llis
wish was to collect his gold and
escape without caring for any one
else, quite satisfied that he should
be able to find Kate wherever she
might be concealed.

’ he smoke of the fire spread _on
all sides, and, as we have said Ili-
vadcd the cells. Amy and .izine
“Man to cryiiloini for assistance,
and Cusialega raged like a wild

 

beast, though so choked was his
voice that he was not recognized
by the other listeners.

Andrew Carstone struck the
panels of his door violently with
the hilt of his sword, and also
cried aloud that the place was on
fire.

Hackett pursued his way toward
his secret treasure without voucli~
eating an answer to any of their
cries; Barton had disappeared;
and Sir Charles Carstone waited,
pale and haggard, in the kitchen
the progress of events. The paity
of ruilians who had brought in
Amy and Jane were not to be seen.
They were outside the Hole, wait-
ing the orders of their einpioyc '.

Suddenly Barton entered the
place, followed by several of his
more decent-looking retainers,
passed through the kitchen, which
was also beginning to fill with
smoke, and rushed along the pas-
sage. Ile threw open the door
of the cell in which the sisters had
been placed, caught them both by
the hand, and hurried them along,
regardless of their piercing crics
to save others who were in equal
danger with themselves.

“ There are plenty to save them
——come away, or the Indians will
be on us,” said Barton, sternly.

“Squire Barton!” exclaimed
Amy, retreating. from him, and
pulling her hand away violently
as they entered the kitclicn.

“You are surprised," said the
squire, bitterly: “you expected
it was another. I am allowed no
merit—not even that. of humble
devotion to you and your family.”

“You know best, James Bar-
ton,” replied Amy, while Jane ex-
amined him with suspicion ; “ you
know best why I have reason to
doubt you.”

“I know,” said Barton humbly;
“I know that you have every
right to find fault; but I hope to
be forgiven yet.”

“Take me home, squire!” ex-
claimed Amy, coldly; “take me
from this place—to which 1 have
every reason to believe you
brou rht ine.”

“ knew not even you were
here,” cried the squire of Scowl
Hall, furiously. “I heard that
knave Simon Girty had been
seen carrying you up here, and I
collected a few of my men to res-
cue 'ou.”

“ on know best the truth,‘
said Amy, still coldly and deubt-
ingly.

Barton made no reply, but for
reasons of his own hurried them
eagerly awayfrom the Frog’s Hole
to the smoking homes that await
ed tlicni outsidc,0n which they
all mounted, the whole iarty at
once making off in the directior
of the Moss.

Sir Charles Carstone now came
from, the small.bar, where he had
stood all this while unperceived,
and with a grim smile upon his
face as he saw that others were
making that place a field of crime
as we as himself, crossed the
kitchen to the bedroom he had re-
cently occupied. There he remain-
ed a quarter of an hour, and wait-
ed for Hackett. At the end of
that time, the tire making ap-

roaches toward that part of the

case, he sallied forth hurriedly,
beginning to have strange misgiv-
ings about the highwayman. and
ran against a new party of men.

“ IIoilo !” said he, starting back
with the violence of the collision.

“Where is Custalogzi ?” said
Harveyin a husky, menacing tone.

“W 0 do you mom 1‘” replied
Sir Charles, recovering himself.
“I have but just left my bed-
room.

“But saw you not an Indian
come here ll” continued Harvey
impatiently, while Charles and
tIliiarrod stood menacineg beside

m.

“Gentlemen,” said Sir Charles
quietly, “I am a total stranger
here; but if you will calm your-
selves, I will tell you all 1 know.”

“ S wak quickly then i” exclaim-
ed arvey, whose illlpctuosity
knew no bounds.

“ In the first place, two youn
ladies Were brought here las
night " he began.

 

 

"Go on i" cried Harvey, impa-
tiently clutching his rifle.

“ And were placed in one of the
inner rooms,“ continued Sir
Charles.

“Which?” shrieked Harvey,
preparing to dash into the flames.

“From which they were this
morning removed by one Squire
Barton and a party of hunters."

“ Ah! how long >iiice 1’" roared
Charles Moss, clutching his rifle
nervously.

“ About a quurler of an hour,”
continued Sir Charles coolly.

“They went on horseback ?"
said Charles sadiv.

H Yes."

“That was the party that woke
me,” exclaimed the young man
sadly; “and ere I was up they
were lost in the wood."

“ But the Indian—” V

“ Well, an Indian did come, and
after some talk was seized by
someone, I know not whom, and
dragged into the interior of this
place."

Harvey ii -ard no more, but
plunged up the steps intothe very
thick of the flames.

“Custa! Ciista l" he cried pas-
sionately, “ speak to me! speak l"

“ Here, quick!” said a faint
voice up the passage. The cor-
ridor was narrow, flames burstout
from its lcl'trliiiiid side, the smoke
was dense and choking, and yet
liai'vey knew nothing nor felt
nothing of it. On be bounded
with fury until the sound directed
him to the door. Suddenly he
struck against a man.

“ Ah l" he cried, “ who is
this 1’”

“ IIor rite,” growled a thick
voice; “jist lift the bar, and he‘s
suf‘ as ninepcncc—it ain’t w'erry
had yet."

And Cornev Ragg brushed past
him without another word.

llarvey opened the door hur-
riedly, and, as it proved, just in
time, for Cnstaloga was in a small
room, and was nearly choked with
the heat and smoke. Clasving
him by the hand, iiarvey drew
him along the passage, and in a
few minutes more, fainting and
weak, Ciistaioga was in the open
air, llarrod and Harvey being
alone with him.

Charles had disappeared, having
iakcii the first horse he could find,
and darted on the track of the
fugitives.

lle noticed with surprise that,
after ridill“ halfan hour, the horse-
men who accompanied Amy and
Jane Moss had turned into the
track which led toward the Block-
liousc. Charles felt surprised and,
amazed. The stranger, whom he
recollected as having been at the
Moss on a former occasion, had
said that the girls had been res-
cued from one Simon Girty by
Squire James Barton.

Were, then, all their suspicions
with regard to the proprietor of
Scowl liail so unjust, as this line
of proceeding indicated? While
he and his lends had been out-
lying in the woods on the look-
out for the young girls, the man
who had been so suspected and
doubt-ed by them all had effected
the rescue of his two sisters, and
was hearing them in triumph to
their home. .

Charles mused much on all this
as he rode along, and it was with
great diiliculty that he could re-
concile the strange character of
the events which had occurred
during.r the past few days. _

Suddenly, as he urged his horse
to the utmost speed, he heard be-
fore him the slow movement of
a cavalcade, and, hurrying on, soon
had the satisliiction of belioidiiig
Amy and Jane riding along side
byside in quict conversation, while
Barton and one or two armed men
brought up the rear.

“Stop!” shouth Charles, in a
loud voice.

Barton turned round, and. 119‘
cogniz'ing the young man, as Well
as the road he was coming, tiirncd
very pale. But he now played $00

deep a game to hesitate a moment.
He hailed thebroilicrof the young
iris with extreme coi'diality, and
alted his party while he came up.
“  wail" ointcia, L- .. .1; A... “a,

44

Beadle’s Dime Library.

 

 

 

riding impetuousiy past Barton,
“ whence came on i”

“ From the rog‘s Hole," re-

plied Amy, “ where we weretaken
y Simon Girty.”

“ Am I to understand, dear girls,
that you owe your release to
Squire Barton?’ continued the
younnr man,who was shaking hands
with “Both, heartil .

“ It appears so,’ said Amy, qui-
etly, and without emphasis.

“ Charles Moss,” exclaimed Bar-
ton, in the tone of a deeply-injur-
ed man, “ you would scareelv need
to ask the question had not your
mind been poisoned against me by
those mad youths, Custaloga and
Harvey, whose brains have been
turned by some prating old wo-
man."

“ Barton," said Charles, frankly
“ I mustconfess your kind conduct
to-day in hurrying up to save my
sisters does shake me much in my
preconceived ideas. But why did
you not save Custaloga also from
that miscreant Girty‘. ’

“ Was Custalo a there?” asked
Amy Moss, quic iy, at the same
time lancing at Barton.

“ I finew it not,” replied Barton,
quietly. “My first thought was
to get free from Girty and his gang.
Bu there are ilent of others
there to save.
ger.”

There was a moment of silence,
after. which Barton, leaving the
sisters to talk with their brother
rode on first. The party behind
were in great perplexity. Their

usta is in no dan-

doubts and difficulties ap cared to ,

increase rather than to iminish.
Barton was so positive, so cool, so
self -possessed, at the same time
that all were thrown into doubt
and perplexity. Amy Moss was
very pale and anxious in her man-
ner. She was staggered, indeed,
by the cool manner of the hypo-
crite. It appeared to her too great
a refinement of cruelty on the part
of the squire to be possible. To
steal her away with the theatrical
,object of bringing her back,seemed
too much like a scene in a play.

‘ “Is Costa safe, think you ?”
asked she, suddenly, of her bro—
ther.

“ I believe he is quite safe,” re-
llcd Charles. “ I left him in good
ands.”

“Then let us only rejoice at our
being once more on the way home,
and put our trust in Providence
to unravel the future,” she cried.

“You are right, Amy,” said
Jane, warmly; “it is much to be
snatched from the burning, and
we should be thankful for our es
cape. On to father 1”

And the high-spirited irl, the
tone of her mind quite res ored by
a short ride in the Open air, spurred
her horse and darted along the
road until she came side by side
with Barton.

“Thank you, Miss Jane ” he
said,,’warmly; “all do not esert

I

“Well, squire,” replied Jane
who, in realit , had been carrie
further forwar than she intended,
“ I have to thank you for restoring
us to our home—see, the Moss is
in sight. How deligth father
will be l” ‘

Amy and Charles came dashing
up at this moment at full speed;
but Barton, determined to be the
first to announce the state of af-
fairs, ve spurs to his powerful
anima , and in a few minutes more
was shouting aloud under the
stockade.

A moment more, and the judge,
pale and somewhat wild-looking
about the eyes, as if his reason was
somewhat weakened by this last
blow came rushing out.

“ that is it, Barton ?” he cried
aloud, in almost frantic tones.

“i have brought back your chil-
dren.” replied the squire, entl .

“ Have you, squire?” said il-
liani Moss, doubtingly; “if it be
so then name your day. The soon-
er Amy is your wife the better."

“ Do you want to st rid of me
so soon ?” exclaime the young
girl leaping ofi' her horse, while

a on gazed at the father in un-
feigned astonishment.

“ No. my child; but when you
have a husband to guard you,

 

these scenes will not occur. Come
in, children.”

No more was said that evening
on the question ; but Barton, who
as the next day passed, appeare
much relieved, pressed the matter
strongly then. Judge Moss, after
some hesitation, appealed to his
daughter, who asked three days
to consider.

At the end of three days, in the
evening, Amy came in from the

rden where she had been walk-
ing alone. All the rest were seat-
ed at tea.

“Father,” said she, solemnly,
“ I have thought over the matter.
I will be ready on the 28th, if the
bridegroom be also ready.”

All started. The judge looked
surprised. Barton’s lip curled a
little; but Charles and Jane turn-
ed very pale.

Amy Moss had consented to
Eafiry James Barton of Scowl

a .

CHAPTER XXXIII.
“ oaa mom."

MEANWHILE a very serious
tragedy was being enacted at the
Frog’s Hole, to which we return
for the last time. Corney Ragg
had descended by the secret way,
which appeared to be known to
none save the master of the house.
He had for some time felt the
burnin smoke that rushed u the
kind 0 shaft in the hill, an un-
able to moderate his impatience,
he had descended by the ladder
from the platform above to the
platform which stood before the
door of Ralph Regin’s treasury.
There he was startled to find the
door open, and that worthy coolly
packing up his ill-gotten treasure.

An idea suddenly entered the
mind of Cornelius Ragg, which
made him look uglier than usual.
He absolutely grinned with de-
light and cupidity. He appeared
now intuitively to guess at the
object with which the fire had
been allowed to gain upon the
damp and green logs, and to realize
the idea that the flames were the
work of an incendiary.

“Orr rite,” muttered he to him-
self ; “tit for tat, old boy.”

And he quietly descended the
stairs 'and after giving the advice
already alluded to, to Harvey,
who was dashing alon in search
of Custaloga he foun the door
of the room in which Andrew Car-
stone was confined. He opened
it with ease, it being simply {as
tened by a bar on the outside.

"Eh, 111851.01!” he cried as he
rushed in, surprised to hear no
sound.

No answer came to his call.

“Eh! Master Carstone—it’s orr
rite—it’s Rag —git up.“

He receive no answer to this
appeal any more than to the other,
and feeling about soon found An-
drew Carstone extended insensi-
ble on the bed. ‘

“Orr rite,” he said, snatching
up the form of the merchant, who
was half suffocated by the smoke
of the green wood of which Fro ‘s
Hole was principally built—“ k m
alon l”

And with these words he darted
outof the room just as the flames
began to crackle and burst forth
with an energy which showed how
wise he had been to lose no time.
All retreat by the way Harvey had
taken Custaloga was now impea-
sible. This he saw at a glance,
and yet the weight of the man he
carried was such that it appeared
equally impossible to ascend the
stone steps on the inside with
such a burden.

Comey Rn rg, however, was not
easily intimi ated. He roused all
his energies, and they ware not a
few, to meet his task, and mut-
terin consolatory words to him-
self, e gained the foot of the
stairs, up which the smoke was
now rushing with rapidity.

“ Leave me, save yourselfl”mut-
tered Andrew Carstone in a choked
voice.

“Orr rite,” replied that wor-
thy, coolly ascending the stairs.

‘M brain is hunting,” con-
tinue Andrew; “\ll‘wrenm l?”

“ Never you mind said Corney

 

 

 

philosophically; “ but just shut
your mouth, or you’ll swallow
more smoke nor is pleasant.”

Corney had reached the first
platform, and had his reasons fo'
allowing no sound to reach the
man who was still slowly and de-
liberately making up his packages
in the treasure-room.

He had east Mr. Carstone on his
back, wherehc held him with one
hand. He had but one to ascend
the ladder with. It was impossible.
Corney cast a glance at the stoop-
ing villain, and let Mr. Carstone
slide slowly to the ground. Then
be fastened his arms round his
neck, and succeeded in making
him clasp them. His hands were
now both free, and he commenced
a cautious and slow ascent of the
ladder. Several times Carstone
appeared about to let go: but at
last, after some unexampled ef-
forts, Ragg let him fall on the up-
per platform, whcnee he soon
dragged him into the open air, and
laid him down on a soft, turfy,
open space surrounded by trees,
with a stream of balmy air above
his head.

He then left him and returned
to the upper platform of the
shaft.

Arrived there, he deliberately

.drew up the ladder and passed it

out of the cave. It must be recol-
lected here what Cornelius Rag

was, what his education and usua
associates had been.

Having drawn up the ladder, he
sat himself down on the edge of
the platform. Above him was an
aperture that lighted the whole
shaft, and through this the smoke
whirled, leaving the upper plat-
form ncarly free from smoke alto-
gethcr.

” Hackett!” said Corney Ragg,
suddenly, in a deep, hollow voice.

The man started violently, look-
cd around, stood up, and waited.

“ Hackett!” re eated Corney.

The man boum ed into the )lat
form and slammed the door be ind
him. He uttered a savage cry as
he saw how the fire had increased
below. He then looked up, and
shuddeer as he saw Cornelius
llagg sittin on the upper ledge
of t ie plat orm.

“ What do you want?” said he,
in a bushy tone, listening at the
same time for sounds from below.

“ I vanted in master, and I got
him ” replied I agg, laughingly.

“ s Mister Carstone free? said
Hackett, with a slimmer and he
muttered, in a low tone, “ What
will Sir Charles say ‘2”

“Oh, orr rite,” continued Ragg.
“Sir Charles vas in the secret.
Pays weli, eh i’”

“ What mean you?” said Hack-
ett, sullenly; “get out of my way
while I get up out of this place;
it’s etting too hot.”

“ rr rite; but vere’s er lad-
der ?” grinned Ra g. “ thinks
as how you’re tree , my boy."

Hackett felt with his hands, and
discovering the truth, gave a yell
of terror and fury which made
Rag start and shudder.

“ ive me the ladder i” said
Hackett wildly, “give me the
ladder!”

“ It’s on rite,” replied Ragg,
coldly ; “ I’se the judge and jury,
old icilar. You knows the lor
better nor I do—you are a murder-
er and a thief, and you must die.”

“Die!” said the rufiian, with a
roar, as the idea of death, and in
one of its worst forms, was real-
ized to him. “ Die! I can not, I
will not die l"

“ They all says that," exclaimed
Ragg, with supreme contempt;
“ you ain’t harf a chap.”

“ Brigg,” said the highwayman,
in a slow, deliberate,-and some-
what supplicating voice, passin
his hand across his hot and fcverc
brow; “i never did you any harm
—let me get up—I‘ 1 split on Sir
Charles if you will—you’ll want
me to prove who Kate is."

“No ve don’t—no ve von't,”
said Ragg, coldly.

“ Well, what do you want of
me 1’” screamed Hackett, wildly,
gaining new terrors from the 0th-
er’s cold and deliberate manner.

“ Nuilin," quickly replied Ragg.
“ All I vants is the fun.”

 

“You are not such a monster,
Ragg," shrieked the wretched
creature, who began to see the
flames he had himself illumined
advancing slowly and steadily to-
ward him.

“Does yer value yer life werry
much i'" said Ragg, with a sneer.

"Ofeonrse i do,” replied Hack-
ett, for a moment filled with
hope.

“Then yer vouldn’t mind pay.
ing a 00d round sum for it ch ‘2”

“ ere am I to get it? ’ said
the highwayman, in a faltering
voice.

“ Now none of your nonsense,”
exclaimed Ragg, contemptuously.

“What do you mean ?” asked
Hackett, half defiantly. He could
not rive up his money. -

“glow, Hackett, you’ve been a
wcrr bad man; you’ve tried to
mur er my master—you’ve been
paid for it—vell, you give up your
money, and make me sure you
ain’t got ne’er a penny, and I’ll
give you the ladder.”

“ Monster! would you leave me
{.0 starve?” shrieked Hackett,wild-

He was about to die by fire, and
he could think of starvation.

“ Vich is best, old fellow,” jeer-
ed Ragg, “ to be roasted or to vork
honestly for a living?”

“ Take half,” cried Hackett
wildly, as the flames advanced
with a crackle and a roar that were
perfectly awful.

“ All or nufiin,” said Ragg,
quietly preparing to go.

“ Leave me a little— only a
little,” replied the highwayman,
frantically.

“All or nufiln,” repeated Rag ,
who saw in the treasure of HaeE-
ett a snug little competency for
himself, and who could not but feel
that the robber, murderer, and as-
sassin could not be too severely
punished.

He was no more cruel than the
law, but he made himself the law,
am: no human society can allow
t .

“ Take it, monster l” said Hack-
ett, wildly, as the flames were *ar-
ried close to him by a violent puff
of“w(i)nd.fl " i R

rr te, repl ed , rin-
ning, and reaching his fifidg to-
ward the ladder.

Hackett held up a small valise,
tightly fastened. Ragg had seen
him put the money n it. He
stoo over and clutched it in his
nan . It was as much as he could
do to reach it. He, however, did
succeed, and having deposited it in
a safe place, he handed the ladder
down to the highwayman. Im-
mediatel he had done this he bur-
ried out nto the open air.

Mr. Andrew Carstone was sit-
ting upon the grass, pretty well
recovered.

“ Well, Ragg,” he said, warmly,
“I owe this to on. What have
you in your han ”

“ Orr rite, sir,” replied Ragg,
looking to his pistols, “it’s Hae -
ett’s price for saving him. He left
you to burn on purpose.”

“Why f” asked Andrew Car-
stone, wildl .

“ Cos Sir Charles paid him to do
it,” replied Ragg.

“Sir Charles .” said Andrew,
bounding to his feet; “where is
he i’”

“ Round in the inn,” continued
Rag , who held the valise in one
ban and pla ed with a pistol in
the other, as ackett came out 0!
the cave, pale, tottering, and burst-
ing with rage.

“Thief!” he cried, “give me
back my money, my property.”

“ Hackett,” said Carstone,
hoarseiy, “ you have robbed me
of my child, you received the
wages of sin and guilt, and you
leagued with my cousin to murder
me. Go ! be satisfied that your
life is spared.”

“Mr. Carstone,” said Hackett
humbly, “ Sir Charles threatened
to accuse me to ou of the whole
guilt—threatens to shoot me in
the head—used all kinds of th reats;
the uilt is his, hot mine.”

“ hat is nothing to me—you
ave this to lingg to save your
ife. Aid me to recover my child,

and i will rewnrd you.”

won». r..., R... 1

 

 

The" Silent Hunter.

45

 

 

“ Follow me," said Hackett,
gloomil .

He then led the way up the glen,
and showed them, after paSsin
through atangled bush, a patg
that led downward to the Frog’s
Hole. They walked in silence. all
anxious for the démmement. They
felt that the meeting of the cons-
ins would be terrible.

In a few minutes the came in
sight of the front of t e house.
This part was not yet in flames,
but the heat had become intense,
and all those who had been in the
but had left it, and were standing
round a rude bench, on which re-
clined Custaloga, who had been
brought to his senses with much
difficulty. ‘

Andrew Carstone laid his hand
upon the hilt of his sword and
felt for his pistols. A gleam of
hate and rage shot across his face,
as he saw Sir Charles standing up
with his back turned to him. He
had determined to secure his per»
son on the double charge of arson
and attempted murder.

“ Surrender, villain i" he cried,

- im etnously rushin on.

ir Charles tnrne round quick-

' ly, with a glaucc‘of horror and a

paliid look which made his fea»
tnres appear perfectly frightful in
their distortion. liis eye caught
a glance of Carstone and Iiackett
at the same time. On the face of
the latter was a look of demouiacal
triumph.

“Traitor!” he cried, discharg-
ing a pistol full in his face: and
then away he bounded impetuous-
ly, to escape the well-merited an-
ger of his cousin.

“Save me—I die i” cried the
wretched IIaekett, while all the
others stood transfixed with her-

ror.

Next minute g and Andrew
Carstone were on t e traces of the
fa tive.

ir Charles, bewildered, con-
founded, amazed at the appearance
of Andrew in company with Hack-
ett, and really believing himself
betrayed by his confederate, had
in a moment of un ,overnable rage
fired a‘ istol wh ch he had in.
stinctive y drawn from his waist.
When he saw the man fall, his eyes
seemed to fail him, and he turned
to fly without looking to see where
he was going. v

In his blind terror, and unre—
strained by any gentle angel, that
so often hovers over the good and
the worthy, he dashed against. the
railing that kept people from fall-
ing over into the pool, and fell
headlong ‘ down into the water
below.

The pool was deep, its waters
black, and down hewent headlong.
Andrew Carstone gazed over in
horror. ,

The body did not come up again.

They returned hastily to where
Hackett, supported by his wrfe
and the negress, lay prostrate.

“ Mr. Carstone,” he said faintly,
“I am (1 ing. But i have time to
say that deeply repent the Injury
done you. That was your daugh-
ter I had charge of.”

“ Where is she ?” asked Car-
stone.

“I know not.” ,

“ Then ask not my forgiveness, ’
replied the merchant moodily.

“ Forgive me! oh, Mr. Carstoue
forgive a wretch who was bribed
by worse than himself.”

“ My daughter!” replied the
other again sternly. I _

“ Is quite safe and wrth friends
who are deeply ndebted to her,
said Custalo a, who had now re-
covered su ciently to speak;
“ that is, if Kate Begin, as she was
called, be the girl that you are in
search of."

“That is her," replied Hackett
faintly. .

“I forgive you, as I forgive the
wretched instigator of your crime,
who has preceded you to judg-
ment." replied Andrew Carstone
solemnl .

“Sir )Charles dead!" shrieked
Hackett wildly; “then there is a

net God. Crime is always pun-
twill" " id c tal sol

‘ we as ‘us 0 -
emnly. x“Ah! who comes 

A horseman was distinctly heard

 

ailloplng up, and next moment a
and powerful man ascended
in

e steps.
“Colonel Butler!” cried Custa

ton

" Yes!” said that individual.
“Come. No time is to be lost.
You must ride with me. We can
talk by the way. Whence comes
this fire ?”

Cnstaioga hurriedly explained,
and then prepared to go.

“Leave me with the women,"
said Ilackett faintly.

“Orr rite,” replied Ragg). “I’ll
stop and nurse you—an Low me
if I don’t give yer half yer money
back."

This offer bein accepted, Cus-
taloga, Harrod, utlcr, Carstone
and Harvey turned awa from that
den of crime and m e the best
of their way u the direction indi-
cated by their leader. Custaloga
undertook to call on Kate by the

way.

Colonel Butler was the avenging
angel who had brought discovery
on Barton.

CHAPTER XXXIV.
nAi HAi as!

IT was a g§oomy day. The feel-
ing in the lock was one of sad-
ness and undefined dread. The
judge havin yielded to the per-
suasions of urton knew not how
to retreat. He rose early and
.went out into the garden with
Charles. His walk was uneasy,
his face pale and anxious. Charles
was equally sad.

“ My son,” said the judge, lay-
ing his hand upon his arm, “this
is a terrible state of uncertainty.
I have promised my child to
Barton, he having restored her to
me, and yet—”

“ You are not satisfied, my dear
sir,” replied Charles quickly;
“could not we delay it for a day
or two ion er ‘2"

“ No! n the exuberance of m
j.) at her second safe return,
sad ‘Take her; name your own
da .”‘

“You did, father, and but for
this strange disappearance of Cus-
ta, Harvey, and their friends, I
should hesitate still'more.”

“I should hesitate but for the
unaccountable calmness of Amy,”
said the father; “she has raised
no objection, nor does Jane—’tis
mysterious and puzzl’ 1g. The
events of the last few Weeks, in-
deed, have utterly amazed me. I
know not what to think.”

“I have ridden far and near to

t a trace of either Custa, or

arvey; but they have disa pear-
ed and left no sign. Sometimes I
dread a crime.”

“ Charis], there is a Providence
above us, and in it we must put
our trust,” said the father solemn-
ly. “See, the girls are up; they
nodded to me from ther win-
dow.”

The two gentlemen then, after
kissing their hands to the girls,
turned slowly toward the river, on
which side the guests were ex-
pected to arrive. Barton was to
come at eleven with the minister
who was to ofliciute and pro-
nounce the blessing on this ill-
starred and ill-omened marriage.

A: an early hour, two of the
neatest and sprightlicst of the
negro attendants of the Moss eu-
tercd the room of the sisters.
They were already up and busily
engaged in laying out the simple
fiuery which Was to adorn them
on this memorable occasion.

“Many happy returns of the
day!” said Rosa with a laugh,
while the other girl curtsied in
silence. Like all of their race, a
wedding was to them apeculiar
Occasion for rejoicing.

“Thank you,” replied Amy
gravely.

“ Will Miss Amy dress for
breakfast now?” continued the

irl.

g “ No; make our excuses to my
father and bring us breakfast
here,” replied our heroine, who
was provokingly calm and easy in
her manner. ‘

The attendants went out to
obey these directions and left the
sisters once more alone.

 

“How br ht your eyes are
AmKi” said am, as she looks
kin yand yet strangely at. her;
“I never saw you look so beau-
tiful.”

“Hush, silly one i There is fever
in my blood, the fever of anxrety
and doubt. With all my bold re-
solves I begin to be very nervous.”

“ Dear, dear Amy; are you
quite sure you know what you are
about?” exclaimed Jane, leaning
on her shoulder tenderly.

“Quite sure, dear June. I feel
that I am doing but right, how-

ever strange my conduct may ap-
I'I ‘

pear.

“ How grave and sad father
looked just now,” mused Jane,
shaking her pretty curls; “he
does not think it right.”

“Of course he does not. Jane,
dear, trust in me. I am acting for
the best: I am acting so as to in-
sure my own happiness and the
happiness of others. Wait awhile
and you will understand better,”
added Amy.

“Dear sister, I am accustomed
to hearkcn to your words and to
believe them ; but it does seem to
are strange after all that has pass-

‘ed, that you should at last consent

with so much ease to marry J amcs
Barton, simply to please father.”

“ But father does not wish it ”
said Amy with a merry smile.

“Upon my word," cried Jane
“1 do begin to think you are not
in your right senses to torment
me thus.”

“ Thank you, Miss Jane Moss,"
said Amy with much solemnity,
and an obeisance quite ludicrous;
“ but when did I agree to marry,
James Burton ?” '

“ Why, Amy, what do you
mean '3” said Jane, tnming quick-
ly round.

“ I ask on, Jane, when I agreed
to marry ames Barton?“

“ Did not father fix this day,
and did not on consent 5*”

“ I said, ‘ ‘athcr, I will marry
on the twenty-eighth, ifthe bride-
groom be ready. ”

“ Those Words are plain eno h
to me—the bridegroom wuiuie
here directly."

“ He may behere. but not ready.
Ifancy," continued Amy, taking
up a white vail and throwin, it
over her luxuriant tresses. “ 8 all
I wear a white vail 9”

“Incompreheusible girl i” said
Jane, somewhat relieved by her
manner; “I do not understand

on, but I will endeavor to be easy
n my mind.“

At this moment, Rosa entered
with amysteriouslook on her face,
while her companion came behind
with the breakfast-things.

“ What is it?" asked Amy Moss,
who was truly incom rehensible
on this occasion. Noth ug seemed
to (nave or surprise her.

“ A lady at the postem ante
want to speak private to . iss
Amy Moss,“ said the girl, her
large eyes becoming rounder than
usual from the decided mystery of
the case.

“Show her in, and say not a
word to any one,“ replied Amy.

“ Who can it be ‘3" asked Jane,
who began to be bewildered more
and more every moment.

“A friend,“ said Amy, “ whom
I have been expecting for some
days."

“ Why, Amy, who can it be 9"

“ Dear child, there shall be no
more mystery for you nowa-wait
until she comes in, and you shall
know all.”

At this moment Rosa returned,
leading in a lady, closely vailcd,
who, as soon as she entcrmi the
apartment, uncovered her face,
and looked somewhat uneasily
around. She was young and lovcl ',
but her face was careworn, pa e
and thin. She trembled violently,
and sunk on a chair.

“ Miss Amy Moss 2’” she said in
a tone of gentle inquiry, addressing
our heroine.

“Y'n " replied Anyi’y tenderly
takim: hand. “ on are not
Well. ..  ar‘madam f”

“I am weak, very weak; _and
the dread of this scene unnerves
me."

“Pray be calm. There is no
danger now—what has happened
can never happen again.”

 

“I know it—I know it—I know
that I may now live in peace. But
it is not so much that, as—as—a—
dislike to injure him-he is still
my husband i" said the trembling
woman.

“ Stran mysterious tie!“ cried
Amy. “ his man has tortured
your body and soul, and yet you
regret being the instrument of his
plipiishment—Wis natural, after
a .

“No. I do not rcrret—i only
dread the moment. hen once i
am sure ’tis over I shall be hat»
pier- I hoped never to have seen
him in. He is far more wicked
than could have believed him."

“Sister Amy !” cried Jane pas-
sionately; “explain to me what
all this means, or I shall go mad!"

“This is my sister June—and
listen, Jane, this is poor Mrs. Bar—
ton, whom he pretended dead l“

Jane raised her hands, pressed
them on her forehead, and sank
into a chair. -

“ Helen Barton!" cried Jane,
“ why, where,thcn,has she been 7’

“ In a dun men under his house,
where he be] eves her still-and to
that house this monster would
have taken me this night!" said
Amy wiih a voice of horror.

“And how discovered you all
this?” asked the bewildered Jane.

“ Custa,“ said Amy, with a deep
blush ; “ Custa halshere again been
our salvation.”

“ Ah i” cried Jane, turning pale
and red by turns; “ then they have
not deserted us ?"

“They have not,” said Amy
with a smile and a blush; “ but
come, let us have breakfast and
arrange our plans.”

The breakfast was laid before
them. For some time the two
sisters listened to the story of the
injured wife with deep interest.
Time, however, was going on, and
it was necessary to prepare for
the events of the day.

“Jane,” said Amy, bluihing
deeply, “do you kdow 'tis very
likely I shall be married to-day
after all i?”

“ What mean you ?” cried Jane,
again bewildered.

“ There will be a minister here,
and 'twill be hard to make him
come for nothing,” added Amy in
considerable confusion.

“ But how is it possible f" 6.:-
claimcd Jane.

“Reginald Morton will be here
at twelve o’clock,“coutiuued Amy.

“ Then it is all true ?"cried J aue.
“Naughty Am , why have you
concealed this rom me 9"

“Because he wished it,” said
Amy solemnly; “ he feared that
if explanations were given to all,
the just exposure and punishment
of the guilty would not have
been.”

“ When did you see him ask-
ed Jaue, anxiously, yet timidiy.

“ lie wrote to me, and he came
here one night when you were
asleep. and talked to me two
hours at that window,“ said Amy,
who was now more confused than
her sister.

“ Well, Amy, you have done for
the best. Does Reginald come
alone 1’"

“ No, silly one; his brother
comes with him, and if Amy Moss
becomes the wife of Reginald,
willy not Jane of Walter?”

- ane hid her burning, blushin
face on her sister’s roast an
sobhed aloud, while Mrs. James
Barton, or iIelen, as we may call
her, looked on with a half-sad,
half~ ratified smile.

“ aue, dear,” said Amy, caress-
in~ her hair with gentle solici-
tufie, “if it grieves you I will say
no more of it." .

" It does not ricve me, si;~tcr,
dear; but Richar —that is, Walter
—never asked me.”

“ But he will ask you, and that
this very day. He never daer to
ask you before, because he \Mln a

1' artist; but he always did
ove you. A pretty state of af-
f.irs, truly. I am going to marry
my pupil, and you your drawing-
master.”

And despite the solemnity of
the ocmion, Amy laughed aloud,
Meanwhilebg‘epotl {ignoch
in the BI w is no-
% to return. When the Ir

 

46

Beadle’s Dime Library.

 

ther and son receivedthe message
of the girls, intimating that they
would breakfast in their own room,
they went into the breakfast-room
at once and sat down to their meal
in somewhat solemn silence. The
were both in a state of painfu
nervous exitement, fearing almost
they knew not what.

“ Rash promises, my son,” said
the judge, earnestly, “are always
sure to bring their own punish-
ment.”

“ But, in dear sir,” replied
Charles, “ as Amy is satisfied, what
more can we ask?”

“ Charles! Charles !” continued
the judge, shaking his head
“ there is a m stery about Amy I
would gladly athom. She raised
no objection to this marriage, she
consented to the day ; and yet she
scarce speaks to the squire when
he is here, while he is constrained
and forced in his manner, as if his
happiness rests heavily on him. ’Tis
strange, ’tis wondrous strange !”

“I really can not make Amy
out," said Charles, in rep! ; “ on-
ly last night she laughs at me,
when I bade her reflect seriously.
She said she had reflected, and if
the bridegroom came, she would
be married to-day.”

“Yes, she does say the bride-

oom, but she never mentions

arton. She avoids his name.”

“Father! whatever is to be, for
weal or woe will soon be decided;
for here is arton and poor Clara’s
father,with one or two nei hbors,”
said Charles, rising and nging a
bell violently.

The judge stifled a sigh and
went out to meet his guests.

Barton was dressed with scrupu-
lous care, and though evidently
pale and agitated, looked han -
somer than usual, from the intense
state of excitement into which he

was thrown b the circumstances'

of the day. e shook hands with
the judge, and addressed him in
such meek and humble tones, that

the father was quite touched. He
shook hands also with Charles;
but the young man was haughty
and distant.

“Welcome!” said the judge,
heartil ,to the grave and sad far
thero Clara; “ tis not often we
see the face of a minister of God.
My poor house is honored by your
presence.”

“ My humble services are yours ”
replied the minister, gravely. ‘ I
am glad to see you Judge. You
are a. happyman, William Moss;
you have two daughters and ason.

am alone in the world.”

“ N 0,” said a timid voice beside
him, “no, andpa!”

The min ter of the gospel quiv-
ered all over as these words came
to his ears, and turning, beheld a
beautiful ho looking up in his
face—a boy 0 whom one of the

y had whispered that that was
:iis randfather.

“ s it so i’” exclaimed the minis-
ter, deeply affected. “ Is this my
Clara’s child? Father of mercy,
I thank Thee! There is, then
something of human interest yet
left for me in this world.”

And movin apart with the
child, he left t e others to their
general conversation, to give wn

his deep emotions unnoticc .
There is a magic in the second love
of old men for their children's
children, which the minister was
destined to feel to the full. The
bitterness of his child’s death was
not (gone—his spirit was not chast-
ene eno h for that, good as he
was; but t was counterbalanced
by the unutterable joy of having
near him the offspring of his be-
loved daughter.

There is no love so unutterany
dee , so mysterious, so absorbin ,
as t 6 love for a dead child’s chll .

The rest adjourned to the break-
fast-room, and there, in general
conversation, on the weather, the
crops, and the Indian war, beguil-
ed the time, aided by copious re-
neshments.

Barton spoke in an undertone
to the judge, expressed his deep
gratitude for the honor done him,
protested his love for Amy, and his
earnest wish to make her ha py.
He spoke with deep and sad eel-
ing—his emotion was overwhelm-

ngsndoantagious.

 

" May you be happy I” cried the
udge, suddenly; “I believe you
eserve to be—but my child is a

tender plant. Be good to her.”

“I will, as I hope for mercymy-
self,” said the squire, with an ear-
nestness quite startlin .

At this moment tic minister
entered, leading the child by the
hand. There was a pause, and a
general silence, for all felt that the
critical hour was arriving.

“Judge, I thank you. This is
an unexpected blessing. I heard
confused accounts of my child’s
death. I knew not the boy was
saved. But no more of this—the
time advances. This is a day of
stob’er gladness ; I will not interrupt
| .

“ Go, ask your mistress to come
to the drawing-room,” said the
judge gravely.

The negro girl went out. The
gentlemen rose, the jud 6 leading
the way to the drawmg-roong
which was fitted up with consider-
able taste and elegance. Flowers
and white curtains had been used
extensively, and the effect was
very pleasing.

At the same instant that the

entlcmen entered at one end, the

‘es, four in number, entered at
the other. There was a moment
of eetin , and then, had a thun-

-der olt f len, none could have

been more astounded.

“ James Barton,” said Amy Moss
with flashing eyes, at the same
time advancmg close up to him;
“ you have come here to marry me
this day.”

“I have,” replied be, rather sur-
prised at her tone.

“And you would really go
throu h the ceremony ?” con-
tinue Amy.

“ Why not ?” asked Barton,while
the judge stood still in silent
amazement...

“ Why not i” said a gentle voice
near. “Why not? AmInot your
wife. James Barton?”

“Helen!” roared he his eyes
starting from his head; “where
came you from ‘2”

“ From the tomb, James Barton,
where you buried me alive, to save
this innocent girl."

All stood as if the ghosts of
their ancestors were passin before
them in solemn array. ever on
or off the stage had a prepared
surprise produced so startling an
effect. It was too bewildering,
too incredible, too horrible for
instantaneous belief. Too many
sensations were crowded upon
them in one instant of time.

The general accusations against
Barton burst u on the minds of
all, and Judge i 058 appeared for
a moment as if paralyzed.

“ Then there s no need for my
services?” said the minister, who
alone of all present could find
words, and who really wished to
hurr away.

“ tay, my dear sir,” replied
Anidy, with burning blushes; ‘the
Dr! egroom has not come yet.”

“prr rite,” said a strange voice;
“Mr. Reginald and Mr. Walter
Morton.”

CHAPTER XXXV.
oonennsion.

Tim scene in that room at this
moment was one to which the on
of few men could have done jus-
tice. On one side of the room,
up against the wall, stood Barton
—or rather leaned this man of
crime and guilt—bis eyeballs dis-
tended, his lips moving but not
speaking, his face hastly in its
pallor, his hands he (1 up to hide
all the world, all life, all nature
from him.

At the door, dressed in the garb
of gentlemen of that d. y, stood
those heretofore called Lustalo 'a
and Harvey, but now known to
the children of the same mother
as Barton—Reginald and Walter
Morton. They were hand-ln-hand,
flushed and excited, but keeping
down all sign of trium h over the
miserable man who h been their
enemy so long.

Helen, poor victim, had fainted,
and was supported by the sisters;
while Kate who with her father
also entered, ran across the room
to assist her.

 

The judge and Charles, with all
the gentlemen invited to the
party, stood silent, amazed, utter-
y unable to realize in one instant
the awfully-dramatic scene which
was taking place before them.

“What is the meaiiinr of all
this ?” said the judge wild y.

“My dear sir,” replied Regi-
nald, taking his hand, “it means
that the squire has had all his
crimes discovered at the same
time; and that it has been done

ublicly, at the wish of Colonel

utler.

“Colonel Butler," muttered
Barton looking round for a wea-
pon. lie was unarmed.

At the same instant two power-
ful hands were laid upon him by
two men, who had crept upon
him, unawares— fellows who acted
with a calmness quite dreadful.

“James Barton,” said one of
these men, “I arrest you for the
wilful murder of Mr. Morton,
fifteen years ago. Here is my
warrant.”

A shudder went through the
whole room.

“ Who dares,” said Barton wild-
P, “who dares accuse me of this
on! and unnatural crime ‘2”

“All (your accomplices have
confesse ,” said the man; “and
you had best come along quietly.”

“Take me away,” he replied,
closln his eyes. “Will no man
have t 0 heart to shoot me Y"

None answered, and he was led

' out by the officers of justice, with
out another word or another
stru gle.

“ evinald,” said the jud e,
shaking him earnestly by a
hand ‘I thank you; you have
saved my child from worse than
death.”

“ No, he has not, papa,” replied
Amy, leaving Helen who was now
sensible.

“What mean you, my child i’”
continued the judge, who was
more puzzled every minute.

“ I never meant to marry James
Barton; I said I would be married
to-day, fifths bridegroom was ready.
And there he is !’

“My more than father,” ex-
claimed Reginald, taking the hand
of the beautiful irl, “the minister
is here, to m e Amy a bride:
shall he not do so ?”

“But, my dear children this is
ver sudden. What doI see?”
exc aimed the judge, as Walter
and Jane also stood before him
hand-in-hand.

“ Scowl Hall will not be ready
for a year,” said Walter with a
smile’; “we do not wish to leave

“ But will any one explain to me
the mystery of this day?” replied
the judge. “ Was all this arranged
beforehand ?”

“My dear father," said Amy
Moss, “ I alone was in the secret.
Custaloga—I mean Re rinald—said
it was necessary, and obeyed his
orders. Blame me—blame no one
else."

“I blame no one " continued
the ud re; “but really it is very
sud en. ’

“My dear friend,” said the min-
ister eabnestly, “ this is a day of
rejoicing and gladness ; your lambs
have been saved from the wolf.
Let me make them further happy.
Marriage is God’s hol ordinance.”

“God bless you! ’ put in Har-
rod wno came in unobserved,
leadln his child by the hand.

The udge took his two iris on
one side and spoke to t em in
affectionate and earnest tones.
They replied to him in the same
manner, and wept tears of love as
the heard him.

Meanwhile, to the astonishment
of all present, a further conver-
sation of a very similar character
was takln place in a comer.

“M'. arstone.” said Charles,
timidly “ l have sincerely to con-
gratulnte you on having recovered
your dau liter.”

“ Who s, Mr. Charles, all that
I could have hoped. Allow me to
thank you for the part you have
all taken in her release from the
den of that villain l” replied the
merchant earnestly.

“How do you like America?"
continued Charles, with a blush

“Very much." said Andrew

 

.-
a

Carstone, fixing his eyes keeniy
on him.

“ I wish you could persuade
pa a never to leave it,” said Kate
wi h a smile.

“ Mr. Carstone i” said Charles
impetuously, “I love your daugh-
ter—I have had more than one op-
portunity of judgin of her charac-
ter and disposition. have thought
of her ever since our first meet-
ing. Mr. Carstone, will you send
for your wife and settle With us ‘2—
America can not afford to lose so
fair a daughter,”

“ I have already written to m
wife to sell all and come here, ’
replied the merchant with a smile.

“ Dear father 1” exclaimed Kate.

“Do you accept the addresses
of this young man ‘2” continued
the merchant, who remembered
her dear mother at the same age.

“ Yes i" said Kate faintly.

“Heaven bless you!” replied
Charles, taking her unresisting
hand.

“Mr. Moss!” exclaimed the
merchant dryly tumin to the
assemble company; “ ave ou
decided the fate of your wo
dau hters ?”

“ have, sir,” said the judge
quickly; “I am about to give two
good girls to two of the best boys
on earth.”

“ Thank you i” exclaimed Re-
ginald, clasping his fair one’s hand.

“ J udge: I can’t speak," said
Walter. ‘I’m entirely cut u .
This is hap mess I never c0 d
have believe . How could I have
expected such a wife ?"

‘ I’m not your wife yet," said
Jane maliciously.

Walter hung dovm his head, and
said nothing.

“ Well, then, judge,” continued
the merchant, “ here is another
knotty point to settle.”

“ Pray what is that, sir i” asked
Mr. Moss, with a good-natured
smile.

“ Why, here’s your son wants
not to be behind your daughters;
so he has inveigled me out of my
Kate!”

" What i” exclaimed the judge,
once more amazed and puzz ed.

“ Yes, dear father; it is not fair
that Amy and Jane should marry,
and leave me forlorn and alone,’
replied Charles, laughing;

“But you never saw t is young
lady before?” said the udge.

“ Oh, yes, I have,’ said the
young man, smiling, while the
whole party, des ite their own
private matters 0 interest, listen-
ed attentively.

“My dear son,” said the father,
much moved, “ this is a very
strange day. It can not be said
am about to lose any of my chil-
dren—but all are about to marry.
I am quite overcome. All I can
sayr is, God bless you all i”

he joy of the whole party now
knew no bounds. Such a merry
marriage-day had not been known
for some time. All the sinful
incidents of the past were or ot-
ten for a moment, and the minis-
ter, who had been conversing seri-
ously with Harrod, turned and in-
timated that he was ready.

Suddenly Helen Barton was
missed.

This is what had happened:

As soon as she had quite recov-
ered, she slipped out of the room
quite unobserved, and speakin
with one of the ne roes, foun
that Berton, handcu ed and other-
wise secured, was in the Block
House, while his captors refreshed
themselves in the kitchen. Pass-
ing rapidly across the grounds
she in a moment more confronted
the marshal’s officer.

“ 1 want to see my husband
for ten minutes.” she said. firmlv.

One of the men raised his head;
the others continued eating

“ You are Mrs. Barton?’
plied, respectfully.

H I am i

“Never refused a wife in in
life; I guess I won’t begin now,
said the officer of justice, warmly,
and he rose from his seat.

“ Thank you,” said Helen, sim.

.he re-

1 .

p The man took a key, and guided
by a hint from Helen, took his
round at the back of the Block

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

,‘ .She was happy.

 

 

 

 

W».-.

The Silent HunteY“: ,.

 

__ '- LA L A gym—2n?

T

 47

 

until he turned the inner side of it quite un-
perceived.

In another moment Helen was inside the
Block, locked In with her husband, who sat
In, 'ly 011a chair. . ' '

“ ames l” said she, gently.

“‘What want you? he replied raising his
mariacled hands. “ Do you come hate to Insult
my misery?”

. ‘.‘.N0. James—I come here to comfort and con-
sille,:’ replied Helen warmly. .

"Can this betrue.” said that man of sin to
himself ; “ then get me a file and help me to es—
ca . 
‘No, James; I cannot-do, that. I. would if I
could. But this I will do—I will follow you
wherever you go—I will nurse you in prison—I
will tr and'ease yOur unha‘ppy’momen‘ts, and
psor C Iristian that I am, endeaVor to lead you

re ntance.” ‘ ' "f ' ’ ‘ '

“ nd why all this?” asked Barton, over.

whelmed with remorseand ustonish cut. . .

“Because you are my husband. ‘ - Vhom God
hath oined let no man put asunder.’ ”

“ I elen!” exclaimed that man starting 11 3
and then falling on his knees, “if I eseape with '
my life, if I rid myself of chains, and fly tosotne
distant spot where I can expi to my sinan

“obscurity, will you—can you tergxive me?” '

.1“ Forgive you, J 21me will love you !” bobbed
the devoted, still loving woman. j

“And I have trodden this girl under foot.
Go, Helen; I cannot speak more'néw. Let me
think. The sublimity of ,woman’s devotion is
too much for me. I cannot comprehend it.”

‘,'I will not leave you,” said Helen; find she
sat down a little distance Off. . I -

There they found her; but no argument Or
reason would make her move; and about half
an hour afterward she left the Moss in bompanyp
with. her. husband. '

Two niihts afterward he escaped from prison,
and both e and his wife disappearei . ,

-"Years after there came letters from ’Helen.
'Barton was a t, handy
Workingfarmer, who strove, by da' labor and
industry, and , the exercise of SOcia duties, to
ex 'ate the crimes of his past.

nd the others were married. First Charles

. thanBeginald, then Walter; and never 
’three couple appear better to merit their full

cu of Joy.
' Reginald pulled down Scowl Hall, and erected

a fine, open, clear mansion on its site. He called

- itIflAm ,Hall,.discardmg forever the disagree—
e

_ thet'it'had so long suffered under. He
lived there, loved and respected by his friends

I and a. numerous family, for all of whom he prov

vid ,well out of his ample patrimon .
I alter bu1lt himself a house ha —way be-

~ tWeen the Moss and Amy Hull, Where he spent

much of his share of the paternal estate in pic-

 

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tunes, and .continued, with his dear wife, those

' studiesthat had made them acquainted.

Charles and Mr. Andrew Carstone first began ‘

.the extension of th'e‘Moss into a town, for they

both built flue mansions close to it.
Mrs. Carsbone—Faimy—wme out, and re—

‘ [diced much when she pressed her daughter in

or arms. Communication in those days was so
slow, that before she came out there was an-
other Fanny, whom she loved even more than
her own lost one.

Jud re Moss lived to a good old age, and saw

7 his ch’ dren and his children’s children growing

up‘ around him.
v .1 Harrodfnade another clearing, and devoted

He ceased to be an aven er; and though he fre-

quent] was.called -to 9 field, to punish the

mar'au ‘ng sava es, he took no scal 5, nor left I

behind him hea ess, corpses. But e ever re-

mained a sad silent man, finding his chief plea— i

sure in training his Dev to emulate the virtues

of his dead mother, which the child did to an .

eminent degree; and when the deeds of the
Silent Hunter had passed into tradition, the
name of Harrod was one to command admira-
tion and respect.

Corney Ragg stopped in America. He could
not leave Mr. Carstone, and hearing his wife
was dead, he married, and became a farmer,
and not an unsuccessful one.

Hackctt and SDiky Jonas both lived and dis-
a poured somewhere out West, and were heard
0 no more. - "

 

 

No one was more he pythan Amy, and, as
she always called him, disar Custa.
THE END.

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BEADLE’S

 

 

 

 

32 Large Three-Column Pages.

1.A Hard Crowd: OR, GENTLEMAN 6""

SAx’s SISTER. By Philip S. Warne. i

2. The Dare-Devil: OR, THE WINGED

WITCH or THE SEA. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham.

3. Kit Carson. J r., THE CRACH SHOT or
THE WEST. By Buckskin Sam.

4. The Kidnapper: OR, THE GREAT5

SHANGHAI or THE NORTHWEST. By Philip S. Warne.

5. The Pire-Piends: OR, HERCULEs, Till-J
BUNCHRACH. By A. P. Morris. 1

6. Wildcat Bob, THE Boss BBUISEB : ‘
OR, THE BORDER BLOODHOUNDS. By Edward L. Whee-
ler, author of “ Deadwood Dick," “ Double Daggers."

7. Death-Notch, THE DESTROYER: OR, ;
THE SPIRIT LAKE AVENOERs. By 011 Coomes.

8. The Headless Horseman. A strange I
story of Texas. By Capt. Mayne Reid.

9. Handy Andy. By Samuel Lover.

10. Vidocq. THE FRENCH POLICE SPY.
Written by himself.

11. Midshipman Easy.
ryat.

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DEATH. By Capt. Mayne Reid.

13. Pathawag: 0R, NICK WHIErLEs, THE
OLD TRAPrER or THE ORTHWEsT. By Dr. J. H. Rob-
[1.

14. Tha endanegea. THE SCOUROE ;
OR, THE WAR- AOLE or THE MOHAWHs. By Ned Bunt
inf), author of “The White Wizard."

15. The Tiger-Slayer: OR, EAGLE-
HEAD To THE RESCUE. By Gustave Aimard.

1 6. The White Wizard: on, THE GREAT

PROPHET OE THE SEEINOLEs. By Ned Buntline.

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or Housemw HEATH. By Dr. J. H. Robinson.

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By Gustave Aimard.

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THE OUTLAw‘s FATE. By Gustave A mard.

22. Whitelaw: 0R, NATI'IE or THE LAKE
SHORE. By Dr. J. H. Robinson,

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DELORHE‘S COMANCHB LOVER. By Ned Buntline.

24. Prairie Flower. By Gustave Ai-
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25. The Gold-Guide: 0R, STEEL Amt,
THE REGULATOR. By Francis Johnson.

26. The Death-Track: 0
LAWS or THE MOUNTAIN. By Francis ohnson.

27. The Spotter-Detective: OR. THE
(1ng or NEW ORR. By Albert W. Aiken.

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LUCK. By Joseph E. Badger, Jr.

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THE CASHIER‘S CRIHE. By Philip S. Warns, author
of ” A Hard Crowd,“ etc.

30. Gospel Geor :

By Capt. Mar-

08.

THE OUT-

or, F‘IERY FRED,

THE OUTLAW. By Josep E. Badger, Jr.
31. The New York ‘8 :' OR, THE
FLASH or LIOHTNIHO. By Albert W. en,

32. B’hoys of Yale; OR, THE 80mm
or A HARD SET or Commune. By John D. Vose.

33. Overland Kit. By Albert W.
Aiken.

34. R0 M tain b.
bert w. Aug? 0“ no

35. Kent c theSport. B Albert
W. Aileen. u k, y

Br Al-

 

36. Injun Dick. By Albert W. Aiken.

LIBRARY.

 

 

 

 

m CARsON, JR—NO. 8.

87. Hirl. the Hunchback: on, THE
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m or THE STARRY Cmss. By erick Whittaker.

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41. Gold Dan: OR, THE WHITE SAVAGE
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42. The California Detective : OR,
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43. Dakota Dan. THE RECHLEss RANGER;
or. THE BEE-Hum EECUEsIos. By Oil Coomes.

44. Old Dan Rackback. THE GREAT
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By Oil Coomes.

45. Old Bull’s Eye, THE LIGHTNING
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46. Bowie-Knife Ben, THE LITTLE
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47. Pacch Pete, THE PRINCE or THE
REVOLVER By JOE. E. Badger.

48. Idaho Tom. THE YOUNG OUTLAW
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HIDEHIPEAN lust-No. ll.

 

 

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49. The Wolf Demon, or, THE QUEEN“
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50. Jack Rabbit, THE PRAIRIE SPORT,
or, THE CHILDBIN or THE LLANO ESTACADO. By Joe
E. Badger. Jr.

51. Red Rob, THE BOY ROAD-AGE”
By 011 Coomes.

52. Death Trailer, THE Cum 0)
SOOUTE' or Life and Love in a Frontier Fort. By
Hon. Wm. . Cody. (Buffalo Bill.)

58. Silver Sam; or, THE MYSTERY or
Deedwoon Cm, By Col. Delle Sara.

54. Always on Hand: or. THE SPORTIVE
SPORT or THE FOOT HILLS. By Phillip S. Warns.
author of “A Hard Crowd," “Patent Leather Joe

55. The Scalp Hunters. A Rome: or
THE Puma By Capt. Mayne Reid.

56. The Indian MMOB a; or, THE
MAD MAE or THE PLAINS. By rt W. Aiken.

57. The Silent Hunter: or, THE SCOWL
HALL MrsTERT. By Percy B. St. John.

58. Silver Knife: or, WICKLIm, THE
Bossy MOUNTAIN RANGER. By Dr. J. H. Robinson.

59. The Man From Texas: or, THE
OUTLAW or ARRAREAE. By Albert W. Aiken.

60. Wide Awake: or, THE Imm- or
THE BLACK HILLs. By Frank Dumont.

61. Ca tain Seame PRIVATEEE.
By Ned Bun line.

62. Lo Heart: or, THE TRAmns or
AREAEEAE. y Gustave Aimard.

63. The Winged Whale. By Albert
W. Aiken.

64. Double-Sight, the Death Shot.
By Joseph E. Badger, r.

65. The Red Rajah: or, THE Booms
or THE lsnm. By Captain Frederick Whittaker.

66. The S or Barque. A TALE
or THE PAcmc. Captain Mayne Reid.

67. The Boy Jockey: or, Honm
VERSUS CROOEEDNEss. By Joseph E. Badger, Jr.

68. The P htinfi Tra r: or, Krr
CARsos To THE RisgchE. y  0. Adams.

69. The Irish Ca tain: A TALE or
FoRTEEOY. By Captain erlck Whittaker.

70. Hydrabad. THE STRAROLER; or
ALETHE,THE CHILD or m Conn. ByDr.J.1£
Robinson.
71. Captain Cool-Blade. or, THEMAE—
SHARE or THE museum. By Joe. E. Badger. Jr.
72. The Phantom Hand. A STORY 01

NEW You HEARTHE Aim Hons. By Albert W.
' Aiken.

f 73. The Knight ofthe Red Cross;
or, THE morons or GEAEADA. A Tale of the Al-
hambra. By Dr. J. H. Robinson.

74. Captain ofthe Rifles. A Benson
‘ or THE MERIOAE VALLEE. By Captain Kayne Reid.

 

l 75. Gentleman George. or, PARLOR,
: PRIsos. STAGE Aim STREET. By Albert W. Aiken.

i 76. The Queen’s Musketeer. or,
, THIsaE, THE PRIEOEss PAnmrr. By George Albony.
i

77. The Fresh of Frisco. or, THE
HEIREss or BUEEAVENTURA. By Albert W. Aiken.

78. The Mysterious Spy: or, GOLDEN
FEATHER. THE BUOCAREER‘s DAUGBTIL By A. I.
Grainger. Ready October 8th.

79. Joe Phenix. THE POLICE Sn. By
Albert W. Aiken. Reedy October m.

Amundsen-1’th

Besdle’s Dime Library is for sale by all
: Newsdealers. ten cents per copy. or sent by mail on
I receipt of twelve cents each. BEADLE & ADA“
I Publishers. 98 William Street. New York.

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