l a. 1!. lm um i ll

     

 

 

(Beadle j- fldam

No. 98 WILLIAM STREET, NEW YORK.

 

 

Com lete

In One umber.

I378, BY BEADLé & ADAMS--

S, @1577’97237’8’,

 

mnum tn

Price,
Ten Cents.

No. .’12

 

 

And not unseen by human eye. For there is one
sees—one who has reason to fear them.

Their eager, excited movements show that they are
antici ating a repast; at the same time their attitudes
tell, t iey have not yet commenced it.

Something ap ars in their midst. At intervals they
lapproach it: t e birds swoopineg from above, the
‘ beasts crouchingly alon the sward. The go close,

almost to touching it, t en suddenly with raw, start-
ing back as in afl’n‘ghtl .
After a time they return again, but only to be frayed
I as before. And so on, in a series of approaches and
! recessions.

’ The Death-Shot; *

TRACICICD TO DEATH. I

BY CAPTAIN MAYNE REID,
AUTHOR or “assumes HORSEMAN," mm, are.

 

PROLOGUE.

A PRAIRIE, treeless, shrubless, smooth as a slee ing| What can be the object thus kee ing them off?
sea. Grass u on it; but so short, that the. sma est Surely no common quarry, as the dea body of deer,
%uadruped m ght not cross over without being seen. i antelo , or mustang? I cannot be this; nor yet car-

ven a crawhng reptile could scarce flnd concealment I cass oPiny kind. It cannot be a thing that is dead.
among its tufts. Nor does it look like anything alive. Seen from a dis-

0.bJeCtS are upon it—sufflciently visible to be distin- ‘ tance it resembles a human head; nearer, the resem-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

THEEYESARENOT

finished at some distance. But the are of a character
.-carce deserving a glance from t e passing traveler.
He would hardly deem it worth while to turn his eyes
toward a pack of prairie wolves—coyotea—much less go
in chase of them.

With vultures soaring above, he might be more dis-

sed to hesitate and reflect. The foul birds and filthy
Egasts, seen together, would be proof of prey—that
some quarry had fallen upon the plain. It might be a
stricken stag, a prong-horn antelope, or a Wlld horse
crippled by some mischance due to his headlong
na ure

blance grows stronger; close up, it is complete. Cer-
tainly, it is a human head—the fwad (K a man ./
at is there to cause su rise? man’s head seen
upon a Texan prairie! No hing, if lying there seal -
less. It would only prove that some ill-starred in i-
vidual—traveler, trap er, or hunter of wild horses—has
been struck down by he savages; and afterward deca-
pltated, as well as scalpedz
But this head—4f head it be—is not scalped. It still
carries its hair—a fine chevelure, waving and profuse.
Nor is it lying along the round, as it naturally .would,
abandoned, after being espoiled of its troph . 0n the
contrary, it stands erect upon the sward—t e chin al-
most touth ing the surface-square, as if still upon the
shoulders from which it has been separated! With
cheeks planid or blood-bedaubed, and eyes closed or
lassy t 's—the position—need 'not so muchs rise.
ut there is neither pallor nor blood-stain on the
, cheeks; and the eyes are not closed, not glassed. They

Believing it any of these, the traveler would give
:oose rein to his steed and ride onward; leavmg the
beasts and birds to their banquet.

l‘here is no traveler passing over the tprairie in ues-
tion; no human being in sight. But ere are we ves
grouped upon the ground, and vultures hovering in the

a ow them.

 

we, \_,_ _.______

 

 

I

l

are glancing—glaring—rolling. By hearens.’ the head ’5!
alive.

N o wonder the wolves start back in affright; no won
der the vultures, after swooping down, ply their win s
in quick, nervous stroke, and soar up againl T e
strange thing seems to uzzle both—baflles their in-
stinct, and keeps them at ay.

Still know they, or seem to fancy, ‘tis flesh and blood.
Sight and scent tell them it is; by both they cannot be

deceived.

And livin flesh it must be! A death‘s head could
neither flas its e es, nor cause them to turn in their
sockets. Besides, he predatory creatures have other
evidence of its being ahve. At intervals there is opened
a mouth, showing two rows of white teeth. From be
tween comes a shout that startles and sends them aim.

The cry is only put forth, when the ap roach too
threatenineg near—evidently intende to ee them
at a distance. It has done so for most part of t 10 day,

    

CLOSED, NOT GLASSED. THEY ARE GLANCING—GLABING—ROLLING. BY HEAVENS! THE HEAD IS ALIVE!

Twi ' ht ap roachi spreads its purple tints over
the prlagrie. t is on. nThere is no chan e in the atti-
tude of the assailed, or nts. ere is light
enough to show the flash of those flery eyes; whose
glance of menace still masters the voracious instincts
of the animals.

Strange spectacle! The head of a man, without any
body—set square upon the ground; with eyes in it that
scintillate and see, a mouth that opens, and Shows
teeth; a throat from which issue sounds evidently 0'
hugaiil intonattion: around this object of ahgost wrist;
na r aspec , 8. on of wolves, an over
flock of black vultglresP my

Through the day, and into tw ht the tableau re-
mains “Dehanged Only a change 1) the disposition of
the figures—in the attitudes of the beasts and birds.
The head kee 8 its place and position. It makes no
motion, save t e parting of the lips. and the rolling ol.
the eyeballs.

  

  

lie  New York Library.

 

On a Texan prairie twilight is short. There (

ire no mountains or high hills intervening—no
obliquity in the sun‘s diurnal course, to lengthen
out the day. When the golden orb sinks behind
the llOl‘lZUll. a short-lived light of purplish tivit
succeeds—411011 night.

Night approaches. It is on.

With the darkness comes a change. The vul-
tures, obedient to their customary habit—not
nocturnal—~take departure from t e spot, and
wing their way to some well-known roosting-

lace. 0n the contrary, the wolves stay. Night
is the time best suited to their ravening instincts.
Under its shadows they may have more hope of
at length devouring that thing of spherical
shape, that by shouts and scowling glances has
so lon held them aloof.

To heir discomflture, the twilight is very’

from the culture of his cottc_iiields. In time he
became the debtor of Ephraim Darke, who lived .
within his. _

There was not much intimacy or friendship
between the two men. The roud Virginian.
come of an old Highland fami y—gentry in the
colonial times—felt some contempt for his

, neighbor, a descendant of the Mayflower steer-

soon succeeded by a magnificent moon; whose 1

silvery effulgence shed over the prairie almost
equals the light of day. It shmvs the eyes yet
angrily glancing; while in the nocturnal still-
ness that cry, sent through the parted lips, is as
awe-i iring as ever.

It sti keeps the assailants at bay.

And, now, more than ever, does the tableau
a pear strange—more than ever unlike reality.

nder the moonlight, with a fllmy haze spread
over the rairie sward, the human head seems
ma 'flet to the dimensions of the sphinx;
whi e, from the same cause, the coyotes look as
large as Canadian stags!

In truth, a singular spectacle—one full of
weird mystery!

Who can explain it?

CHAPTER I.
' rwo soars or snavnowssns.

IN the old slave-owning times of the Southern
United States—happily now no more—there
was much grievance to humanitiy;uproud 0p-
pression upon the one side, and sat s ering on
the other.

' the affairs of Armstrong, gradually

I Darke the two were commingled. Mean in the

I same time of dissi rated and disorderly habits;
o

‘ heir-presumptive to all his property—slaves and

It is true, that the majority of the slave pro- I

prietors were humane men.
philanthropic, in their way, and inclined to-
ward giving to the unholy institution a color of

triarchism.

Seine of them even ‘

The idea—delusive, as intended ;

to delude—is old as slavery itself; at the same ‘

time, modern as Mormonism; where it has had
its latest and coarsest illustration.

Though it cannot be denied, that the slavery
of the tates was in many instances of a mild
type, neither can it be uestioned, that there
were cases of lamentable arshness—even to in-
humanity. There were slave-pwners who were
kind, and slave-owners who were cruel.

Not far from the town of Natchez, in the ‘

.State of Mississi pi, lived two planters; whose ; I
i a wonderful ascendancy over a parent, who had ’

‘ lives illustrated t e extremes of these two types.
Though their estates lay ad 'acent, their charac-
ter: were as o posite as co d well be conceived
in the scale a manhood and morality. Colonel
Archibald Armstrong—a true Southerner of the
old V ' n aristocracy, who had entered

Mush-lg State when the Choctaw Indians .
it—was a model of the kind slave-

master; while Ephraim Darke—a Massachusetts
man, who had moved thither at a much later

riodé—was a fair ecimen of the cruel. Com-
ng'from the New ngland States, sprung from
the Puritans—a people whose descendants have
made both profession and sacrifice in the cause
of no emancipation—this may seem strange.
It is, owever a common tale; which no trav-
eler through the Southern States can help hear-
ing. Every day will he be told that the hard-
est taskmastor of the slave is either one who has
been a. slave himself or a descendant of the Pil-

‘ .Fathers, who landed on Plymouth Rock!
Havi 3 Mt for many ints in the charac-
torlotr hose same Pilgrim athers I would fain
think the accusation untrue, and that Ephraim
Dar-he was an exception.

In his case, there was no falsehood in it—
none whatever. Throughout the lifiizi-iisisipliiiti1
valley, there was nothing more vile than
treatment of the black bondmen, Whose hard
lot it was to have him for their master. Around
his courts, and in his cottomflelds, the crack of
the whip was heard almost contmuall ——its
thong sharply felt b _
of his ca rice or ma 'ce. The ‘l‘ cowhide ” was
constant y carried by himself, his son, and over-
seer. None of the three ever went abroad with-
out that pliant, inted switch—a Very emblem
of devilish crue ty—in their hands; never came
home without having used it in the castigation

of some unfortunate “darker,” whose eVil star . _
' tage—ground he himself held, the suitor of Helen

had thrown him in their track. while making
the rounds of the plantation. ‘

It was the very reverse with his neighbor,
Archibald Armstrong—whose slaves seldom
went to bed without a rayer upon their lips,
that said, “God bress 6 good massa;" while
the poor whi pod bondmen of Ephraim Darke,
their backs s i l smarting from the lash, nighth
lay down, not always to sleep, but always Wit
curses on their lips.

Alas! the Old story, of like cause brin ing
about like result, is what must be chronic] in
this case. The man of the Devil pros )ered;
while he of God decayedd (Igonel A rizng,
(“unmanned generous, n u ng in a 0 use
hospitality, lived outside the income agorruing

the sable-skinned Victims j

 

1 was Colonel Armstron ’3 daughter. There were

age passengers.

For all this, he was not above accepting a
loan from Darke, which the latter had been '
eager to give. The Massachusetts man had long
coveted the Southerner’s tine estate; and knew ‘
that a mortgage-deed is the first entering of a
wed , in time pretty sure to bring about pea
s - n of the for. simple.

So stood things between tnese two neighbor-
ing planters, arke had determined on becom- j
ing the proprietor of both plantations: While i

wm ,
desperate, had at length reached a pomt tha .
pé'omised his neighbor all he had been scheming !

obtain. The debtor had fallen behind in the !
payment of interest. The mortgage could at I
any moment be foreclosed. Celene Armstrong =
was in danger of losing his estate. :

At this crisis came a circumstance, likely to ,
modify, if not altogether defeat, the design of i
the creditor. Ephraim Darke had a son ap- 1
iroaching manhood, by name Richard, by na-
ture like himself, only of a still inferior ty of !
humanity. For the grasping selfishness o the
extreme Puritan is not improved by mixture
with the opposite extreme of Southern licen-
tiousness; and in the character of Richard

matter of personal expenditure, he was at the

the asstxriatc of t poker-playing and cock-
fighting fraternity of the neigh r cod; one of
its wildest youth, without an of those generous
traits sometimes cou led wit such a character.

He was Ephraim arke’s only son—therefore

plantation. Being thoroughly in his father‘s
confidence. he was aware o the pmbabilitgof a
proximate reversiontothe slaves and plan tion
of Colonel Armstrong.

But, much as Ric ard Darke liked money,
there was something he coveted more. This

 

two of them Helen an Jessie, both  ,
Helen, the e der was more than pre y, . was :
beautiful—b all acknowledged as the beauty of ;
the neighbor ood. g
Richard Darke was in love with her, as much 9
as his selfish heartlwould allow—perhaps the 3
only unselfish passion he had ever felt. His i
fat er sanctioned, or at all events did not. op- 
pose it. For this wild, wicked youth had gained

trained him to tricke equaling his own.

With the wer o creditor over debtor—a
debt that cou d he demanded at any moment—-
a mow to the full amount and
transfe —the Darkes seemed to have the
vantage-ground, and might dictate their own
terms.

The son had been for some time paying his
attentions to Helen Armstrong, whenever an
o portunity occurred—at balls, barbecues, and ,
t 6 like' of late, also, at her father’s house. I
There, t 6 power spoken of 91% him admit- '
tance; while- the consciousness of processing it, i
hindered him from noticin the reluctance with l
which he was. received. or all, he could not
fail to perceive, that his assiduities were coldl
met by her to whom his ho was extend . ‘

He wondered why, too. He ew that Helen
Armstrong had many admirers. It could not I
be otherwnae with one so beautiful, and, beside,
so gifted. But among them there was none for
whom she had shown the ' htost partiality.
This was notorious. Darke mself had con-
ceived a suspicion that a young man, named
Clancy—son of a decayed Irish gentleman. liv-
ing near—had found favor in her eyes. Still, it
was but a suspicion; and Clancy had gone to
Texas the ear before—sent, it was said, by his
father, to ook out for a new home. The latter
had since died, leaving his widow sole occupant
of an humble tenement, with a small holdm of
land near the borders of the Armstrong esta .

There was a report that young Clancy was
soon coming back—was, indeed, eve day ex-
pected. But what could it matter? 6 proud
planter, Armstrong, was not the man to bestow

is daughter 11 ion a “ r white ”—as Richard
Darke scornfu y stylec his  rival. ‘

Feeling confident of this as also in the van- ‘

 

Armstrong had resolved upon bringing things
to an issue. His love for her had become a pas-
sion, the stronger for being checked. Her cold-
ness might be but coquetry. He ho . and fan-
cied it was; for he had no lack 0 either self- ;
esteem or assurance. And he had reason for
both. ‘He was immense] rich, or'would be
when his father died. ngas not ill-looking,
but rather the reverse; and he had made more
than one conquest among the youn ladies of
the neighbtn‘hixxl. It might be. m Arm-
Btmllg’s haughty disixnition hindered her from
being demonstrative? Perhaps she loved him
without givin 31%

For monthsie been eogitating in this un- ,

not easily '

' your lot.

. need not ask that.

certain way, and had at length determined t1
bring matters to a crisis.

One morning he mounted his horse; rode
across the boundary-line between the two plan-
tations, and on to Colonel Armstrong‘s house-
requested an interview with the colonel’s eldell
daughter; obtained it; made a declaration of
his love; asked her to hava him for a husband:
and received for response a chilling ne tive.

As he went back t rough the woods, he birds
were trillin among the trees. It Was their
merry morning lay, but it gave him no glad—
ness. There was still ringing in his ears that
harsh monos liable “no.” The wild-wood song;
sters seem to echo it, as if mockingly: the
blue jay and red cardinal scolding him for in-

‘ trusion on their domain.

After crossing the boundary between the two
pliantations, he reined up his horse, and looked
. ck. His brow was black With l"(:3alfilitgfi'l‘lll; hi!
lips white with rage. It was supp no lon—
ger. Curses came hissing through his teeth,
alon with the Words— .

f‘ less than six weeks these Woods will be
mine; and (if-— me if I don’t shoot every bird!
that roosts in them! Then, Miss Helen Arm-
strong£3 you’ll not be so conceited of yourself. It
Will different, when you haven’t got a roof
over your head! So good-by, sweetheart; good-

‘ ow, ! e continued in fanc a 1‘0-
' phizing his father, “now ybu can take our

own way, as you’ve been long wanting. es,

my . ted  on are ree to put in tho

fiimption—the sheriffs officers—anything you
6.

An 'ly grinding his teeth he du the s on

into his} horse’s ribs, and rode’on—thg shortpbit-

ter syllable still ringing in his ears.

 

CHAPTER II.
Two 0001) GIRLS.

RICHARD DARKE had not lon parted from
the presence of the lady who so aconically I"
Jected him, when another stood by her side.

A man also. thong: no rival to bird—neither
lover nor suitor. e venerable whim-haired
gentleman, who came into the room, was Helen

rmstrong‘s father.

“His v01ce, on entering, told that he had a 809'
pl('l0n of what had been Darke’s errand.

He was soon made certain by his daughter
freely confessing it. .

HtIa said in reply:

“ supposed t at to bethe fellow’a mgr“
though, at such an early hour, I misfit 7'
feared Its beirIirg worse.” -

“ Worse! cared! Father, what could You
have]:I feared?"

‘ ever mind Helen: nothin that concerns
on. Tell me: in what way dkfyou give him
he answer?” ,

:‘ In one little word. I simply said no.”

‘ That little word will be enoug . Oh Heava
what Will become of us?”

“ Father!” exclaimed the beautiful girl, living

her hand u n his shoulder, with a seam us
look into h eyes; “why do you $1: thus?
Are you an with me for refusing ? sun)“

1 you W01 d not wish me to be the wife 0‘
Ilichard Duke?”

“ You do not love him, Helen ?”

“Love him! Can you ask? Who could 1070
that flan?” '

“ en on would not marry him?”

f‘Woul not—I could not. He has no heart
but the heart of a villain. I would prefer death
to such a_husband as he.” ,,

“ Enou h. I must submit to my fate—t0 mil-

“ Ruin Father; what is the meanin of this?
There is some secret—some dan . m0:
dear father! Let me know wha it fl!”

“ I may well do that, since itcammtbemuch
longer a secret. There is dangl- Helen—CM
danger of debt. I am in debt h” “the? 0:
Richard Duke—deep] so—comwly in
power. Eve hing 1y pone-s, d. hon-u.
slaves, may am his at any hour; tom-
row, if he will it. Nay, he is sure to will it,
now. Your little word ‘ No ’ Will b11118 “bone ‘
great change—the criail I have been so long
apprehendin . Never mind! Let it come.
must meet ii like a man. It is for you. dear
Helen— 'ou and Jessie, that I Km“- Poor
girls, w t a change in your prospects! Pover-

, coarse fare coarse nts to wear. Imd 1‘
log cabin to live in. enceforth, this must be
I can hope for no other.” ~

“ And what of all that, father? What Cm
we? I, for one, do not; and I’m sure sister Wm
say the same. But is there no way to—"

‘ Release me from debt, you would say, Yo"
I have spent many a 819‘?
less night over it. No; there was 0111K}hat on.
way. I never before spoke, 01' 0V9” Ought, 0‘
it. I knew it would not do. I knew you did

j not love Richard Darke, and would not consent
‘ to marry him. You 00in not, my child—could

you?" _

Helen Armstrong did not make immediate
answer; thou n she had one in her heart, ready
to leap to her ips.

Richard Din-he! Wretch wo
with his riches; dill ted, wicked of
cravon of spirit, cow as she don-nu

 

 

Six. 3.

 

 

Marry such a man, while another man that to ‘

her seemed possessed of every noble quality,
beauty of Iperson, boldness of spirit, purity of
heart—in S 01$. everything that makes hemism!
This other man, too, having confessed that he
loved her! To such as she it made no difference
about his being poor in purse, which he was;
nor would it, had he been beneath her in social
rank, which he was not. Her answer would
have been all the. same: and she only hesitated
giving it. from a thought that it might add to
the weight of unhappiness at the moment press-
iii upon her father.
istaking her silence. and

specter of poverty before
megnneSs, as it ol't does the noblest natures~he
sai :

“ Helen! could you marry him?"

He meant Richard Darke.

. “Speak candidly," he continued. “and take
time ireflect before answering. If you think
ou could not be contented, happy, with him
or your husband, better it should never be.

perhaps with the

.. "_; ‘ 311‘ '
. IL, yaw“ 

. . "w    r“

im—inciting to 5
_ family picture, expressive of purest love.
, white-haired, Whiw-nlistached colonel. veteran

The Death-Shot; or, Tracked to Death. 1

—another girl, almost beautiful as herself, only
a year or two younger.

“ Not only my affection," she said, at sight of
the new comer, “ but Jessie‘s as well. \Von‘t he,
sister .4"

Jessie, wondering what it was all about,
nevertheless saw that soiiiethin was wanted of
her. She had caught the wor( “affection.” at
the same time observing the troubled expression
u )()11 her father‘s face. This, with her sister‘s
attitude, decided her; and, lidiiig forward. in
another instant she was by his side, clinging to

, tho opposite shoulder; she too, with one hand

roster gently upon his head.
Thus groupe< , the three. figures composed a
The

of more than one campaign, in the center: on
each side a fair girl, twining alabaster arms
around his neck. And yet the two different as
if no kinship existed between tliciii-—llelcii of"
«tipsy darkness, Jessie, bright as a summer
ieam.

km--- . ... _, .. ._... <

3

having little else to do, passed a good deal of his
time scouring the country in ursuit of his
father’s advertised runaways. aving caught
them, he would claim the “bounty,” just as if
they longed to a stranger. Darke pere paid
it without grudge or gmmbling—perhaps the
only disbursement he ever made in such mood.
It was like taking out of one pocket to ut into
the other. Besides, he was rather prou of hi:-
son‘s acquitting himself so shrewdly.

Skirting the two plantations, with others i;
the same line of settlements, was a cy cs
swamp. It extended along the edge 0 th(
great river. covering an area of many square
miles. Beside being a Swamp, it was a network
of creeks, bayous, and lagoons, often inundat-
ed. and only passable by means of skiff or ca-
noe. In most places it was a slough of soft mud.
where man might not tread, nor any kind of
watercraft make way. ()verit, at all times,
111mg the obscurity of twilight. The solar
1‘11} s. lum ever bright above, could not penetrate

, its thick canopy of cypress tops, loaded With

 

\Uii
i“

I": ‘ v

.r 
, 4 at

“MS



. ~*:,.,

  . \“\;\‘\\\‘\‘§:\“::“ “x  l _'
l-   r .

I
‘.a
".l"1

“sax: SENT IT ME Tms Vicar MORNING. com, CLANCY! TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK or THE LinNEss?”—Page 5.

Consult your own heart, my child,
be swayed by me or my necessities.
you marry him 7” .

“ Father, I have said. You have spoken of a
change in our circumstances—of poverty. and
other ills. Let them come! For myself I care

Say, could

not. Only for vou. But if to me the alterna- ‘

rive were deat ,I’ve told you, dear father—I

[311 you again—I would rather that than be the ‘

' ,0 Richard Darke.”
WI‘f‘lzl‘hfen his wife you shall never bel Let the
subject drop. Let the ruin fall! Now to pre—
ourselves for poverty and Texas!"
“Texas, if you will, but not poverty. '
father, not that. The wealth of affection Will

k u feel rich: and in a lowly but, as in ..
ma 8 yo you shall still have i

this our grand mansion,
mine ”

his shoulder, the other laid gently on his head.

The door opened. Another entered the room . no.

and do not E

N0. .

On. saying this, the beautiful girl flung herself
upon her father’s breast, one hand resting upon

It would have been a pleasing tableau to one
Who knew nothing of what had brought the
three thus together; or even knowing this, to
him truly comprehending it. For in the faces

1 of all beamed affection, that bespoke well for
, their future, and showed no distrustful fear of

either poverty or Texas.

CHAPTER III.
A FOREST POST-BOX.
EPHRAIM DARKE’S harsh treatment of his

slaves had the usual effect—it caused them oc-.'
casionally to “ abscond." Then it became neces— ,
‘, sary to insert an advertisement in the country ‘

newspaper. offering a reward for the runaways,
Thus cruelty proved expenswe.

In planter Darke’s case, however, the cost .

was partially recouped by the cleverness of his
(ion, who wa: a noted ‘Eiiigger-catcher,” and
e t dogs for the especia

Enrol penchant for this

3 ed
. ar Darke.

’ was not absolutely
) * . He had 3
ion of chase: and, ‘

v that stran est of parasitical plants, the tilland

sia usneoi es.

This tract of forest offered a safe place of con-
cealment for runaway slaves; and as such was
it noted throughout the neighborhood. A
“ darkev ” abmonding from any of the near-1y-
ing lantations was as sure to make for it, as

‘ won (1 a chased rabbit for its warren.

Somber and gloomy though it was, around its
was the favorite scouting-ground of Rich-4
To him the cypress swamp was I.
preserve. as a co pice to the pheasantrshooter, or
a scrubwood to t e hunter of foxes. With the
difference. that his game was human, and there-
fore the pursuit of it more exciting.

There were places in the swam to which he
had never penetrated—large trac unexplored,
and where e loration could not be made With-
out much di culty. But to enter the swamp
necessary. The slaves, who
sou ht asylum there, could not always rem
wit ' its gloomy recesses. Food must be ob-

 

4

be their rate. For this reason the refugee re-
quired some mode of communicating with the
outside world. It was usually by means of a
confederate—some old friend and fellow-slave
upon one of the adjacent plantations—privy to
the secret of his hiding-place. ()n this neces-
sity the negrweatueher most do >ended; having
Often found the stalk~or “stili- nut,” in back-
woods phi-:Lseology—nun'o profitable than a
pursuit with trained hounds.

‘ bout a month after his rejection by Miss
Armstrong, Richard Dzirim was out upon a
chase, as usual along the edge of the cypress
swam ). Rather should it be called a search:
since lie had found no traces of the game that
had tempted him forth. This was a fugitive
negro—one of the best field-hands belonging to
his father’s plantation—who had absconded, and
could not be found.

For several weeks “Jupiter,” as the runaway
was called, had been missin'r; and his descrip-
tion. with the reward attached, had a )1)08.l'8(l
in thereonth newspaper. Richard D e, hav-
ing suspicion that e was hiding somewhere in
the swamp, made several excursions thither

, told that Clancy‘s

i
l

HThe New York Library

till-1:, (l vaon'l its border, or starvation would

was quite out 01" his sight. There might be some
secret in the letter to concern, perhaps console,
him. If so, it would soon be his.

And it soon was his, though not to console
him. Whatever were the contents of that epistlc,
so cunnineg deposited, Richard Darke, on be-
coming acquainted with them, reeled like a
drunken man, and, to save himself from falling,
sought support against the tree.

After a time, recovering, he re-read the letter,
and gazed at a picture—a photograph—Which
the envelope also inclosed.

Then from his li )s came speech, low—muttered
—-words of fearful menace, made emphatic by
an oath.

A man‘s name might have been heard among
his mutterin rs. It was Charles Clancy.

As he stro< e away from the spot, the firm-set
lips with the angry scintillation of his eyes,

' e was in danger.

 

CHAPTER IV.
A PHOTOGRAPH IN THE FOREST.
ON the third day after that when Richard

in the hope of alighgn upon his tracks. But } Drake had abycted the letter from the mag-
u

Jupiter Was an

ellow, and had hitherto i

contrived to leave no trace that could in any i

way contribute to his capture.

Darke was returning home, after an unsuc- ‘

oessful day’s search, in anything but a pleasant
mood. It was not so muc from having failed
in obtaining traces of the missing slave.
was. but a matter of money; and, as he had
plull , the disappointment could be borne. It
was V e thought of Helen Armstrong—of his
scorned suit and blighted love prospects—that
gave austerit to his reflections.

They had in further embittered b a cir-
cunptance that had since occurred. harles
Clancyhad returned from Texas. Some one
hail-g told Darke of his being seen with Helen
Armstron —a.lone. Such an interview could
not :have on with her father’s consent, but
clandestine. e». So much the more aggravating to
hiirie-Dick Darke.

 left the swamp behind, and was mak-
ing his way through a tract of woodland which
zeimted is father’s plantation from that of

18
ised re f to his perturbed spirit. t was a wo-
man: ‘ g thro h the woods, and from the
direction of 0010116 Armstrong’s house.

It" was not Colonel Armstrong’s daughter. v' grelbdo h m h k f t I
“ or ac woods un 'ng, w ere eennesso seen

He did not for a moment sup it was she.
Not likely, in such a solitary ace, so far from
the ’pluntation—house. But, f not the young
, , if it was her re resentative—her
“ mulatto irl named ulia. Darkc re—
her at a g nce, even in the far distance
‘ the dim shadow of the trees.
God for the devil’s luck!” he mut-

 
   

bor, when he saw something that prom- ;

i but
I age could well be to one another. In
That ;

,arifie' while byhis deslouchedalar d —.
a crosti between stag-hound and mastiiie a . sprung out, and off.

nolia, a man w
edge of the cypress swam .
same hour of the evening, ough the individual
was alt ther different. A young man, also; ‘
' e to Dick Darke as two men of similar
rsonal
appearance, he was Darke’s superior in em
0 intellect, his equal; in morality; 6 very 0g
finite. A figure of medium hg t, with hm
rsely set, and well proportion , told of great
strength; an elastic tread betokened activi ;
while features finely balanced, with an e
eye and curving lips, proclaimed‘the possession
of courage, equal to any demand that might be
made upon it. A grand shock of waving hair, :
dark brown in color, gave the finishing touch to "
this fine countenance, as does the feather toe.

seen making his way along the
It was about the

in a hunting costume- not for the chase on ‘
horseback, but afoot. He wore a shooting-coat
of strong stuff, with short tick-boots, an gait-
ers buttoned above them. is hat was felt, with ‘
ibis feathers for a plume. hand he car-

riedagun, that ata lance could beseentobet

, touch of the terrier commingled. Such mon-

are not always curs. but often the best

‘needs to be supplemented by strength and I

l
I

tern Eu the girl first came ‘in sight. “It’s J u-
pi  Iw' ; his Juno or Leda, yellow- I
skinned, like himself.

about, her being on the way to kee an a. int-
me with him. No more than Ipshall Ego re-
senfint'that interview.- Two hundred do

re " , for old Jude and the fun of giving the
d  a good hiding, once I ve him
h . cap on, Jupe, my girl! You’ll track
 forms better than the best bloodhound
in ’ “ kennel ”«

= l 9 making this solil uy, the speaker with-

! "  behind a bus ; and, concealed by ‘ sive, and to the full as convmcing.

There can be no doubt “ gone orthto seek re

1
i
l

l
I
I

l

stanchness.

It was Charles Clancy who was thus armed
and attended. As already said, he was afoot,
walking b the side of the cypress swam . It
was about 0 weeks after his return from exas.
He had come back to find himself fatherlem; and
since that stayed much at home to console his sor- ,
rowin mother. Onl now and then had he ;
ation in the chase, and
only on short eXcursions through the nearest
tract of woodland. On this occasion he was re- ‘
turning with an emhpgy e-bag; but in no
way‘chagrined. by -su . For he
something else to console him; that which gave
gladness to his heart—joy of the sweetest. She .
who .had won that heart—Helen Armstrong——
loved him. She had not told him so much in
words; but there had been acts equall expres-

ey had,

its “foliage, kept his. eye on the mulatto met clandestinely, and in the same wa corre- i
m still-wading her way among the tree sponded; a tree in the forest serving em for
t or

,lhere wag no pfih, ghind sh; was evidgnflg
WW y steal -- ving 1m reason
ie she was on the errand conjectured.

Richard Darke had no doubt of her bein en
mm to an interwew with J upe; and he to t as
good as certain of soon discovering, and secur-
mghghe runaway who had so long contrived to
elu him. ‘

Whathe lhadpassedtheplaooofhiscon-
cezdment—w ch she soon after did—he sli
oufifrom behind the bush, and follow er
wi ’ stealthy tread, taking care to keep cover
between them.

It was not long before she came to a stop;

br hes with their large, laurel-like leaves,
[owed a vast circumference of ground. _
“1‘0, who had again taken stand behind
so, ebushes, where he had a full new of her
movements, watched them with eager eyes.
Two hundred dollars at stake—two hundred for
himself, fifteen hundred for his father—Julie’s
market value—no wonder he Was on the alert:
What was his astonishment, on seeing the girl
‘- ike a. letter from her picket, and, standing on
:iptoe, drop it into a knot-hole in the magnolia!

l

l

l

i

l

 

poet-office. All this through fear of father. ‘I
n the letters thus surreptitiously exchanged,

only phrases of friendship had. passed between 3
them. But at their last meeting, Clinic had

spoken words of love—fervent love, in 1 last :
appeal. He had avowed himself hers, and asked
hertobehis. She hadresisted himan‘

answeru nthe tbut ledi inwritu
ing. He £31m recs ve’it in a letter, to be found 
in their forest post-office.

He was not dismayed at being thus put ofl'.
He sup it to bebutawhim of hissweet-
heart. 9 knew that, like the Anne Hathawa

| of Shakespeare, Helen Armstrong “had a way

‘ of her own' for she was a girl of no ordinary
“11 .I‘ a grand magnolia, whose spreading i character. ’Born and brought up in the back-

I
i

This done, she turned her back upon the tree; ‘

Stu back along the path by which she ha
co —-evidentl going home a ain.

e aggro—ca her was not 0 y surprised, but
(-ha in

A double disa pointment—the an— 1

’ ti 1 tion of min two
gi . l hlsold s ave t in lash—~both pleasant, both
0 . .

1 .
an. "mining In con moat, he permitted
the girl to go umnolestec ; not moving till she

and, Without staying longer under its shadowd E

Woods she ssessed a irit, free and indc n-
dcnt, ill keelpin r with till; scenes and people hat ‘
had surrounde her youth. So far rom being ;
deterred by her refusal to give him an imme- r
diate answer, Clancy but admired her the more. ‘
A roud she-eagle, that Would not condescend
to he soft cooing of the dove—even to speak
ac( uiescencc.
‘ his would come in time—in a we not com-
inon—in the letter she had promise! him. He
militia find that in the knot-hole of the mag— I
no . 3
'And now, his day’s hunting done, he was

! making his way for the tract of woodland in i

, which stood the tree—proceeding toward it‘

i

along the edge of the swam .

He had no thought of pping, or turnin

undred dollars and l aside; nor would he have done so for any sma .

game. But at that moment a deer—a grand !

l antlered stag—hove in sight, heading in toward

the swamp. Before Clanc could bring the gun l
to his shoulder, it 1% the place where be A

‘ of its
.of making it.

‘ the forest.

. smoke.
Tyrolese hat. He who possessod it was habited ? disch

‘ out from his lurking

jsaid inaderislvetunefl

stood, loping on among the trunks of the trees
As it ran apparently unscared, he had hopes of
again retting sight of it' and thus allurcd, he
swerv out of his track, and went stalking

tor.

He had not roceeded above twenty paces.
when u. sound fl ed his cars, aswoll as the wcxxls
around. It was the report of a gun fired by
some one almost beside him. And not at tifo
deer but himself ! The shot came from behind.
and he knew it had hit him. This, from 0. Shin -
mg sensation in his aim, like the touch of re -
hot iron, or a drop of scalding water. Even
then he might not have known it to be a bullet,
but for the crack close following.

The wound——fortunately but a slight one—did
not disable him. Like a tiger stung by jave-
hns, he was round in an instant, ready to return
the fire. There was no one in sight!

As there had been no warning—not a word—
he could have no doubt of the intent: some one
meant to murder him!

The report was that Of a smoothbore—a fowl-v
ing-piece loaded with ball. A conclusion quickly
drawn hindered him from having any ec-
ture as to who backfired the shot, or why it
been fired. He was not traveling on a road
1. uented by robbers, but through a tractof
tim 1" in the Mississippi Bottom. He was sure

being an attempt to assassinate him, and

that there was but one man in the world capable

. Richard Darke was in his

thoughts, as if the report of the gun had been a

vogie propouncmg his name. 1

ancys 0 es, flashing on 'y, interro ted

8 trees stood til-bk, the-spacesgabe-

tween shadowy and somber. For it was a forest
of c resses, and the hour twilight.

.6 could see noth but the tree-trunks and
their branches, in ed with the tghostly til~
landsia, here an there draping to e d..
It bullied him, by its color and form-tamm y
festoon ha a resemblance to men
ewas ooking forthennokeofthe

urged gun.
He could see none. It must have puffed up

: suddenlglto the tree-tops, and become cummin-

gled wi the moss.

It did‘not matter much. Neither the Curie
noes nor the close-standing trunks, hindered his
dog from discoverin the whereabouts of the
would-be amassin. iving a yelp, the Animal

Before goin twenty paces from the t it
bwht up aste  trunk of a tree, 
s fiercely haying as if at a bear. The two
was a huge buttressed WC, with “knees”
several feet in hight s n around. In the
xolbscuren ity they might have mistaken for
. Clancy was soon amon them; and saw stand-
ing, between two p' rs, the manwho had
meant to murder him.

There could be no question about ‘the intent;
and the motive was equally understood. ,

There was no effort at explanation Cl c
called for none. His rifle was alread c ;
and, quick upon the identification of  advtr-
sar came to his shoulder.

‘ flichard Duke!” he cried “you’ve had the
first shot. It’s my turn now."

As he he his fin the
the bullepo . gar pressed trigger, and
Darke, on seeing himhscelftodiscovere'd, leapéd
dom of action. The e
from havin elbow-room. He also raised

his
——a den ie-barrel; but, think it too my
nstead of pulling the trigger to owcred the

: iccc again, and dodged back behind tr“-

3 movement, almost Inn

cyls shot, was nick one to save him. The
ball q a $3.1 of in; cost with-
out wing bl , or even ,  ~
He sprig-hf outfittnwitln 01mmth
M'Dgllnbenufockhingingand  butt ma his
0
shouMen—foryhe was now sure of his victim—he

“You’re a fellow, Clancy! A
marksman, to ruin; a man not six feet from the
muzzle of our gun! I shan’t miss you. Shot
for shot’s air play. I’ve had the first, and 1’11

9 sin e wo s a 9 et at
from his left-hand barrel. ry j M
For the moment Clancy was invisible, the

sul hu a smoke form‘ '
hi ,, {film it ascended mg a nimbus around

I he was seen rostr to
upon the earth; the blood, welling frompa wcua'nd
"tin-11‘s? breast, having already saturated his
8 .
He appeared to be writhing in his death
agony. '
He must have thought so himself, from the

words that came t1, h . -
ing‘ utteranm, mug hl‘hpfi. in slow, chok

Ma God I '
have ki led-mggge :1): !l,{ichard Duke—you

“Imeanttod it” -
“pam- o , was the unpitying re
Oh heavens i——wicked wretch—wlgl—why—’
w ' .

“Bah! .You know the wh ,
Helen , if you like glam mam:
all,itwasn’t_th_a smudefl urchin! :but‘y ‘
impudenee. you had Imam 

 

.  ........- .«'»-.»..-.., - .

 

c. muum

 

 

 

 

A... m...” _-~.m»‘.-. m. 

 

{Wmm.——..u.i . .  .

 

W,

 

her. You hadn’t; she never cared a straw for
you. Perhaps, before dyin , it may be a con-
solation for you to know e never did. I’ve
got the proof. Since it’s not likely you’ll ever
see her again, it may 've you a pleasure to
look at her portrait. ere it is! The sweet girl
sent it me this very morning, with her auto-
h attached as you see. 1 think it an excel-
outJ likeness. What think you? You will, no
,doubt, give an unbiased opinion. in your
condition should 3 candidly.”

The rufiian held a photograp before. the eyes
of the dying man. They were growmg dim;
but only death could have dimmed them, so as
not to see that sun-painted picture, the portrait
offlier he loved. I

e gazed upon it lovingly, but not ong The
script underneath claimed his attention. In it
recognized her handwriting known to him.
The fear of death itself was naught to the de-
air that swept through his soul, as, with fast-
min eyes he deciphered the words—

“He en Armstrong—For him she loves. ”

The picture was in the possession of Richard
(Berke. To Darke, then, had the words been ad—

ted the latter,

“ The great creature 1’!" re h ’
urlng e bitter space in isvictimsear.
RoShe sent it me this very mornin . Come,
Clancy! tell me what you think of the ikenessi’
re was no response—neither by word, look,
nor gesture. Clancy’s lips were mute; his eyes
glassed over; his body motionlem as the mud on
which it lay.
“ D—n him, he’s dead l”

CHAPTER V.
UNDER rm: crrnnss.

"D——N him, he’s dead!"

It was Richard Darke who gave utterance to
the  bias hemous as brutal.

Profanity an brutali had been the char-

ofhis life. 0 these he had now
added a crime of deeper dye—murder.

And without remorse. As he bent over the
lifeless form of his rival there was no resem-
blance of contrition, either in glance or gesture.
0n the contrary, his dark animal eyes were still
I?“ With zealous hate, while his hand
cute the hi1 of his bowie-knife. He had
half drawn it from its sheath, as if to plunge it
into the bod .
less—almost loodless.

He saw it was already breath-
“ What need? The man’s dead.”

be211:1 with this reflection, he pushed the blade
i Now for the first time a thought of danger

ed acrosshisbrain. Asenscof fcarbegan
to shape itself in his soul. For, beyond doubt, he
had done murder!

“ No!” he said, in an attempt at self-justifica-
tion. “ It’s no murder. I’ve killed him, that’s
Ergo; buti' he’s had a shot alt 111118. ’I that

gun discharged, an one s o e
through the skirt of my coat. By thunder, it
was a close shave 1”

His .6 as rested for a moment on the perfora-

y a moment. His uneasiness came
bee and he continued to shape self-excuses.

“ l Itwas a fair fight. The thing hap-
pens every day in the streets. What diiference
whether it’s among trees or houses? What dif-
fem—oan that there were no witnesses?
Well, what _ there were none?”

The assassin stood reflecting—his glance now
bent upon the body, now sent searchineg
through the trees, as if afraid that some one

' ht come along.

ere was not much danger of this. The spot

was one of perfect solitu e, as is slwaysac -
reel forest. Therewas no path near,toize
godden by the wayfarer. The lanter had no
business among those great bu trunks,
The woodman could never small them with his
ax. Only a ' hunter, or perhaps some
runaway slave w d be likely to stray thither.

Richard Dar soliloquized as follows:

“ Shall I at a bold ace upon it, and confem

 

that I kill him? Icansa wemetwhilaout
hunting; that it’s been a air ht—shot for
shot; fiiylucktohave thelast. illthatstory

 

A pause in the soliloquy; a glance at the 3
00m; 5 «figmigttiifi 112181 millig- 
scene, uns pe y . ,
the long outstretched limggfwith their ll-like _.
festoonery of Spanish moss' athoughta ut the :
loneliness of the place; it them for conch ,
a‘dead body; then a reflection utothesocia!
status of the manhehadmurdered. All these i
through the mind of the murderer, di— ,
vol-ting him from his half-formed resolution— 1
adm01 ' him of its futility. 1
, “ It won‘ do,” he went on, his words denot- 3
'ing the change. “No, that it Won’t! Better !
so nothing about him. He has no friends I
who’ll inquire what’s become of him; onl his ,
old mother. As for Helen Armstrong, wil she
-—Achl” ‘
The ejaculation betra extreme acerbity of
spirit, as if called up hydthe name. 8 I,
with such a sweet love-token lying along i

trust:

 lanced inquiringl round, this

mew agiewto thecorpse. Kai
madeuphismindtodo

" “The Death-Shot; or,

hit.- a

A sluggish creek meandered among the trees,

passing at some two hundred yards from the ;
t. At about a like distance below, it dis— ,

c arged itself into the stagnant reservoirs of
the swamp.
lts waters were dark, from the overshadow-

. ing of the cypremes, and deep enough for such

puipose as he was plaimin .

But to carry the body to it would uire an
effort of strength; and to drag it we d leave
traces.

In view of this difficulty, he said to himself:

“Ill let it stay where it  ‘
comes this way; not likely.
till doomsday, or till the wolves and buzzards

make bare bones of it. Then who can tell whose '
, bones the are? Ah! better still, I’ll throw
3 some of t is moss over it, and scatter more

around. That will hide everything.”

He rested his gun against a tree, and com-
menced dragging the beard-like arasite from
the branches above. It came 0 in flakes—in
armfuls. Half a dozen he flung over the still
palpitating corpse: then pitched on the top
some pieces of dead wood, lest a. stray breeze

' ht strip of! the hoary shroud.

fter strewing some tufts arotmd. to conceal
the blood and boot tracks, he stood for a time
making survey of the scene. .

At length satisfied, he again laid hold of his
gun, and was about taking departure from the

lace, when a sound, falling upon his ear, caused

' to start. Well was it calculated todo so:
for it was as the voice of one wailing for the
dead!

At first he was badly scared, but got over it
on discovering the cause.

“Only the dog!” he said, as he saw Clancy’s
deerhound skulking among the trees. .

On its master being shot down theammal had
scampered off, perhaps fearing a s1m11ar late.
It had not gone far, and was now returning—
little by little, drawing nearer  the spot.

The r brute was struggling between two
instinc action for its allen master, and
fear for its own life. .

As Darke’s was now emp he tried to
entice the cm within reach 0 his knife.

With all his wheedling, it would not come.

Hastil ramming a cartridge into one of the
barrels 9 took aim at the mal, and fired.

The shot had effect; the ball ng through
the flesh part of the dog’s nec But only to
crease t e skin and draw outaspurt of blood.
The animal, stung and still further aflrighted,
gave out a wild bowl, and went off, Without

of stay or return.

ually wild were the words that proceeded
from the lips of the assassin, as he stood looking
after. They were interro?tive.

“The d-d cur ’11 go ome to the house?
He’llwtell a tale—perhaps guide people to the

t

As he spoke, the murderer turned pale. It
was the first time he had e rienced real fear.
In such an out-of—the—way p e be had felt safe
about concealing the body, and along wrth it
his bloody deed. Then, he had not taken the
dog into accmmt, and the odds were in his
favor. But now, with the animal admit, they
were heavily against him.

It needed no calculation of chancestomake
this clear. Nor was it a doubt which caused
him to stand hesitagi‘iiig.  firresiolution cantie

from aflri , part y rom uncertain y

Iillsfutati‘ithist course he should ursue.
One thing was certain— 9 could not sta

The bound had gone off howling. t

was two miles to the nearest plantation house;

but there was an odd squatter’s cabin and clear-

between. A do ing in that guise, blood-

ed, and in cry of distress, would be

certain to raise an alarm. Equall certain-to

beget apprehensions for the safety 0 its missing
master, and cause search to be made. _

Richard Darlgddid pot long md 
Despite its soli e,i was no e co or
tranquil thought—not for him. Far 0* through
the trees he could hear the wail of the wounded
Molossian. Was it fancy, or did he also hear
men’s voices?

He staged not to ascertain. Beside that corpse, :

shroud

moment ion r. .
Hastily sguldering his gun, he struck off
thro h the forest; as flrstgomg in quick step;

though it was, he dared not remain a

then double; increasin to a run, impelled to .

this speed not by the how of the bound, but the
fancy that he heard human vaices.

He retreated in a direction opposite to that ‘

taken by the d . It was also opposite to the
way leadiu to father’s house. It forced
him still higher into the swamp—across sloughs

and through soft mud, where he made ft} t»,— ;

marks. Though he had carefully court-sled the
bod , and obliterated all other traces of the
mill», in his “ scare ” he did not think of those
he was now leaving. .

The murderer is only cunning before the
crime. After it, if he have conscience—or
rather, having not courage and coolness—lie
loses self-possession, and is sure to leave clues
for the detective.

So was it with Richard Darke. As he retreat-
ed from the scene of his diabolical deed, taking
long strides, his only though. was to put spans

i\o one ever 1
It may lie there I

Tracked to Death. 

between himself and that a"'!‘l‘.l'<("l crying cur.
So he anathematizcd the animal. xiimsc cries
appeared comnn‘ngling with the shoots of nan
--the voices of avengers!

 

CHAPTER VI.
A COOK—CHASE INTEILRL‘PTED.

THERE is no district in the Southcni Stator.
without its noted COOll-lllllllAJI‘. And, notcdly.
, the coon-hunter is a iiegio. 'llic pastime .s Mu
tainc, or too humble, to tempt the white man.
Soon-thins the sons of “ poor white trash" take
part in it: but it is usually delivered over to tie

‘ darkey. ”

In the old times of slavery every plantation
could boast of one or more of these sable him»
rods. To them coon-catching “as a piotit, ur‘
well as a sport; the skins kee )ing them in to
bacco—and whisky, when adt icted to drinking
it. The flesh, too, though little estemnczi by
white palates, was a bonne-bouchc to the iich o,
with whom flesh meat was a scarce cmuimdity.
It often furnished him with the means of
, making a savory roast.

The lantation of Ephraim Darke was no ex—
ceptio to the general rule. It, too, had it,
coon-hunter—a negro named, or nicknamed.
, “ Blue Bill.” The qualifying term came from 1;

cerulean tinge, that in certain lights appeared
upon the surface of his sable epidermis. Othel-
wise he was black as ebony.
Blue Bill was a mighty hunter of his kind,
ionately fond of the coon—chase—too much.
indeed for his own safety and comfort. It
, carried him abroad, when the discipline of the
‘plantation required him to be at home; and
.more than once, for so absenting himself, had
‘ his shoulders been scored by the lash.
! All this had not cured him of his proclivity.
.‘ Unluckily for Richard Darke, it had not. For
' on the evening of Clancy‘s being shot dowif, as
,described, Blue Bill was abroad; and, with a
small cur which he had trained to his favorite
chase, was ranging the woods near the edge of
the c ressswamp.

He ad “treed” an old he—coon; and was
{Esparing to climb up to the creature‘s nest-ra

ge knot-hole in a sycamore—when a shot
startled him. He was more disturbed by the
I peculiar crack, than by the fact of its being the
|report of a gun. His ear, accustomed to the
sound, knew it to have proceeded from the
double-barrel belonging to his young master-
just then the last man he would have wished to
meet. He was away from the “ uarter” with-
out “ ” or permission of any ' (1.

His thought was to continue his ascent of
the sycamore, and conceal himself among its
brfinfih‘i‘is a son a.

u ' 0g, ' u e nod—that
would betray him? pen gm

While hurriedly reflecting on what he had
best do, he heard a second shot. Then a third,
coming quickly after; while mingling with the
reports were men‘s voices, apparently in angry
clalxpostulad tion. He heard, too, the bayingof a

can .

“Gorramity!” muttered Blue Bill; “dar’s a
skrimmage in’ on dar—a fight, I reckln, to
de def! An I know who datvfight’s between.
| De fuss shot am Mass’ Dick’s gun; ,de oderam
E Mass’ Charle Clancy. By gollyvl ’tain’t safe dis
schild be see‘d hya, nohow. bar kin 3 hide
i“mien?” h l ked d in
, gain e co upwar , scann the ca-
. more; then down at his dog; and orgice mosiy'e to

the trunk of'the tree. It was embraced by a
creeper—e. gigantic rape-vine—up which an
ascent ht easilyfli made; so easil' y that
there 11 be no ' culty in the carryinghis
cur along with him. It was the ladder he had
intended using to reach the treed coon. With
the fear of his young master com‘ that way,
and, 1f so,sure1y “cowhiding” ' , felt there
was no time to be wasted in vacillata'on.
Nor did he waste any. Without further stay,
‘ he threw his arm around the coon-dog; mind
the unresisting animal from the ground; and
then “ swarmed ” up the creeper, like a she-bear
1 carrying her cub. , ‘
In ten seconds after, he was ensconced in a
,crotoh of the sycamore; safely screened from
the observation of anty one who might pm
i Eiderneath, by the pro use clustering foliage of
e parasite. _ n,

Feeling comparatively secure, he bent his
, ears more attentiver to liStOIL He still heard
- twu voices in conversation. Then only one of
them, as if the other no longer replied. The
one continuing to speak he could distinguish us
that of his young maStCI‘; though he could not
make out the words spolwu. The distance was
too great, and the sound interrupted by the

 

' thick-standi trunks. 'It was a low monotone
_uufil;t.have ii a schloquy—and ended in an
ac». tion. Even this he could only tell by its

e
a pt terminating tone, _

Then succeeded a short interval of silence, as
if both men had gone away. Blue Bill was in
hopesthey had, or that his young master, '_ht
have done so. His hope was the stronger. at-
the tree m whicl he had sccrotmi himself was
not upon the y Richard Darke should take

16 tothe lantation. It was 11' t'
Wile wonSd be going ham 1": ,

 
 

 
 

6

While thus reflecting. the coon-hunter‘s car
was again saluted by a sound. This time it was
the hound that Spoke—not barking as before,
but in a low, lugubrious wail, a sort of whini-

r, which appeared to come from a direction

'fferent. Then again the voice of a man—
Massa Dick’s—who spoke as if coaxing the ani-
mal, and calling it up.

Another short interval of silence. Another
shot, succeeded b an angry exclamation. Then
the hound was eard in continuous h0wling,

which gradually grew more indistinct, as if the ,
‘ saken him now.

animal was going off on the opposite side.

To the slave, absent without leave, all these
sounds seemed ominous—indicative of some
tragical occurrence. As he sat in the fork of
the sycamore, listenin to them, he trembled
like an as n leaf. Still, his presence of mind
did not orsake him: and this was directed to
keeping his own dog silent. Hearing the bound,
the cur might give tongue in response—perhaps
would have done so, but for the coon-hunter’s
fin rs clasped chokingly round its throat, and
onlge detached to 've it an occasional cuff.

c more sti ess held possession of the
forest. But again was it disturbed by the tread
of footsteps, and a swishing among the under-
wood. Some one was passing through it, evi-
dently making toward the tree where the coon-
hunter was concealed.

More than ever Blue Bill trembled upon his
rch; tighter than ever clutching the throat of

canine companion. For he felt sure the
man, whose footstepls told of approach. was his
master—or rather is master’s son. They told
also that he was/advancing hastily' as if in re-
treat, rapid, headlon , confused. flpon this the
peccant slave found he )es of escaping obser-
vation, and consequent c isement.

The sign did not disa int him. In a few
seconds after, he saw ichard Darke coming
from the direction in which the shots and voices
had been heard. He was running as for very
life—the more like it. that he ran crouchin 1y,
at intervals making stop, and standin to ' n,
with chin thrown back upon his shou der!

When 0 posits the camore—almost under
it—he a pause onger than the others.
The sweat appeared pourm down his cheeks,
over his eyebrows almost b ding him.

He drew a handkerchief from his coat-pocket;
wiped it off; and then, replacing the kerdiief,
ran on again.

In doin this, he dropped something, unseen
b himse . It did not escape the observation
of, the coon-hunter, conspicuously posted. The
thin let fall resembled a letter, in an envelope.

' it proved to be, when Blue Bill, cautious-

The New York Library.

lows-at times breaking through it like a chased

bear—now stumbling over a fallen lo , or
caught in a trailing grape-vine—Richard arke
{lees from the place where he has laid his rival
0w.

He makes neither stop nor stay; if so, only for
a few instants at a time, long enough to listen
and try to discover whether he is followed.

Whether or not, he fancies it; again starting

. off, with terror in his looks and tremblin in his

limbs. The sang-from he had exhibiteu while
in the act of concealing the body has quite for—
Then he felt confident there
could be no witness of the deed—nothing tocon-
nect him with it as the door. It was the im-

‘ thought-of presence of the dog that reduced the

‘ having esca )ed.

change, or. rather, the thought 0 the animal
This, and his own frightened

‘ fancies; for e is now really in afiright.

He keeps on for quite a mile in headlong, reck-
less rushm . Then, as fatigue overtakes him,
his terror omes less impulsive; his fancies
freer from exaggeration; and, believing himself
far enough from the scene of danger, he at
len h desists from flight.

e sits down upon a log, draws forth his
hot-handkerchief, and wipes the sweat from
us face. He is ganting, pal itating, perspiring
at every pore. ut he now ds time to reflect;

! and his first reflection is the absurdity of his pre-

!
l

l
I

cipitate retreat; his next, its imprudence.

“I’ve been a fool for it,” he mutters. “8111111)-
Eosing some one had seen me? ’Twould o y

ave made things worse.

“ And what have I been running from? Only
a hound, and nothin besides. Curse the dog!
Let him go home, am be hanged! He can’t tell
a tale upon me. The scratch of a bullet—who
could say what sort of ball, or what kind of gun
it came from? No danger in that, and I’ve been
stupid to think there could be.

‘ Well, it’s all over now; and here I am.
What next?”

For some minutes he remains upon the log,
with the gun resting across his knees. and his
head bent down between them. He appears
en aged in some abstruse calculation. Some-

: th g new is evidentl before his mind—some

‘, scheme requiring all

I descending from the sycamore. ap reached -

spot where it had fallen, and pic it up.
The coon-hunter could not read. No use his
taking out the letter, though he saw that the
envelope was open. But an instinct that it
might, in some way or at some time, be useful,
prompted him to put it in his pocket.
This done, he stood reflectin . There was
now no sound to disturb him. T e footste of
Richard Darke were no lon r heard. eir

tread, adually growing in istinct had died
away; e cypress forest resuming its pristine
silence. The only sound the coon-hunter heard

was the thum ing of his own heart against his
ribs—this lou enough.

No longer thought he of the coon he had suc-
coeded in treeing. The animal, late devoted to
certain death, would owe its escape to an acci-
dent, and might now re securely Within its
nest. Blue ill had ct er thoughts—emotions
strong enough to drive coon-hunting clean out
of his head. Among them were apprehensions
about his own safety. Though unseen bmis

oung master—his resence even unsuspec —
he knew that an un ucky chance had placed him
in a position of danger. Of this his instinct had

dread w him. .

m? a y had been enacted. he not only
surmised, bu was pretty sure of.

Under the circumstances how was he to act?
00 on to the place where he had heard the shots,
and ascertain what had actually occurred?

At first he thought of domg this; but soon
chan the intention. Frightened at what was
al y known to him, he dared not know more.
Hisyoun master mi ht be a murderer? The
way in which he saw in retreating almost said
he . Was he Blue Bill, to make himself ac-

ted with the crime, and bear. witness

the man who had committed it? As a

vs, he knew that his testimony would count
for nothi in a court of justice. And as the
slave of gehraim Darke, he also knew his hfe
would not worth much after he had given it.

This last reflection decided him; and still car-
rying the coon-dog under his arm, he parted
from the spot. going in skulki gait, never stop-
pin , never {call safe, till e found himse f
wi the limits 0 the “ negro quarter. ”

Not then till inside his own cabin, seated 'by
the side 0 his Phaabe, his coon- dog smelling
among the pots and his “ piccaninnies ’_’ cluster-
ing around, an clambering upon his knees.

CHAPTER VII.
ASSASSIN IN WAT.
Arawsm- the thick timber, going as one -
sued—in a track straight as the undorwoo; al-

 

I

 

is power of thought to

laborate.

“ I shall keep that :rdyst,” he says, seeming at
length to have settl it “Yes; I shall meet
her under the magnolia. Who can tell what
changes may be brou ht about in the heart of a
woman? In history had a royal namesake—a
king of England With a hump on his shoulders—-
as he's said himself, ‘dcformed, unfinished, sent
into the world scarce half made up,’ so that the
‘ do barked at him,’ as this brute of Clancy’s
has n doing at me. And this royal Richard,
shaped ‘so lamer and unfashionable,’ mmle
court to her whose husband he had just assassi-
nated—a roud Queen—wooed and subdued her!
Surel , t is should encourage me? The more
that , Richard Darke, am neither halt nor
humpbacked. No nor yet unfashionable, as
many a pretty girl has said, and more than one
sworn it.

“Proud, Helen Armstrong may be; proud as

con Anne she is. For all that, I’ve got some-
t ing may subdue her—a scheme as cunning as
that of my royal namwake. May God, or the
Devil, grant me a like success!”

At the moment of giving utterance to the pro-
fane prayer, he starts to his feet. Then, taking
out his watch, consults it as to the time.

“ Half- nine it is now. Ten was the hour
of appoin ment. There won’t be time for me to
go home, and then over to . rong’s wood-

und. It’s more than two miles from this.

0 matter about goin home. There’s no need
to change my dress; s e won’t notice this tear
in the skirt. If she should, she’d never think of
what had caused it, much less it’s beings bullet.
She won’t see it anyhow. I must  off. It
will never do to keep a young lady. waiting. If
she don’t feel disappointed at seeing me, bless
her! If she do, I so. curse her! What’s passed
pre me for ei her event. In any case, I
have satisfaction for the slight she’s put
upon me. By Judas I’ll get that!”

He is stepping of! when athought occurs to
him. He is not certain as to the exact hour of
the t st. He might be there too late. To make
sure, e lunges his hand into the ket, where
he had deposited both letter an photograph,
after holding the latter before the eyes of he
(‘ig'ing man, and witnemmfi' the fatal effect.

ith all his diabolical hard cod. he had been a
little awed by this, and had thrust the papers
into his pocket hastily, carelessly.

They are no longer there! Neither letter nor
photograph can be found! .

He tries the other kets of his  of
themqvith like res t. He examines his bullet-
pouch and game-bag. No letter, no cardboard,
not a scrap of per in either! The stolen eplstley
its envelope, tag: inclosure, all are absent.

fter once more ransaeking his pockets, al-
most turnin them inside out, he comes to the
conclusion t the precious papers are lost

It startles, and for a moment dismay: him.
Where is the miniag epistle? He must ve let
it fall while retrea ng through the trees.

Shall he back in search of it? \

No; he w 1 not.

 

He does not dare to return '

upon that track. The forest path is toosomber.
too solitary, now. By the mar ,in of the dank
lagoon, under the ghostly sh ow ot' the cy—
presses, he might meet the ghost of Charles
Clanc '!

Am? why should he 0 back? After all, there
is no need. What is t ere in the letter requir-
ing him to regain possession of it? Nothing that
can in any way compromise him. Why, then,
should he care to recovcr it?

“Let the love—letter go to the devil, and the
picture too! Let them rot where the ’ve fallen.
—I suppose in the mud, or among the palmet-
toes. i o matter for that. But it does matter.
my being under the magnolia in good time. 1
must stay no longer here.”

Obedient to the resolution thus formed, he re-
buttons his coat, cast open in the search for the
missing papers; throws his double-barrel—thc
murder~gim—-over his shoulder; and strides off
to keep an appointment not made for him, but
for the man he has murdered!

 

CHAPTER VIII.
THE COON—HUNTER AT HOME.
_ THERE was yet a lin$ring ra of daylight:
in the cleared ground of ‘phraim arke’s lan-
tation as Blue Bill, returning from his nter
rupted chase, got back to the negro quarter.
He had entein it, as already told, with stealthy
tread, and lookin cautiously around him.

For he knew t at some of his fellow-slaves
were aware of his having one out “a-coon-
in r,” and would wonder at is early return—-
too early to pass without observation. If seen
by them he might be asked for an explanation;
which he was not prepared to give.

This it was that caused him to skulk in among
the cabins; still carryin the dog under his
arm, lest the latter mig t take a fancy to go
scenting among the utensils of some other dar
key’s kitchen, and so betray his presence in the
it Inner.”

ortiniately for the coon-hunter, the little
“ shanty” that claimed him as its tenant stood
at the outward extremit of the row of cabins
—nearest the path leading to the lantation
woodland. He was therefore enable to reach,
and re-enter it, without much danger of at
tracting observation.

And as it chanced, he was not observed; but
got back into the bosom of his family, without
any one being a bit the WiSc' r.

. lue Bill’s domestic circle consisted of his
Wife, Phoebe, and several half-naked little “ nig-

ers.” Once more among them, however, he
ound he was still not safe, but had yet a gent
let to run. His rig-appearance so soon uncx
pected; his em )ty game-bag; the coon—dogma-
der his arm; al had their eil’ert run l’hisbe
She could not help havin a surprise.

Nor did she submit to i in silence.

Confronting her dark-skinned lord and mas
terz with arms set akimbo, she said:

‘ Bress dc Lor’, Bill! Wha’ for yousosooi.
home? Neider coon nor in! An’ do do;.
touted after dat fashun! ou ain’t been a nu
more’n a hour! Who’d ck see “gap-in come it
dat-a waiv, emg’y-han ; n , ’cep your
own old 0g! ’ ‘plain it, Bill?”

The coon-hunter dro ped his canine com-
panion to thefiocr, an sat down upon a stool.

ut Without givmg the demanded explanation.
He only said:
“Ne ba mind, Phoebe gal; nebba you mind
why I se home so soon. Dut’s iiufiin’ ’tran . I
see d .dc mght warn‘t a gwine to he fav fo’
trackin’ de coon; so dis nigga konklood ter leab
ole coony ’lone.”

“ Lookee hya, Bill!” said his wife, laying her

' earnestl

hand upon his shoulder, and g y
into hise es. “Dat ’ere ain’t e con'eckexp —
cashun. er ain’t tellin’ me do "

The coon-hunter quailed under the searching
glance, as if in real“: acriminal; but-gave 1‘10
res use. He was at a can what answer to make.

‘ Da’g somethin’ m we ’bout dis," con-
tinued his better half. “You’ve ot a seecrit
mm; I kin tell it by do glint o yer eye. i
no see dat look on yo, but- I know you ain’t
yaseif; jess as 9 use deceive me, when you war
in sich a way ’ ut brown Bet. ”

“ Wha’ you talkin’ ’bout, Phoebe? Dar’s no
brown Bet in do case. I swar dar ain’t.”

“ Who sayed dar war? No, Bill dat’s all pass.
I only spoked ob her ’kase yar look jess now like
ye did when Bet used bamboozle e. What I
say now am dat you ain’t yaseff. ar’s a cat in
do bag, somewha; you better let her out and
confess de whole ’toi'y.” ’

As Phoebe made this appeal. her glance rested
searching] upon her hus nd’s face, and keenly
scrutunze the play of his features.

There was not much playto be observed. The
coon-hunter was a pure-blooded African, with
features immobile as those of the S hinx. And
from his color no it could be (feduced. As
already said, it was he purity of its ebon black--
Bess, producing a purplish iridescence over the
epidermis that had gained for him the sobri~
qufii‘iii‘fiil‘fiwmima .1...

' c lyhe thein 'itorial ‘ -

angnflor th:ll a.tt‘elfi’hcnhe was 111311123. 0.,
y un ' _ supper w the fru

the meal—made so by the human ch? 0‘

 

 

 

......._.__ .___.,.... “two WNW...-  ... . . .

 

 

 

 

 

The Death-Shot; or, Tracked to Death.

perham something to do in melting his heart,
and relaxing his tongue.
whatever the cause, certain it  that before
going to bed, he nnburdened himself to the part
her of his 'oys. by makin full confession of
what he had witnessed on t ie swamp edge.

He told her, also, of the letter he had picked
up; which, cautiously pulling out of his pocket,
he handed over for her inspection.

Phoebe had once been a family Servant—an
IlllOUl‘ domestic and handmaiden to a white
uiistresa. This was in the days of youth—the
halcyon days of girlhood, in “ ()le Varginnly "—
before she had been transported west. so d to
Ephraim llarke. and by him de rraded to the lot
0 an ordinary outdoor slave. at her original
owner had taught her to " read," and her mem-
ory still retained a trace of this early education
—sutlicient for her to decipher the script she
now held in her hands.

She first looked at the photograph; as it came
first out of the envelope. There could be no
mistaking whose portrait it was. Helen Arm-

 

 

FACING TOWARD THE TREE. AND STANDING ON TIP’I‘OE, sun RAISES HER HAND ALOFT. AND commxmcs onomso AGAINST THE TRl'NK.— l’azi-

Whether this. or

;._r_. .__ ;

E222..-

hind. when I war out n cwm—hnntin‘.’ More‘n
once 1 seed cm. A young white lady un‘ genl‘m
don‘t meet dat way unless dar‘s a feelin‘ at ween
'em, anymore dan we mor brack folks. Besides.
dis nigga know dey lull) one ‘noderfihe know to
satin. Jule, she tell Jupe; and Jupe hub truss. d
dat same seecret to me. hey been in lnb longr
time; afore 3121.33" Charl‘ went ‘way to Texas.
But do rreat Knrnel Armstrong. he don‘t know
nuilin‘ Tout it. Golly! of he did. he shoo kill
Charl‘ Clancy; dat is, if dc poor .young man ain‘t
dead arread)’. Lc‘s hope 'tain‘t so. But. l’ho‘bc.
gal, open dat letter, an' see what de young lady
say. Satin it’s been wrote by her. Maybe it
t‘row some light on dis dark sub'eck."

Phuabe, thus requested, took the letter out of
the envelope. Then spreading it out and hold-
ing it close to the flare ot' the tallow dip, read it
from be rinning to end.

It, too considerable time; as her scholastic
acquirements. not very bright at best, had be—
come dinnned by long disuse. For all. she suc—

, ceeded in (leciphering and interpreting every

‘ u.

“a.

is \\\W"
\\\\~‘§}\\w \v ~ «

‘“\

t

u

a
I
r
l
I
I
D

\

wars

 

-—' .<&‘-_

 

'7

promise to keep dark, for dc case am a dcsprit
Ulll’.

l'ho-be could well comprehend the caution:
and promising compliance. the two went to
sleep by the side of their sable oilspring. re
solved on preserving silence.

 

CHAPTER IX.
I‘NDER THE MAGNOIJA.

PERHAI‘S for the tirst time in her lifc. Helen
Arnbtrong walked with stealthy step. and
crouchineg Daughter of a large slayerowner
—mistress our many slaves—she was accus-
tomed to an upright attitude and aristocratic
bearing. lint she was now on an errand that
required more than ordinary caution. and
would dread recognition by the humblest slaw-
on her father‘s estate.

(,‘loaked and hooded—the hood drawn Well
over her face—with body bent. as she moved
silently forward. it would haVe taken a sharp
darkey to identify her as his young mist-less—

9.

strong was too cons )icnously beautiful  have
escaped the notice 0 the humblest slave in the
settlement. T00 good. also; for. as a friend to
the black folks, she was known to them througlr
out the whole line of riverine plantations.

The negress spent some minutes gazing upon
the {air face, as she did so. remarkin :
l H now [)9wa am dat young la: y!
‘ t.’ she gwine awa from de )lace!"
I V- You am right ‘ )out dat. hwbe. She bew-
'..il as :niv white gal dis nig I. ebber sot eyes on.
And she‘good as bewfnl. ‘se sorry she rwiue
‘wav from dcsc parts. How many a dar i9 '1]
wish (lat doar young lady. An‘ Won‘t Mnss‘
Charl' Clach mim her too! Lori I most forgot;
maybe he no trouble 'bout her now: maybe. ho's
gone dead! Rf dat so, she miss him. an‘ no mis—
take. She cry her eyes out. slncm—sartin."

“ You t‘ink dar war somet‘ing ‘tween dem
two?“

“T‘ink! I'se shoo oh that, thbe. Didn‘t I
no dam but! togedder down dar in de Wood

\V hat

item of its contents to the coon—hunter: who
sat listening with eyes in wonderment. and ears
wide open.

When finished. and the letter. along with the
photograph. was replaced in the envelope‘ 1}“.
two were for some time silent. pondering upon
the circumstances thus revealed to them.

Blue Bill was the first to resume speech. He
said:

“Dar‘s a good deal in «Int lcttm‘ I know‘d
afore, and dar'sodder points as ‘ war to be new
to me; but whether de old or (ie new. ‘twon't
do for you or me to declar‘ a single word o‘
what do young lady hab say. No. l’lmdw.
necry word must ‘scape de lips ob cider o’ us.
“'9 muss hide dc letter. an‘ m-bcr let nob‘dv
know dar's sich a dockyment in our visa-shun.
And dar must be nufiin' sayed or know‘d ‘liout
dis ni ga tindin‘ it. Ef dat ebber kum out. den
I n n‘t tell you what 'ud happen to us. We‘d
boat catch do cow-hide, an‘ maybe do punish-
ment ob de pump. So, I’hwbe, gal, gi‘e me yar

the eldest daughter of his “ Massa.“ (‘olonel
Annstrong—qnore especially as it was after
night she was thus cautiously prm-ceding, and
under the shadow of trees.

Notwithstandng llll‘ obscurity. the was km.”
ing in a direct course. as it making for some
point. and with a purpose.

Does it nch to be told what this pnr )osc was?
Love alone could liiupt :1 _\’Hllll;: lady out at
that hour; and only low not allowed—Lperhaps
forbidden. b) some one havingr ascendancy over
h..r_ th' this would 11m Hlllll for lll'.‘ making
her way. through the \ood in such set-re t guise.

At the same hour on: mom-n1 ('oloiu-l Arm-
~«trout: was at work. with all his household.
whit:- rcwiilul‘s us well as black shuns. ()f tlH
last there were not manv left llilllw’EIdlI‘llllll
Ilarkc having foreclowd the mortgage. and ob-
tained iuusscssion of the estate. made over to
him by private sale. Three or four field—hands,
and some haw-down house snrvrrt“—-"'l‘0“<‘ nf—
{ection made them almost members of his

 

 

. 3?: 'av ‘ .

.c

8 u I rIlhe New York Library.

family—were all that remained to the ruined  She is not so. It is but a conjecture; and in  about to leave the neighborhood—indeed, that

planter. _ I
He was about to move of! with these, to make *
the beginning of a new home in Texas; and the 1
next morning was appointed for starting. At ;
an early hour too; so that the night was being
given to the final settlement of ail'airs and pre-
paration for the journey. Thus, full occupied, .
chiefly with out—door matters, he ha no time to

5 give to his family. His tWo daughters he sup-

ld to be equally engrossed with those cares,
on such occasxons, left to the female members
of the household.

Had the proud planter—still proud, though
now in comparative poverty—had he at that
moment been told that his eldest born was
abroad in the woods, it Would have startled him.
Further informed as to her errand—the keeping
of a love a )pointmcnt—it would have cauSe
him to desis from his preparations for travel-—
perhaps thrown him into a terrible rage. And,
still better acquainted with the circumstances—
told who was the man thus favored with a noc-
turnal assignatiou, and that it was his own ‘
daughter, his eldest, the, pride of his house and ,‘
h who had made it—it is just gadblahe ,
woul have dropped whatever duty was on- i

upon sprung to his pistols, and rushed of ,.
w ,onthetrackofhisstrayingchild,g
there, perhaps, to enact atraged as 1
the one recounted, if not so repuliuve.

Fortunately, he had no knowledge of a ht
that was passing; E d inthecares of he
mat—the last 9 was to spend on his old plan-
ta n— ' u only of preparations for the
new home—he no icion of Helen being I
absent from the house. 9 saw Jessie there:
and she, her sister’s confidante—both as to the
absence and its cause—took pains to conceal

' s all at no: at s .

as“ m‘mi‘iini" “if. flfifiti f‘lmwuii'
oes e orw

Wt intervals stopping to ' n-’ I

Helen Armstrong continues on in her nocturnal ,

excursion. .
Shehas not far to go—half a mile or so from 7
of the cultivated Eng,
9 !

thehouss. On theed
standsagrandmagnolia, that hasheenrespeot—l

 

where the primeval crest meets the
This is to be the‘

t tree. She knows it—she has herself
named it. It is the same tree in the knot-hole :
of which hertrustedmaid “Jule” haddepositedl
the letter containing her phmph. .

Asshocomestoastop fusreadmg
branc she throws open hor.oloak,
hood hue and stands with uncovered face.‘ ‘
“She hasotnonifear now. The place myond

a range ht-strolling negroes. one
in pursuit of ’pgssum or "coon, would'be Emily
to combthat way. fiutthisisa contingsnoytoo
mate give her uneasiness.

ith set in exgtatiou, she stands

under the tree—within darkness of its
shadow. Alone the illuminate her
toes; though it is onsdsssrvin shatter light.

But even under the pale,

0f whims“ b ,”—so coarsely, 
propriately, named— is beauty is beyond cavil
or question. Black hair, black eyes eye-
brows, complexion of golden brown, feamres of
gipsy type-to which the hooded cloak adds
harscteristic expression—all combine in form-
ing a picture appropriate to its framing, the
o .

Only for a few short moments does she remain
motionlsm. Just long enough to get back her
Wat “some exertion in makmg' her
wa ugh e wood—more difficult in the
dogmas. trong emotions, too, oontdhutoto
the quick-heating heart. _

She does not wait for it to he stillod. Facing
toward the tree, and standing on tiptoe, she
raises her hand aloft and commences

mint the tnflk. Tho flreflies gleam “milieu-c
the if??? “huggg” “a. mi“
' a 6 up” 0 a
dark uni—a knot-hole in the tree. In this
her hand is plunged, and after a moment drawn
out—empty! . ’

At first there is no appearance of disappomt-
gouty. HOLIflghge cougar)? tggrphosplgrlc glam

u or as es,ra ens ws
mMon—NHPMMr evinced in the phrase
that falls from her lips with the tone of its ut-
terance. She sa s, oontentodlyz—

“He has got 1' I”

By the same fltful light, soon after can be
perceived a change—the slightest expression of
ahagrin, as she adds, in murmured interroga-

on:

“ Why has he not left an ansWer?”

Is she sure he has not? No. But she soon
wil be.
ith this determination, she faces
toward the tree; once more inserts er slender
jeweled fingers; plunges in her white hand to
the wrist; gro the cavit all round; on
draws the ban out fin, t time with an ex-
clamation stron r t disappointment. The
tone is of discon t—almost anger.

“He might at least have let me know whether
he Was coming or not—a word to say that I
mi rht expect im. He should have been here
I am certain it is the hour-past it!”

 

orumcl

Wm... _.... ..

this she may be mistaken—perhaps wronging
him. To make certain, she draws the watch
from her waistbolt; steps out into the moon-
light; and holds the dial close to her e  The
gold glances bright, and the jewels ash joy-
ully under the moonbenms. But there is no
joy in Helen Armstrong’s face. On the contrary,
a mixed expression of sadness and chagrin.
For the hands of the watch point to ten min—
utes after the hour she had named in her letter.

There can be no mistake about the time—she
had herself a pointed it. And none in the
tirne— iece. S ie has full confidence in her
watc ; it is not a cheap one.

“Ten minutes after and he not here! No
answer to my note! lie must certainly have
received it. Jule put it into the tree; she as-
sured me of that on her return. Who but he
could have taken it out? No one is likely to

know of it. Oh] this is cruel! He comes not—
1 shall 0 home.”

The c oak is once more closed around her; the
hood drawn over her head. - '

Still she lingers—1m rs and listens.
No footstep; no muggw breakthe stillan

the night; only the chirrup of 

and the shrieking of owls.

She takes a last look at her watch—sadly,
despairingly. It shows fifteen minutes after“
the ap mted hour—nearer tw ’ 1 She re-
storesi to its place, with an air determina-
tion. Sadness, despair, chagrin—all three dis-
appear from her countenance. r is nova
its 6 ression, fixedland stern. corusca-
tion 0 the firefly hasa responsoinflashes lest

athan its own (phosphorescen rks from
heeyes of an in ignant woman! len Arm-

strong is surely this; as, closely drawing her
cloak around her, she turns away from the tree.
She has not passed beyond the shadow of its
branches, are her steps are stayed. A rust '
of fallen leaves—a sw ' man
still adhere to their branc es—a
twinge aohd and heavy—the footfall of a man!
but}: hasabee «'1 ed h ’3
“ e n stain ysomegood cause 1
shojo yreflects; hersadnessand spite both
, as he ap drawing nigh.
eyanegoneas estandsby0 rside.
But, womanlike, determined

f f gi sh m‘mfigahgu '
0 or veness, o
“ You are here mgrltPWell, I wonder

ou came at all. There’s an old adage ‘

ate than never.’ Perhaps you think it fitting?
1queaking of m self, you may be mistaken.

ever mind! hother or not, I‘ve been here
long.enou , alone. And the hour is too late
for me to y any longer. So'good-night, sir-
mild nigspeechht!” iteful in to and bitter

or as are no ~

insonse. Sho-intsnd?th¢mtobebotb.~ '

While giving utterance to them, she has
drawn the cod over her-head, and is .
off—asif etermiuedtogtvoalessonto .

lover who has % . - 
pm or 13me 

ru A 9 ~

csnperceivethgz‘hissrmssminthous, 

mud toward her, _ . The: , f
8 8138“ 6 1083’;  "
thing makopl?er‘rel ' ‘

She relents; a read to fling herself ton-m ,
lngly, onhiabreast. 
word of up g. i ‘ ' " '

“’Tis cruel thus to have triédme. Ohl
Chg}? Charles! why havoyoumso”

‘ on in name (brig,
butRichard. lam 1.5mm ‘ ._.

gamma x. ".
Brown Dun instesdof. les
tmonti Thisme he too tame a,

mistake shehsd made. I whither
of sham For her words,
ken in reproach, had torribly‘com—
promised er.

She did not sink to the earth, nor yet show
signs of fainting.

of, one is seen; indistinctly at first, not

 
 

1 you start to-morrow morning—I was going over

1 to your father’s house to say farede I an

sorry that my comin this way, and chancing

f to meet on, should ay me open to the charge

, of intrusxon. I shall still more regret if it has
interfered with an appointment. Some one else
expected, 1 sh pose?’

For a time s e was silent—abashed by the im-
pndent interrogatory.

Recovering herself, she said:

“And even so, what gives you the right to
question me! I have told you I wish to be
alone.” '

“ Oh, if it’s your wish, I shall at once relieve
you of my presence. ”

He stepped to one side in saying so. Then con
tinued: '
“As I’ve said, I am on the wa to
father‘s house to take leave of the tamil .
you are not going immediately home, per laps I

; may be the bearer of a message for you?”

‘ he iron was evident; but Helen Ainistron
was not of this. Only how she could
get disenibn‘rl-ed'ofthis manwho‘ '4,
med-“‘1. tsomal ,. _, -

.h. —-for"he was the ex ‘ one—' ‘

vs n , ' some csnseun
delay still pomible ogygustiflcaflon. She"
lingering hope homig t yetcomo, and‘heh '
interrogated  forest with a quick” in

lanes. ' . v E, v:
:hNomltlhstanding it: subtlfilty, notwmmmg‘g
so sin-rounding em . ,
 w' 'n ware »r.. ,,
man 8 ’Mn 
u From the mistake you hove just nudging
8

om
It

     
 
 

Armstrong, I presume you toohmo for ,
bear-in the baptismal name «Chaim?

 

! pants 'ow onl one person who Carries , .

. cognOmen—Char

In ' t

Clancy. n it ‘hoyou
those'tha iexpectinthhink Icansaveyou. o _ y
ootfall with of staying out in-the ni h_t airsny 1% "'t
. 15'

Be wfll

“  mean you. Mr. Dorks? Why- do”- you
D. . ' , v V I 1'7
3 disc speech had made its im ‘ s-
sion, and WMe proud '1 of! her 3 ma.
She spoke confusedly, ,and w: t 'reilectxo ‘;
Duke’s rejoinder wasmore amning; a (1
one. ’ ‘ I A
“(Because I met Charles Clan this. mom ‘
and he told me he was Evin cyan a 
He was just starting w en saw him. Some
aflair of the heart, I believe- a little let’s—shape
he’s glot into with a pretty reole uho'liv in
-Natc oz. By-thsl-way, he showed me, a No-
graph of yourself, which he said he had janito-
ceived. , excellent likeness, I call ,3‘
cuss meforte youl-hzhatClancy nails :9
331:: q hotograpgh 2:5 «Ewlfith‘i "—
1‘ P ’ '0,
pndwmildinsistthatsholsmorjobeautiful
you. Ltis true, Miss Armstrong, that
givenmeno greatreason to heyourc ‘
, I couldn’t stand that; and, alter qu -
' ’s taste, I plainly told him he Was
nor an Orzo I’lrin may?! to repeat thiehsamgéo him,
y won onareno em belo-
tiful woman in the S to of Mississippi.” .‘
Attire conclusion of the fulsonie speed) Helen
Armstrong cared but little for his chsmpion-

;‘and not much for an hin else. .
“$3:- heart was nigh toytbrea’ lung. She in
or

is. if you are staying for
wme ”

  
  
   

on her afflictions, to Charles L ~h
potter late written she had lavishedwflm' ‘

 
     
  
 
  

 
  

  

AMMha‘dbeentrlfled ' ' o
Wal‘lleoi-aorsols ll . -..
_  whim '

  
  
   

‘ o
A . V ’ m

Darke saw his ‘ niiiy, or thought so; and
again flung himse before pr.

 

She was not a woman of this . hem of

“ Helen Armstrongflhe cried, in the earnest-
on—a pamon, if not pure, at least

way. No cry came from her lipsj—nothing that l heartfe t and strong—“ why should you care for
could betray surprise, or even ordinary emotion. , a man who thus mocks you? Here am I, who
As Darko stood before her With arms uprais- , love you truly—smadly—more than my own life!

0d. Right in her tpath, she simply said:
“ ell sir; i

then? Your being so does not give you an

ri ht to intrude upon me. I wish to be alone. ’

l

It‘s not too ate to withdraw the answer you

you are Richard Darke, What ‘ have givon me. Gainsay it now, and there will

be no need for any change—any oing to Tom

Your father‘s home may still be i8, 813d yom ‘

he cool, flrm tone caused him to quail- H9 Say You Will be my wife, and eve thing

had hoped that the su
agpearsnce—coupled wit his knowledge of her
0 ndestine ap intment -- would havo done
something to su ue, perhaps make her submis-
sive.

On the contrary, the thought of this last but
stung her to resentment, and
His arms came down; and he was about step-
ping aside and leaving her free to pass;_ though
not without making an. attempt to justify him-
self. Hedidso,sa ing: ‘

 

rise of his unexpected ‘ be restored to him—all will be well. ’

She listened for the conclusion of the speech
Its appealin sincerity stayed her, though she
0001 not to , or did not thinkywhy. It wu
moment of mechanical irresolution. .

Bin, 80011 as it was ended, again came back

he 80011 Saw it. i into he; sful, the bitter-neg that had just swept
1 .
i An there was no.halm in the words

by Richard Darius; on the contrary, his speech

. was like ' in fresh ' .
“If I’ve intrudoc u )on you, Miss Armstrong, , pourmg pom)“

To his appeal she made answer, as ones before

I am sorry for it. It as been altogether an uc- she had answered him—with but a single word

cident,

I assure you. Having heard you ware It was repeated three times. and in a tone not

I
......,,.,..~—._._..», WNW. ../ n.

_.W_ _ 4:

 

a w......,,...~....-...,_.. . .
“ ...-) . .

.gfl

- '>CWM

 

 

 

 

—r

to be mistaken. On 3 aking it, she parted from
the s t; her proud. {Sughty step, with a deny-
ing i not disdainful gesture, telling him, she was
not to be further accosted.

Spited, chagrined, angry as he was, in his
craven heart he felt cowed and fearful. He dared
not follow her, but remained under the tree,
from whose hollow trunk still seemed to rever-
berate her last word, thrice emphatically pro—
nounced:

“ Never—never—mver I”

 

CHAPTER XI.
“ WHY comes HE Nor?”
Ir, on that night, Helen Armstrong went to
bed reflecting bitterly of Charles Clancy, there
was another woman, who sat up, thmkmg sadly
about him.

Some two miles from the (rate of Colonel
Armstrong's plantation, near the road that led
past the latter, stood a house, of humble aspect
compared with the dwelling of the planter. 1t

ii" iii 

 

{VK ,  , ,‘,.;\“I  
. is  ..  tilt,
, ‘Wllll‘l ‘

m
\

 

 

MN {like

\\ ‘1'
is iii
\ '\ din
L this.
r\.‘\\,i

scribed as being. sad. He was her son—her only
child, and she his only living parent.

|
I

As already known, her widowhood was of re- 1
cent date. She still wore its emblems upon her '

person and carried its sorrow in her heart.

Her husband, of ood Irish lineage, had found I
his we to Nashvil e, the capital city of Tennes— 1

see; w ere, in times long past, many Irish fami-
lies had made settlement.
married her, she herself being a native Tennes-
sean, s rung from the old Carolina pioneer
stock, t at had gone into the country near the

It was there he had 1

end of the ei‘rhteentli century, alon with the .
Robertsons, Ifyneses, Hardings, and radfords, .

leaving to their descendants a certain patent of
nobility, or at least a family name deserving,
and generally obtaining, res met.

In America, as elsewhere, it is not the rule for
Irishmen to grow rich' and still more excep-
tional in the case of an Irish gentleman. When

these have riches their hospitality is too apt to
take the shape of spendthrift profuseness, end- ‘
ing in pecuniary embarrassment.

“it

"‘ \_

‘

4“

‘\\
‘\
n

, almost brought her to the grave.

‘ The Death-Shot; or, Tracked to Death. 9

loved mother, whose grief, pressing heavily, had
It was one of
a long series of reverses which had sorely taxed
her fortitude. Another might end her life.

Some such presentiment was in her mind, on
that very da ' as the sun went down, and she
sat beside a ( iiii candle, her ear keenly bent to
listen for the returning footsteps of her son.

He had been absent since noon. He had gone
out deer-stalking, so he had told her. She could
spare him for this, and pardon a prolonged ab—
sence. She knew he was devoted to the chasezI
he had been so from a boy; but more than ever
since his trip to Texas, where he had imbibed a
passion for it—or rather, cultivated that in-
stinctive to him. Vhile in Texas he had made
an expedition to the furthest frontier, and there
hunted buffalo and grizzly bear, with trappers
and Indians for his companions. Thus inocu-
lated, a man rarely gets over his Ipenchant for
the pursuit sanctified by St. ubert. His
mother, knowing this, would have thought noth-

1 ing of his staying out a little late.

 

my“ ., ,.

 l

 

WHY STAND WITH PALLOR UPON HIS CHEEKs, mm cmmmne, as 11‘ AN AGUE CHILL m SUDDENLY ATPACKED Ema—Page 1].

might have been called a cottage; but the name
is scarcely known in the State of Mississippi.
Nor yet was it either log-cabin, or “ shant ;”
but a frame—house, with walls of “ weat er
boarding,” planed and inted, the roof being of
“ shingles.” It was a c ass of dwelling occasion—
ally seen in the Southern States—thou h not so
frequently as in the Northern—inha ited by
men in moderate circumstances, poorer than
Planters, but richer or more gentle than the
‘white trash,” who live in log-cabins.

Planters they are in social rank, though poor;
perhaps owning three or four slaves, and culti-
vating a small holding of land, from twent to
fifty acres. A frame-house vouches for t eir
respectability, while two or three log structures
at be back, representing barn, stable, and other
out-buildings, tell of there being land attached.

Of this class was the habitation s oken of as
standing two miles from the gate 0 the Arm-
Itl'ong plantation. It was the home of Charles

; and inside it was the woman whose
thong t6 about him on that night we have do-

 

It was so with Captain Jack Clancy, who ot
wealth with his Wife, but soon squander it
uPOn his own and his wife’s friends. The result
W88 a move to Mississi pi, where land was at
the time chea r, and w ere his attenuated for-
tune enabled im to hold out a. little longer.

Still the property he had purchased in Missis-
sippi State was but a poor one; and he was con
tem lating a further flit into the rich “red
Ian ” of North Eastern Texas, then becoming
famous as a field for colonization. As said, his
son Charles had been sent thither on a trip of
exploration; spent twelve months upon the
frontier prospecting for their new home; and
returned with a report in every way favorable.

But the ear into which it was to have been
spoken could no more hear. Before his return,

a tain Clancy was in his coffin: and to the
ally son there remained only a mother.

This was several weeks antecedent to the
tra dy, whose details are already before the

er. Charles had passed the intervening
time in ondeavoring to console his dearly-be—

0

 

But on the present occasion he was beyond
the usual time. It was now night: the deer
must have sought their coverts; and he had not
gone “ torch-hunting.”

On] one thing could she think of that might
explain the tardiness of his return. The eyes of
the mother had been of late watchful and wary.
She had noticed her son’s abstracted air, and
heard si‘irhhs that seemed to come from his inner
heart. 0 could mistake the signs of love,
either in man or woman? Mrs. Clancy could not, i
and did not. She saw that her son had fallen
into this condition.

Rumors that seemed wafted on the air—signs
slight, but significant~perhaps the whisper of a
confidential servant—these had given her assur-
ance of the fact: telling her, at the same time,
who had won his affections—Helen Armstrong.

The mother was not displeased. In all the
neighborhood there was no woman she would
have more wished for her daughter—in—law than
this youn lady. Not from any thought of her
remarkab 0 beauty, or high social standiqi.

.,.4.-w.. ,. .

(a a... ._..
i

-._.;_.~ .a .2.

s, .. .a.».. W

4.2;”..‘s', . .3 a

-— —\ MK... - -n..." W.‘—~g~'. ~ ‘

 

i
i

19-..“- .. ,

 New York “Library. “

 

‘r Tr ~-.-‘

n.

Caroline Clancy was herself too well descended l The boat was not to start before daybreak; I Those already on the ground were similarly
to make much of the latter circumstance. It .
1 road, between the plantation and the town of
l Natchez; hence the early hour of removal from
* a house never more to be their home.

was he reputed noble character of the lady
that inllnmccd her approval of her son‘s choice.

Tililliilllg‘ olf this—relneinbcring her own youth
and tile stolen interviews with L‘harles Clancy’s
father—omen 11.1 ler the shadows of night—she
Could not roll/nth harshly on the absence of that
father‘s son from his home, however late the
hour.

It was only when the clock struck twelve, she
beg-1.1 to think serioule about it. Then came
over her a lo ding,r of uneasiness, soon changing
to appreimuion.
so law—alter midnight! The same little ird,
that bron hit her tidings of her son’s love affair,
had also told her it was clandestine. Mrs. Clan-
cy mi;'1t not have liked this. It had the sem-
blance ol’ a slight to them, the Clancys, in their
re luccl cirrnnist'mces. But then, to satisfy
hcr, came up tne retrospect of her own days of
courtship.

Still, at that hour the young lady could not——
darml not—be abroad. All the more unlikel
that til-.3 Al'antrongs were oin away—asal
the neighborhood knew—and minded 
early to: next morning.

Colonel Armstrong’s household would long
since have retired to rest; and an interview
with his daughter could not be the cause of
Chdrles Clancy’s detention. Something else
must be keeping him. \Vhat?

Thus ran t le reflections of the fond mother.
At int n‘vals she started from her seat, as some
sorm l rea tllO ‘1 her from without ; each time
glidai ; to the door and looking out—only to re-
turn to lm‘ roozn disappointed.

For lozi ,r spells she stool in the porch, her eye
interrog; mu 3' til i ma 1 that ran past the cottage,
her car Rec 11,! list min ; for footste

TilLll'J was a brilliant nioonlig t.
man. no form moving underneath it.

' But no
No sound

' of coming l’e:t~only dead stillness saving the

nocturn ll voieis of the forest—the c irp of tree-
crickcts, the gluck‘gluck of frogs, and the shriek.
ing of o .vls. But ainonv them no sound bearing
rescinlll ii :0 t ) a flmtfall.

One o‘clock, and still silence, or the same
monotone of animal sounds; to the mother of
Ch'irle; Clancy now become terribl aggressive,
in Mt) keen apprehension she wa h forhis
return.

A: >;'1_);‘t intervals she glanced at the little
“ Coniati 9‘13)” clock that ticked over the man-
tel. A pe l lln‘ s thing, it might be false, as the
men wao cazni south selling them. It was the
ro.‘li':t'o I 0: a smthern woman, and she hoped
her 0013' :cturc might be true.

But, a; she lingerel in the porch, and looked
at tile waningr moon she knew it must be late-
quite two o‘cloc :. And still no fall of footsteps
—no son returning.

“ \Vheri, where, is my Charles? What can
be ditiining him!"

Phrases almost identical with those that had
full :21 from the lips of Helen Armstrong but a
few hone; before! The place only unlike, and
the words prompted by a dilferent panion,
though one eq‘iall y strong and pure.

Both doom .-d to disappointment alike hard to
bear. Alike in cans», and et how dissimilar
the iniprcizion prolucell he sweetheart be-
lieving herself szligiits'l, forsaken left without a
IOV'JI': ti: ln‘)b.lUl' tortured with the presenti-
in mt she no lo lg-JI‘ ha i a son!

“'hen, at an hour between midni hi: and
morning, a dog, his coat clotted wi h mud,
came crawling through the gate, and
Clancy re so grazed her son‘s favorite hunting
hound, size coal 1 still only have suspicion of the
torri‘ol - truth. But it was a suspicion that, to
the :n )' 11ers he'irt, already filled With forebod-
ing, let ll :0 certainty. Too much for her
stren'rt'i. \Vl‘llt'hhl an'l worn with watching,
prostrltel hr tlo intensity of her Vigil, When
tho houn'l crawled no the steps of the porch and
under the din light she saw his bedrag led
form—hi» ) l as well as mud upon it—the ht
pro Llc - l a climax, a shock nearly fatal.

Mrs. Clancy swoollcd upon the spot and was
carried iniide the house by a faithful negro
slave—the last that was left to her.

 

CHAPTER XII.
A LAST Looi: AT LOVED SCENES.

Lox; before the hour of daybreak on that
same morning, a light wagon, loaded with lug-
gage and other personal ell‘ects, pgossml out from
the gate of what had lately n Arc bald
Armstron'fs plantation.

It was his no more. The mortgage had been
foreclosed, and Ephraim Darke was now its
OWnci:

Close following the lmggage-wagon was a car-
riage, of lighter construction, the old family
barouclax inside which were seated Colonel
Arlns'tl'Oll': and his two daughters. They were
allot‘ family he had: and it was the last time
they were eVor to ride in that carriage, either
for airingr or journey.

It wins a journey on which the were now
bent; not a very lonf,r one by wrlzg‘e—only to
Natchez; whom-e a steamboat won (I convey
them. along with other passengers, up the
River of Louisiana.

but there were some miles, and much rough

Colonel Armstrong had chosen the boat, as
liliertiine of departure, for a special reason.
ee I

himselt a bankrupt, broken man, he,

i did no desire to be seen leaving his old home ‘
 under the glaring light of day. hot that he i

had any fear of being detained. He had satis-

; fled all legal claims, and had still something left
1 —enough to give to him a handsome startin ,
Texas. He had converted it into cash; which 1

Whyr should he be stay' r out . _
‘ will account for the accompaniment of only a

single wagon, loaded with personal effects, and

‘ some endeared objects—such as compose the

: household gods of evegy old family. Half a ‘
a

dozen male and female ves—Jule among the

‘ latter—were part of the retained chattels. His

 

early start was due to a feeling of sensitiveness,
not shame. He shrunk from being stared at in
his hour of humiliation.
By the light of a southern moon, the two ve-
hicles, rting him and his, rumbled along
the road, or sunk. into its rate; at length, enter-
ing the quaint old city of Natchez; which
stands upon one of those very rare projections
that surmount the Mississippi river, known as
the “ Chicasaw Blufls.”

It was still not quite day when he and his be-
longings, after slowly crawl‘ down the
hill that leads to the river lan g, got aboa
the boat, and on] just sunrise as the steamer’s
bell, tolling for t e third time, proclaimed the
si of departure.

11 after, Colonel Armstrong and his two
do. hters, standing upon the “guards” outside
the 'es cabin, looked their last on the city
of Natchez; in the best society of which they
had for many years mingled, and where the
eldest had reigned supreme. It was no thought
of parting from this pleasant ascendancy—no
thou ht of exchanging her late luxurious life
for e log cabin and poverty her father had
promised her—that brought the tear into Helen
Armstron ‘3 eye. She could have borne all

these, an far more—ay, looked forward to
$2111 tfilth cheerfulneu—had Charles Clancy
n e.

He had not, and that was an end of it.
Was it?

No; not for her, though it might be for him.
In the compan of his new sweetheart, the
Creole girl of w om Dick Dummisn her
the first information—for Helen rig had
never heard of her before—he would soon orget
the vows he had made, and the sweet words
spoken under the magnolia; a tree that, in re-
trospect, seemed now to her sadder than any

c .

W ould she ever forget him! Could she! No,
not unless in Texas, whither she was going,
there should be found the fabled Lethean
stream. Shetho ht not of this. If she had,
it would not have with faith in the efficacy
of its waters. There was no water on earth, nor
spirit, that could give either oblivion, or solace
to the thoughts that tortured her.

Perha not lea sad though different,
would ey have been if she had but own the
tru If, instead of making that early start
from the old

lantation home her father had
waited for day reak, all would have been differ-
ent—all that affected her happiness. Had the
carria Colonel Armst and his daughters
but ro ed along the road w enthesunwasshin-
in upon it they would have heard tidings—s

e to thrill all three, but more magician her-
self. With her it would have pone ted the
heart’s inmost core, displacing the bitterness
there alread lodged b one aim though
unlikeinna . Per psit ht vebeen
easier to endure? Perhaps Helen Armstronz
would ‘rather have believed Charles Clancy
dead than think of his traitorous defection?

winch of the two calamities she would have
preferred—preferring neither—there could be
no opportunit of testin . Loknifi before it was
known that C cy had 11 ed—before the
hue and cry was raised, resounding throu h the
settlement—the boat on which the rongs
were embarlgd had steamed far away from the
scene of t e a .

Little thou fidfielen, as she stood on the
stem- d, 00% back With tearful e es,
that t 0 man ng her weep was at bat
moment a corpse, lying cold under shadowy

c resses.
yfiad she known it, she would haVe been sud.
ding tears—not of spite, but sorrow.

 

CHAPTER XIII.
wnu ins moon or m conrssl

THE sun was up—hi 11 up over the to of the
tallest forest trees. ground the real once of
widow Clancy a crowd had collected. They
were mostly men, with an admixture of boys,
half'8'1'0Wn youths, and women. They were
her nearest neighbors; while those who dwelt
ata terdistancewere stillin the actof as-
semb Every few minutes two or three
horsemen were seen riding up carrying long
rifles over their shoulders w l: powder—horns
and bullet-pomhes stra across their breasts.

armed and accoutered.

The cause of this warlike muster was known
to all. That morning at an early hour, a report
had been spread throughout t e plantations,
that Charles Clancy was Imssing from his home,
under circumstances that justified a suspicion
of foul play having befallen him. His mother
had sent messengers to and fro; and this had
brought the gathering around her house.

In the South-Western States, on occasions of
this kind, it does not do for any one to show ill-
diflerence, whatever be his station in life. The
proudest or wealthiest planter, as well as the
poorest white, is ex cted totake art in the
administration of ackwoods jus ice—some-

; times not strictly en regle with the laws of the

 

land.

For this reason every neighbor, far and near,
summoned or not summoned, is pretty sure to
be present; as the were on this occasion
Among the rest Ep aim Burke and his son
Richard.

When all or nearly all, had glclit u n the
ground, the usiness that brought t em 830 other
was discussed. It was to search for C les
Clancy, still absent from his home. The
mother 8 story had been already told, and only
the late comers had to hear it again. Her son
had gone out deer-hunting, as often, almost
every day before. He ha taken his favorite
hound With him. She knew not in what direc-
tion he had gone. It had never been her habit
to in uire which we. he went on his hunting
0 tions. Enou for. her that he came
home again; whic , until that day, he had
always one before the gom down of the sun.
He had never before stay out after night.
He new she was alone; and, being a ood son,
always returned within the thligh , if not
sooner. Ha ‘ failed to do so on the night be-
fore, she no. y felt uneasy. At a later hour
her uneasiness became alarm. Later stillfihe
was in a state of agonized apprehension' w ch
came to its climax when, in. the gray light of
momrg, the dog came skulkmg home, his coat
cove with mud, and blood upon it.

The animalwas before theirs es stillinthe
condition ken of. They coul all see it had
been shot—- e tear of a bullet was visible u n
its neck, having cut through the skin. Besi a
there was a piece of knotted aroun
the dog’s throat, the other end showir'i as if it
had been first gnawed b the animal's teeth.
and then broken off as wi 21. pluck.

All these circumstances had a significance;
though no one could explain or even olfera con-
jecture as to their meaning. It looked as if the
animal had been tied—perhaps to a tree—and
afterward succeeded in settin itself loose.

But why tied? And why ad it been shot!
These were the questions that not anybody
could answer.

8 , too, in the bound having reached
home a the hour it did! Its missing master
was never abroad after sunset—so Mrs. Clancy

assured them. If an had happened to
him before that hour—an ng tose to him
from the do and keep back—w had the
latter dela return home? As c

had
gone out about the mi dle of the day, hegould
not have roceeded to such a distance item
the house or his bound to have been nearly all

m'ght in get ' back to it.
as it hdulifinself who fired the bullet whose
mark was made upon the dog? This)?” also a
pomt in the p ' ' investigation.
Not for long. The uestion was soon answer-
. There were old gackwoodsmen am the
mustered crowd—hunters who knew how m-
terpret a “ si ” as exactlias would ChamPOL

Iion an E hierogl These having ex-
amined a score on e hound’s skin, pro-
nounced the bullet to have come moth-

from a
bore, and not a rifle. Itwas known that Charles
Clancy never hunted with a smooth-bore, but
always with a rifle. ,

This was a point of very iipportant charac-
ter, and did not fail to make im woman on the
minds of the assembled backw smen.

After some time spent in discussing what was
best to be done, it was at length agreed to insti-
tute a search for the missmg man. In the
once of his mother no one spoke of scare ing
for his body: though there was a neral appre-
hension that this would be the en of it.

She, most interested of all, had a too “trim
fore ‘ of it. When her nei hbors, startin
out, told er .to be of ood c eer, her h
more truly said to her, 5 e would never see her

son a
. On leaving the house the searchers separated
into three distinct parties, intending to take dif-
ferent directions- which the did.

With one of these, and t 9 largest, went the
dog' an old hunter, named Simeon Woodley
con uctin it. It was a: ht that the animal
might be in some way usefu , if taken back on
his tracks—supposin that these could be dis-
covered. Along wit this party went Richard
Dtllilrke, his father choosing to accompany an-
0 er.

Just' as had been con'ectured, the d did
prove useful. Once insi e the woods,
even setting snout to the ground, he started at!
upon a straight run—going so swiftlytlnt it

 

‘w Wm... ._

 

 

 

I"; a- .-.LL~..~._. a. l..._»

 

was difficult for the horsemen to keep up with I

him.
It put them all into a gallop, continued for

miles through woodland, to the edge of the g

swamp. Here it ended, by their all pulling up
under a tree—a great buttressed c rpress, by the
side of which the staghound hm made a stop,
and commenced a lugubrious haying.

The searchers, having ridden up, dismounted,
and gathered around the spot; many of them
urgecting to see the dead body of Charles Clancy.

ut there was no body there—dead or alive.
Only a large pile of S anish moss, that appear-
ad to have been recent y torn from the branches
above. It looked as though it had been first col-
lected into a heap, and then scattered apart.

The dog had taken stand in a central spot,
from which the parasite had been disturbed,
and there stood, givin tongue.
'lrew closer and bent their eyes upon the ground
they saw something red upon it; which proved
to e blood. It was dark crimson, almost
black. and coagulated. Still, it was blood.

“Sikhs” 
{ll .
. ‘ l... ‘

(V [I


W H‘ll‘l
ll”, ‘

From under the edge of the moss-heap pro-
truded the barrel of a gun. On kicking the
loose cover aside, they saw it was a rifle—of the
kind common among backwoodsmen. There
were many present who identified the piece, as
that which belonged to Charles Clancy.

More of the moss being removed, a hat was
discovered. It was Clancy’s! Half a, score of
the searchers knew the hat—could swear to it.

During all this time Richard Darke remained
in the background, not taking an active part in
the scrutiny. his was strange too, Up to
that moment he had been, to all appearance,
among the foremost and most zealous.

Why did he now hold back? W'h stand with
pallor upon his cheeks, eyes sun (en in their
sockets teeth chattering, as if an ague chill had
suddenly attacked him?

It would have been fortunate for him had no
0110 taken notice of his reticcnce and changed
appearance. But some one had. Simeon lVood—
L‘Y had. and others as well. Despite the ob-

s...__.‘ .. -_ mm. , ...>....>-...:.:...~ .‘u _..._——-—————

As the men ‘

scure light under the shadow of the cypress,
% Darke’s strange behavior and scared looks were
,. observed.

Something besides—something yet more sig-
! niticant—attracted the attention of his fellow-
l searchers. Once or twice, as he approached the

The Deathfshot; or, Tracked to. Death.

 

11

 

‘ straggling groups; the movement at length be-

; blood-stained spot, the dog sprung toward him ,
’ with a fierce growl, and continued it until beaten ;

ofi’!

Men made note of the matter, but no com-
ments at the time. They were too much occu~
pied with conjectures as to what had actually
occurred. Death to Charles Clancy they were
now convinced; and proceeded with the search
for his body.

sluggish creek that ran close by.

Several hours were spent by them in tramp-
ing about. But not a trace could be found of
living man, or dead body. The searchers only
looked for the last. Not one of them had the

 

 

slightest hope of Clancy being still alive.

.1 A ,
W»

Li M
,9". .‘ls‘l

"N
l}

 i
l

twillxlil,
,, ;,~‘,o;,~:l,vlz,yt ,

  
.lillllill‘WM'i“
 to Wm

41';

I «:‘ll‘lll'
\ "‘ "l
3
'[

lit”: 0’

;
,l/ ‘

“"2. /! " «A .
cums OUT EVIDENCE.—-P&ge 11.

could they, with such evidence of his death he- :

fore their eyes?
Nor was there any doubt about his having
11 killed. There was no sign to make them
think he had shot himself, or otherwise commit-
ted suicide. All they had _et seen or heard, or
knew, pointed to assassina ion—to stark, down-
ri ht murder.
ut what had become of the corpse? If car.
ried awa why? Who could have carried it
away? v3; erefore and whither? And for what
reason surreptitiously? An accumulation of
m steriesl
ed, almost awed by them the searchers
at length left the ground. Net, however, until
after giving it that sort of investigation that
satisfies the instincts of a crowd. The had
8 nt most part of the day in this, wmhout
tfifukm' ' g of aught else, not even of their dinners.
But night was ap reachin : they had grown
hungry; and one ter anot er hurried toward

 

All around, the forest was explored; along .
the swamp edge: up and down the sides of the i
1 —Edward e

How 1

   
   

_ their homes: at first in odd individuals than in I ance.

coming general. They went home, determined
to return on the following day, and, if neces-
sary, renew the search.

Only two men stayed—Simeon Woodley and
a companion, a young backwoodsman—like
himsel, a professional hunter.

“I’m darned glad they’re gone off,” said
Woodley, as soon as the two were left alone.
“ Dan Boone himself kedn’t take up a track wi’

sech a noisy clanjamfrey aroun’ him. I’ve tuk a’
notice 0’ somethin’, Ned, the which I didn’t'

weesh to make known whiles they war about—
’specially while Dick Darke war on the oun’.
Le’s go now, and see if thar’s anythin to be
made out o’ it.”

The youn hunter, whose name was Heywood
ywood—simply made sign of as-
sent, and followed his elder confrere.

After walking about two hundred yards
through the forest, “'oodle made stop beside a
cypress “knee,” with his ace toward it, and
his eyes fixed upon a spot nearly on a level

with his chin. It was one of the largest of those
fiicngular vegetable excrescences that perplex the

“ You see that Ned?” said the old hunter, at
the same time ex 11 finger to point out
something near the summit of the “knee.”

The last Heywood did not need. His eyes
were already on the object.

“ I see a bullet-hole, sure—and something red
around the edge of 1t. Looks like blood?”

“ It air blood, an’ nothin’ else. It’s a bullet-
hole, too; and the bit 0’ lead lodged in thar has
fust passed throu h some critter’s skin. Else
why shed thar ’a’ n blood on it? Let’s dig it
out and see What we kin make 0’ it.”

Woodley took a knife from his ocket, and.
sprin open the blade, inserte it into the
bark of t e cypress, close to the bullet—hole. He
did this dexterously and with caution; taking
care not to touch the encrimsoned orihcc the

ball had made, or in any way blur ," tappt-sr
Making a. circular incision  L. and

 

.. . ---. ..

~ux "nu-‘bxr ':~ ., .j

r: _.- V- _ .A _

-“a$a=='»—-—:—.. - f . :-

;‘.x.._._..._ag._._' mm“ ‘4- ' "n

"T :.‘.:_. .:-:._.;.

, His thoughts were of Helen

12

adually
e bit of 10
had got imbedded. He knew there was a gun-

 

bullet inside. The point of his knife-blade told ,
himso. He had probed the hole, before com- 3

mencinrr to cut it out.

Weig inL,r the piece of wood in his hand, and
then passing it into that of his companion, he
ml l

ning it, he at length extracted i

along with the wood in which it ,

d.
1 “Ned this here chunk o‘ timmer’s got a bul- 9

let inside 0’ it that never kim out 0’ my rifle.
Thar-’3 big eends 0’ an ounce weight 0’ it. Only
a smooth—bore ked ’a.’ discharged sech.”

“ You’re right there,” answered Heywood, in
like manner testing the ponderosity of the

‘ the searchers he had

The New York Library.

 

comprehension of things; and he now knew he
was in danger. No one had said anything to
himself about the suspicion directed u n him.
Still there was the circumstance, whic nught

1 I..l\‘

a still lingering hope, now esca d all bounds
and became truly a 'omzmg. er heart seemed

. broken, if not, sure y was it breaking.

‘ be known, that he and Clancy were rival as )i- ,
‘ rants to the hand of Helen Armstrong. He id
; not think it was known—he hoped not, as their

riv would point to a motive for the murder.

i For a , he feared it.

He reviewed his Own conduct throughout the
day. During the search, and in the presence of
borne himself satisfactoo

1 rily. He had taken an active part, counterfeit—

picce, “ its the ball of a. smooth-bore, no doubt ,
‘t

O A .
“Well, then who carries a smooth.bore
throngs these

hyar woods? Who, Ned Hey~
wool!”

“ I know only one man who does.”

“ Name him! Name the rascal 1”

“Dick Dame.”

“ Ye may drink afore me, Ned. That’s the
skunk I war a-thinkin’ ’bout, an’ hev been all
the day. I see’d other sign before this—the
which escaped the eyes 0‘ the rest. An’ I’m
glad it did; for I didn’t want Dick Darke to be
about when 1 war follerin’ it up. For that ree-
sun I drawed the people aside—so as none 0’ ’em
shed notice it. By good luck they didn’t.”

“ What other sign have on seen?”

“Tracks in the mud, c 0st in by the em
the swamp. They’re a good bit from the
whar the poor young fellur hez gone down, an’
hakin’ awa from it. I got onl a glimp at
am, but ke see they’d been made by a man
runnin’. You bet yur life on’t they war made
by a pair 0’ boots I ve see Dick Darke wearin’.
I ’s too gloomsome now to make anythin’ out o’
’em. So let’s you an’ me go by ourselves in the
mornin’ at the earliest o daybreak, afore the
peggle git about. Then we kin gi’e them tracks
a ' orrer scrutination. If they don’t prove to
be Dick, Darke’s, then call Sims Woodley a
thick-headed woodchuck.”

“Howshall we know themtobehisl If we
wlylradhis boots, so that we might compare
them?

“If! Thar’s no if! We shall hevhisbooto—
bean to hev ’em.”
“ But how are we to t them!”
“ Leave that to me. ’ve thought 0’ a to
t purssession o’ the skunk’s futwear an every-
’ else belongin’ to him that kin throw t
on this dark bizness. Come, Ned! Le’s go now
tothe widder’s house, an’ see if we ken say a
word 0’ comfort to the poor lady—for a lady

she  Belike enough this thing ’11 be the
death 0’ her. She warn’t stro at an’
she’s been a deal weaker since the usban’ led.

Now the son’sgoed too. Come on, He cod!
[Q’s show her she ain’t forsook by every y. ”
“ I’m with you, Woodleyl”

 

CHAPTER XIV.
m sum or ran assassm.
Tu: night after Clancy’s assamination Richard

Dorks di not also soundly. He scarce slept at
all. Two causes e him awake—the we ht
of guilt upon his so and the sting of see

yet ringing in his ear—these last uttered

by the woman he loved—wildly worshiped.
Either should have been suficient to torture
him, and did—the last more than the first. He
had no remorse for ha killed the man, but
much chagrin at having n ted by the
woman. I‘he sl' ht had contri uted to the
making the tter less re nted of. Had
it served his purpose, there w d have been no
thought of repentance. But it had not. He
w done murder, and made nothing out of it.
or this reason only did he regret having done

In his - alf waking half dreaming, slumber-s
he fanciei he could hear the howling of a bound:
It awoke him: but when awake he thought no
more of it, or only with transien apprehension.
. g—of her

scorn, and his discomflture. This was a sure
thing now; and he could no longer hope. Next
morning she would be one from him—forever.

A steamboat, leaving atehez at the earliest
, our of da , would convey Colonel :13,

with all is belongings far' away from the

lace. It would know t em no more; andhe,

chard Darke. in all probability, would never

again set eyes on the woman he loved—so madly
as to tune committed murder for her sake.

“ Why the devil did I do it?”

in this coarse shape did he express himself, as
he la upon his couch—lightly thinking of the
bdrea deed, but weightin grieving how little
it had availed him.

Such were his reflections on the first night
'after it. Far different were they on the sec-
ond. Then Helen Armstrong was no more in
his then hts, or havmg there only a

on the bowls of the hound ware

rd, or fancied more frequently. They did
not 10 him from he sleep, for he slept not
at " All night long he lay thinking of his

crime or rather of the peril in which it had
placed him.
The events of the day had given him a clearer

 

surprise, zeal, and sorrow equal to that felt
by any of the party
worst thin
attracted o rvation. Though he had not no-
ticed it, eyes were upon him, keenly watching
his every movement and ears listening to every
speech he uttered. There had been no change
in his countenance that was not noted; and
comments made upon it—behind his back. As
he had not heard them, he then felt secure—
though far from bein confidently so. He was
only confident that t ere was no evidence, ex-
:EE: what might be called c _tial; and

only slight. For all, he had at tunes, dur-
ing the day, come very near convulsive tremb-

ling. Not from any remorse of conscience, but i

a cold shiver had crept over him as he ap-
groached the spot where the deed had been

one. And when he at len h stood upon it,
under the somber shadow of he cm among
the moss with which he had ed the
corpse' when he saw that it was no longer
there, fear was intensified. It became awe
—dread, y Sure of having
there left a dead body—the only one sure of
this—what had become of it? ad the dead
gain? Had Charles Clancy, shot

m sterious awe.

come to life a

thro h the breast—he had noted the (place, by

the 00d fihing from it, as he hel the pic-

ture before ' victim’s face—could Clanc have

main risen to his feet? Could a man, vin
bod bored by a thme-quarter—ounce ball,

and lai to alogg the earth, ever get up

as it possi

:galn? for him to have sur-
ved?

As the murderer put these questions to him-
self, on the spot where the murder had been
committed, no wonder he was awed, as well as
nan'm‘wndr “$23112” “3h? “‘1?

exp on—so as ve a
tracted attention! They who noticed it, how-
ever, said nothing—at least, in his presence.

The do had not been so reticent. As we have
said, the umb brute seemed also to have taken
note of his weird, wild look, and had repeatedly
barked at him.

Darke had suflcient

preset-ted resence of
mind to explain this to the searcfim

telling them he had once thg can
while out bun with his Clancy, and
ttloralfhgvier since 0 animal shown hostility

, The tale was plausible. For all this, it did not
deceive those to whom he told it. Some of them
drew deductions from it, still more unfavorable
to the teller. .

But if the m of the body had
troubled him during day—in the our when
his blood was up, and his nerves with ex-

strung
citement-in the night, in the dark silent hours,
as he laytomi uponhiscouch, it more than
troubled, more an awed—it horrified him.

Invain hetried tocompose 
ha an explanation of the mystery. e co d
n comprehend it; he could not even form a

robable conjecture. Was Clancy dead, or still
ving? Had he walked away from the ground?
Or been carried from it, a co ?

In either case the danger to , Darke, would
be almost ual. Better, of course if Clancy
m an. °5 “1°” swarm 
cnmstan evi ence is
alive, he could himalf-rmself've testimony of the
attempt; which c y would be almost the

Dorks hoped he was dead. The night before
he felt sure of it. Not so now. As he lay toss-

in on his couch—straggling with distracted
thg hts—with fears at appalled him—he

have ‘ven the best runaway nigger he
had ever caug t, to be assured of Charles lancy
being a co

And he would have granted to half a score of
his father’s slaves their full freedom—cheerfully
given ltd—gettihis could have guamnt teed him
against e on or en .

e was bein mm not thmfigh re-
morse of consolence b craven fear. e now
knew how hard it sleep the sleep of the

or he awake upon a murderer": bed.

 

CHAPTER XV.
m nousn or xoumrmo.

To the mother of Charles Clapcy it was a day
Of dread while they were abroad
searc for or son. Far more fearful tho
ni ht r they had returned—not Without
ti of the missing man. Such tidings! The
too oertainamuranceof his death—of his having
been assassinated, with no trace of the assassin,
and no clue to the whereabouts of the body.

' The mother’s grief, hitherto kept in check by

Althou h, in her poverty without many
friends 518 was not left alone in her sorrow.
it (-oul not be so in the far Southwest. Several
of her neighbors—rouE-Ebackwoodsmen though
they were—having ' (1 hearts under tiltll'
coarse homes un coats, determined to stay with
her through t e night.

They remained outside in the porch, smokinu,
their pipes conversing of the occurrences of the

.  and the mystery of the murder.

if not greater. It was the .
he con (1 have done: since it had ’

 

first the spoke cautiously, two and two,
and only in w 'spers. These gradually :ecamo
mutterings pronounced in louder tone; while the
name of Richard Darke was frequently men-
tioned. He was not among the men remaining
in the widow Clancy’s cottage.

Soon the conversation grew general; those
who took part in it expressing themselves more
0 nly until, at length, Dick Darke—as, for

ort,  neighbors called him-became the solv
to if: of discourse.

is behavior durin the day had not escaped
their notice. Even t 0 most stolid among them
had remarked a stran ness in it. In his coun-
terfeited zeal he hafe overdone himself. The
sharpest of the searchers only observed this; but
all were struck more or less with something be-
yond surprise, when they saw the dog turn upon
and bark at him. What could that mean?

Just as one had put this interrogatory, and
answers or surmrses were being offered, the same
dog—the hound—was heard again giving tongue.
The animal had sprung out from e porch and
commenced barking, as if some Iglerson was

making ap reach to the house. A ost simul-
taneously 310 little wicket gate in front turned
upon its hin

A negro, $280an one attached to the estab-
lishment, quieted t e dog; went out, and spoke
to the party at the gate. Only a few muttered
words were exchanged. Then the he came
back to the house-two men followrn close
upon his heels. These were Simeon oodley
and Ned Heywood.

The others, recognizing, rose to receive them;
and the new comers became rtof the conclave,
still discussing the events 0 the da .

Woodie , looked up to by all as eman morn
liker to throw light on the Series of mysteries
pol-gar? exingthem, soon became chief speaker—the

hearkening to him as if he were an oracle.

There was no loud talking done. On the con.
trary, the discussion was carried on in a low
tone—at times almost in w ' rs—the little
group permitted to take part in it keeping their

eads close together, so that the women and
others should not hear what was said.

They who thus deliberated were in darkness.
At least there was no light in the rch where
the sat, except what came from t e occasional
flash of a candle, carried across the corridor
from room to room. When this fiitted over
their faces, it showed 11 one and all of them,
amregg%n difleren from that liléely tlgy be

0 any ordinary! conversa on. es
could be seen); klin wit on—as of an-
s: held in t; tly pressed upon

th that seemed set de rmmed on some pur-
, wanting only an additionaly word to give
t the cue for action.

The same candle’s gleam revealed the form of
Simeon Woodlegmiln the center of the up
holding in his _ d an object which, wrthou
bein told what it was, no one could have recog'
ni But the to whom he was exhibiting 1t

knew well. t was a iece of cypre- Wood,
inside of which wasthe, ullet of a They
had received full explanations as how the

ball had been thus buried, and saw the blood
tinge around the orifice it had made on enter-
ing. In short, they had been made aware of
eve ing already known to the two hunters.
circumstances were stated and discussed ;
and to a select few Woodley communicated his
discovery of the footprints, as also his conjec'
ture abort: tugs boots that might be found to cor-
em.
ow he was to confirm this to himself, and
rove it to the others, was also made known tc
this same select few; who, shortly after, mount
ing their horses rode away from the house
leaving enough friends to stay by the afilicted
woman—to give her their company, if they
could not comfort her in her affliction.
The men who rode of! with Woodley, instead
of scattering, each to his own home, keptto
ther along the road leading to the country
wn. When near its suburb, they stopped at
ablar house—known to be the residence of the
s e .

.A knock at the door, a summons to this oiil~
cral, and he was soon in their midst. A word
or two from Woodley; and, hastily ordering
1.1118301‘88, he mounted and placed himself at their

ea .

. Then all turned back along the road, as if go-
mgIaoain to the house of Mrs. Clancy.

0? so, however. Instead, the cavalcade at

a crossin took a different direction, and headed

toward t e plantation of Ephraim Darke; the

to of whic they passed through, just as dawn

an to dap lo the eastern
fore day ght had‘dsel itself, they halt-

 

 

 

 

n _r_. _.___._._.
c..._.______

u

taching themselves from the main body, and
riding
the escape of the inmates.

He, the cause of these precautionary move- ? liked either by planter or “ poor white.”

ments, was still abed; tossing, as throu hout all

._. .__ - ,rgitwlrw W...- W-

l

to be from the New England States; and, a1-

round to its rear, as if to guard against ‘ though there was not a bit of Abolitionist in l

him, but much of the opposite, still he was not 1

The sheriff and his party, therefore,

the night: upon ‘1 Sleepless ('OuCh- 5,111? is mid- I little ceremon while in the act of making the 1
night agony was easy, compared Wlth that he 1 arrest: ransac ‘ng the house, and examining its l
: most sacred arcana. They took possession of 1

was called upon to endure, when the morning
'. light came through the window of his chamber,

and along with it voices. They were many and

strange, all speaking in tones of vengeance.

The assassin sprung to his feet, and, rushin
across, the room, looked out. It did not need
this to tell him what the noise was about.

guilty heart had already guessed it.
the :1
around the house, he recognized the sheriff of
the county, and beside him two others, whom
he knew to be Woodley and Heywood.

These three had ah'eady dismounted, and were
Intering the door.

In ten seconds after, they were inside his
deeping-chainber; the sheriff, as he stepped
across its threshold, saying, in a firm, clear
mice:

“ Richard Darke, I arrest youl”

“ For what?”

“For the murder of Charles Clancy!”

 

CHAPTER XVI.
A SOUTH-WESTERN SHERIFF.
AFTER his arrest, Richard Darke was to be

1

l
l

 

:OIIVPycd to the county jail—about three miles ‘

from his father‘s residence.

the double-barreled gun, which Richard was in
the habit of carrying, as also the suit of clothes
he usually wore when out in the woods. In the
coat—it was noted this was not the same he 3
had on during the day of the search—was found 1

His a hole that looked as if freshly made, and by a. 1
Among ; bullet! It was through the skirt, and had atorn,
li-seore horsemen who had drawn up | tattered ed

e.

Among the men present when he was made
prisoner, were several who could read such sign,
and interpret it as surely, or more surely than j
an expert would identify a. particular hand-
writing. Notably of these was the hunter ,
Woodley. At a glance, be pronounced the hole .

The Death-Shot ;g or, F Tracked to Death.

in the coat-skirt to have been made by a bullet, 3

and one that had passed through the barrel of
a. rifled gun.

Several others, after looking at it, confirmed
Woodley’s assertion.

The circumstance was significant; and led to
renewed conjectures among those surrounding
the sheriff. .

No one thought of questioning the prisoner
about it—not now, that he was in the hands of
the law. All further formal investigation would
be postponed till the trial, soon to take place.
The party arresting him only buSIGd themselves

The men, who had made him prisoner, took ‘ about evidence to be sifted at a later period,

note of every circumstance attending the ar-
rest. They searched the chamber in which he
had slept—~the whole house in fact. There were
few of them who owed Ephraim Darke any
goodwill. but many the contrary. His accumu—

Besides the hole through the coat-skirt, the
sheriff’s posse found nothing else that seemed to
point specially toward the crime—except the
double-barreled un. To its bore exactly fitted
the bullet whicht e hunters had extracted from

latezl wealth, used only for selfish enris. had not the cypressknee, and which was now in posses-
sion of those instructed to pr0secute. \Vomlley,
however, apart, and acting on his own account,

gained him popularity in the neighborhood. l e-«
“Lies, he was not a Southerner pur sung, as

H// ' 1/1, r,,

l;  .  7., ,1: ‘5’;

 

 

“to run, 13mm or on owcn LOVED-«PICTURE or on no w I!!! runs."‘1’aze 15.

 

13

 

ed in front of the house; half a dozen men do-  most of his neighbors were. They knew him had discovered a pair of boots, heavily laden

with mud, hidden away under a heap of rub-
bish at the bottom of an old peach orchard.
The backwoodsman had surre titiously kept
these to himself, intending to m e private, and

articular, use of them; his comrade, Heywood,
Being alone made privy to the secret of their
discovery.

Having finished their investi ation of the
premises, the sheriff’s party urried their
prisoner (E to the county town; leaving his
other behind in a state of terrible bow11der~
ment, half crying, half crazily cursing.

Most of the men, hitherto following the chief
officer of the law, parted with him at the plan-
tation-gate. He and his constables were thought
enough to keep charge of the accused. A sherifl

‘ in the South—western States is a very different
I sort of individual from the men who perform

the duties of this office in the north, or the

and dignitaries, with scarce an duties at all,
m a shire of England. He of t e backwoods
must be a man of unflinching courage—indeed,
often desperate—else the mandates intrusted to
him would result in a failure of justice, and a
mockery of the executive p0wer. It is rarely
that they do—rare, indeed, when a Mississippian
sheriff proves recreant to his trust. Far more
common to find him ready to die, or at least
risk death, in the performance of his dangerous
duty; and not unfrequently is this the actual
result. While traveling through the South-west-
ern States I have often witnessed and admired
as well, the wonderful self—sacrificing bravery
of these re nsible officers of the law. Who
could help miring it?

Therefore, the party who had been with the
sheriff, assisting in the arrest, saw no necessit
for following him further. They had f l
confidence that he would deposit is prisoner
within the county jail. So, parting with him
and his constables—after passing out of Darke’s
plantation- ate—they turned 0 in a different
direction. Vhether or not the murderer had
been discovered—most of them believed he was

7-»: :7':”‘ 7-2:: ,m r. -

 

~ 4-  h.

-1q.-c.< in

-,_.;é. ~.._.». -«4;..

-n;4—wrw-

‘ a . Q.’~.Lw~"% ‘a-wa‘ ~ ..~

___-< 2. ‘

" v- :- r‘— r“...

l H
.

 New York Library.

14

 

I !
—-—they had yet to search for the body of the ! sun. Two immense twin-chimneVS—or “fun-
murdered man. ! nels,” as called—stand up out of the hurricane
Again, as on the day before, the separated i deck, pouring forth a continuous volume of r
into several rties—each taking a ct of the , white wood—smoke; while a third but smaller ,
woods, thou all kee ing in the neighborhood tube, termed the “scape—pipe,” intermittently l
where the blood had Been spilled, and Clancy’s ; vomlts oke still whiter; the steam at eac .
gun and hat found. " emission giving a hoarse bark that may be heard !
But their search again LEroved as fruitless, as j for miles along the river. ‘
on the preceding day. ore so: since on the 3‘ On such a steamer—diflering from others

 

_ '-

Both might be ended in an instant. A step
over the railing, a plunge into the red rolling
river, a momentary struggle amidst its foaming
waves—not to save life, utto destro it—this,
and all would be over! Sadness,  ousy, dis-
appointed love—these bitter among, and all
others alike—could be ended in one little effort
—a leap into oblivion!

Her nerves were' fast becoming strung to the

‘cleavin the current of the Red River of Louis-

‘beating the ocher-colored water into foa‘

,or - toheepacarelesspasse 1‘
front 0! theflood. mussels
,cdrrisdm theshrnofthebmaladles’
cabinincluded Apro onoftheroof,

second scourin of the woods nothing new was 3
discovered tha could throw additional light ,
upon the commission of the crime, or aid them r
in recovering the corpse. I

Again they dragged and poled the geek up
and down, netratin into the swa as far ;
as was possi 1e, or like y that a dead b y could '
have been carried for concealment. In its deep
dark recesses they found no trace of man, either
living or dead; on! ' the solitude-loving crane, z
the snake—bird, and he scaly alligator.

It was but a poor report to take back to the
plantations; a sad one for the mother of the 1
missing man. g

She never received it. Before the returning ,
searchers could speak the unsatisfactory intelli- !
gens]: into her ear, Mrs. Clancy lay cold in

ea

The long-endured agony of ill fortune, the more I
recent one of Widowhood, and now this new
bereavement of a lmnIy son; _for she fully be-

 

 

 

lieved him lost— y assassmated—thls ac-
cumulated anguish was too much for her

woman’s strength, of late failing. And when
the neighbors got back, clustering around her
dwelling, they could hear sounds within, that
told of some new disaster.

On the hi ht before they had heard the same;
but now t e tone was diflerent. Then the
widow’s voice was lifted in lamentation; now it
was not heard at all.

Whatever of mystery there might be, it soon
received elucidation.

A. wolllnanfi‘goimin
raising er in
solemn voice,

' ‘Mrs. Clancy is dead!”

.——__.

CHAPTER XVII.
m “Baum: or sirens.”

Wm search was bei made forthe body
ofthemurderedman—w ‘ ethatofhismother
alike murdered was lying cold upon her bed of
death—while the murderer of both was cower-
ing within the cell of a prison—a steamboat was

out 11 n the porch, and
ken o silence, said, in sad,

' owl for ' its course upstream- its
' y Edi—tor it had only oile—

single ddle-w
pa that,

floating far behind den and simmer u
the co, foaming a wake-way of What ap-
peared to be blood-froth.

It was a little “ stem-wheel ” steamer, such as
in those days plied upon man of the tributaries
of the Mississippi; t e imp ive power being

to a sin is set of dies, placed where

c
the rudder acts most at vessels and look-
3g Very much like the wheel of an old-fashion-

water-mill.

'l‘heboatin estionwascalled the“Belle of
Nate ;” per ps somewhat pretentiously:
since it was but an indifferent sort of craft—
small in size, and poor in its appointment. 0n
the cular trip of which we are g it

t more appropriately have lai claim to
the distinctive appellation; since it carried a
young lady who, or some time, had borne it

Without denial or te.
The lady was elen known
among Mississi ians as the “ Belle of atchez.”
ncidence, the boat so d ted

B singular
wzs hearing her away from her ip i
“Wm”? “Mimi? hmohlhusacred‘m;
owe , nowsa ; re y
to the acriilce of her heart.

Wu she leaving that heart behind her! No.
It was with her, within bet breast; but break-

well-ni h broken.

“hig .- ressure” steam-craft that ly
the m rivers of America have at
resemblance to the black, low-hulled levi-

a that plow the waters of the Atlantic.
The steamer of the ‘ ppi more resembles
a house, rounded 08 at the corners to an oblong
oval shape, painted snow-white, two stories in
big: the upper one furnished on each face with
s of casement windows, which serve also
mouinide doors to the state-rooms. Inside ones,
te , give admission to the main
ca , or “ saloon,” which runs midwayt h
the boat for almost its whole length—glass to d-
i doorsdivi it into three com ' his.
1%” are the es’ cabin aft, t 0 during-
saloon in the center, and a third divisi0n for-
ward containing a “ bar," used only bythe male
pa-engers, for smoking, ' , and too
often gambling.
Along the casemen opening outside, each
finished with green 1 ousies or Venetian shut-

 

brmsd the “hurricane dec
ing to this outside gallery, 5 adding it from the

\
v

onl in havin a stem-wheel instead of side-
dles—had olonel Armstrong embarked with
' family, transporting them to the “wilder

west. ”

And up the Red River of Louisiana they were '

making way; slowly, as a stern-wheel boat of
scarce a hundred horse-power, against a rapid
and turbulent current must needs make it.

It was the hour of night—the second after
leaving Natchez—but not late. Lights gleam—
ing from open cabin windows, or shimmering
throu h the Venetian shutters, told that but
few, ' any, of the passengers had yet retired
to rest. t was, in truth but the after-tea
hour, when the tables of the main saloon had
been cleared, and gentlemen, as also ladies, sat
around them to read; play cribbage; perhaps,
take a hand at some round game of cards as
“vingt-un” or “beggar-my-neighbor.” e
square games—often not so square as regards
the honesty of the play—were carried on in the
bar-saloon, further forward.

On this particular “trip” there chanced to ;
ngers on board the Belle of ;
gentlemen—some of ‘

be many lady
Natchez—as 0 several
them accomplished and a
reason the Armstron girls
sufferers from solitu 6.
Notwithstanding, one of them was so—seem-
ingato prefer it.
has

eeable. For this
no need to be

it necessary to so. which? No. The reader
already essed— elen.

Esca ing rom the saloon, with its continuous
hum o conversation—from speeches that but
wearied, and flattery that only fashed her—she
had taken refu
boat shaft the 'es’ cabin. Notwithstanding
the hour she there found herself alone. The
other lad eshad each some attraction to keep
them inside—her sister a very particular one.

In Jessie’s case it was a youuglplanter named
Dupre; a Inuisianian Creole w 0 had his plan-
tatlon in the neighborhood of Natchitoch
whither the boat was hearing them. He
been.to Igatchez upon business, and was now re-
turnmg ome.

His handsome features, brunette complexion
black eyes, and gracefully curlin hair had
made havoc with the heart of essie Arm-
stron in less than twenty-four hours after
their meetin . En manche, her contrast-
' colors of red, lue, and gold, seemed to have
he d their own in the amorous encounter.

So that before the Belle of Natchez had
streamed milesju the filed Rityleg  two-
0 r rs, u g rom e vior,
show unmgtakable symptoms of  a
much 10 r voya e in company—in sh , a
journey h ' e.

Colonel Armstrongtooknoteof their “b '
and coo ,” but made no objection to it. Why
should he The gentleman was known upon

the boat as one of the wealthiest planters in his
State; equally noted as a noble young fellow—
brave, accom lished, and of irreproachable
character—w as are often found among the
Creoles of Louisiana.

Jessie Armstrong had chosen well; though it
was not wealth that had influenced her choice.
0nle love—intuitive, instinctivo; true love,
wi , perhaps, the usual alloy of passion.

Her elder sister had no jealousy, not even

The love that occupied Helm’s heart—

en .
thzzhad torn, and left it lorn—was the one love .

of a life. It could never be replaced by an-
other. If she had an thought about her sis-
ter’s new-spiung happl’ileu, it was not envy at
her be py, but sadness from its light of
joy con with the shadow of her own

ry.

As she stood upon the stern-guards of the
steamboat, her eyes now mechanically bent
upon the revol wheel that whi the
water into foam, now piercing the dar see be-
yond, she felt stealing over heradarker than t
—that still more terrible than sadness—t at
which oft prompts to life’s annihilation. The
man to whom she had given her heart—its first-
lin aswellasfullness—aheart inwhichthere
cars?! be no second g1 and she knew it—
this man had made light the sacrifice. And
it was a sacrifice grand, because glowmg wrth
the whole interests of her life.

The life, too, of a woman gifted with rare ex-
cellences of spirit and person; queenly, com-
mand ; above all beautiful. ‘

She d not think this about herself, as she
leant over the -rail of the steamer. She
only th ht 0 her humiliation; of hen
been h ted b him at whose feet she
flung herself; fon y, but too recklessl , surren-
dering that which woman holds most ear—the
last séllhzhle of rendition. .

To lesClancyshehadspohsnitr—inwrit-
ing only,but in terms unmistakable. There-
membranos of that was now the cause of her
chagrin, as of her shame.

on the stem-guards of the ‘

! takin it. The past all seemed dark, the future
3 still arker. For her, life had lost its fascina-
‘ tions, while death was equally divested of its
,' terrors.
Suicide in one so young, sofair, so incompara-
' bly lovely, one capable of charming others, no
lon r to be charmed herself! Suicide, fearful
to t ink of ! And yet she was contemplating it!
1 She stood upon the guards, wavering, irreco-
‘ lute. It was no lin ering love of life nor fear of
a death, that caused er to hesitate. or et the
' horrid form of death she could not fa' tosee
,‘ before her, sprlmg she but over that slight

ralllng.
The moon was 11 , coursin the sky above in

full effulgence its ms fa! in u n the broad
! bosom of the river. At interva s t e boat, kee
: in the deeper channel, was forced close
j eit er bank. Then, as the surging eddies set the
. floating, but stationary, logs in motion, the
.‘ huge saurlan asleep on them could be heard
i giving a grunt at having been so rudel awak-
ened, and pitching over mto the curren with a
sullen plunge.

She saw and heard all this. It should have
shaken her nerves, and caused trembling
throu hout her frame.

It id neither the one nor the other. The
despair of life deadened all dread of death—
even of bein devoured by an ugly alligator!

Fortunate y, at that moment, a gentle hand
was laid upon her shoulder, and a soft voice
sounded in her car. They were the hand and
voice of her sistel.

Jessie, coming out from the state-room be-
hind, had filided silently 11 She saw Helen

se ,sad

greposses and could) divine the cause.
he little knew how near things had been to a
fatal climax—and dreamt not of the diversion
her comin had caused.

“Sister! ’ she said, caressingly, “why do on
stay out here? The night is chilly; and t ey
say the atmosphere of his Red River country
is full of miasma, with fevers to follow, and
agues to shake the comb out of one’s hair! Let
us ? inside, then! There’s right 00d company
in t e cabin, and we’re going to ave a round
game at cards—vingt—un, or something of the
sort. Come in with me!”

Helen turned round, trembling at the other’s
touch, as if she had been a criminal and it was
the sheriff’s hand she felt upon her shoulder.

Jessie noticed the strange, stron emotion.
She could not fail to do so. Attri uting itto
its remotest cause, that morning confided to her,
she said:

“Be a woman, Helen! a true, strong woman,
as I know you are! Don’t think of him any
more. There’s a new world, a new life opening
to both of us. Forget the sorrows of the old, as
I shall. Pluck Charles Clancy from your heart,
and fling every memory, every thought of him,
to the winds! I say again, be a woman—be
yourself! Forget the past, and think only of

he future—of our father!”

The words came like a galvanic shock, at the
same time soft and soothing as balm. They had
this effect upon the spirit of Helen .
They had touched a tender chord—that of fllhl
affection.

And it vibrated true to the touch.

Fllnglng her arms armmd Jessie’s neck, and
kissing her rose-tinted cheek, she said:

“Slater, you. have saved me!” '

CHAPTER XVIII.
um BY sncmr. Am
“ SISTER, you have saved me!”
Such was Helen Armstrong’s speed: as she
placed her head on her sister’s shoulder, and
ressed that sister’s cheek with lips pouring

orth affection.

Returning the Jessie looked notalittle
perplexed. She coui neither comprehend the
m ' of the words, nor their choking utter-
ance. finally was she at a loss to account for
the con ve trembling throughout her sister’s
frame, while thelr bosoms remained in contact.

Helen gave her no time to ask questions.

“ Go in!” she said, causing the other to face
round, and pushmg her toward the door of the
 II;th setbthehvingt-un a—going.

o youor egame tetime ’e
the cards dealt.” y you v M
lJessiet, glagd to see her sisteésgnlce more in a
peasan m ,madeno ro , ut leequ
re-entered the cabin. p g y

As soon as her back was turned, Helen once
more faced toward the river—step ing close up
to the stern guard-rail. The whee was still re-
volvmg its paddles as before, beati the water
into bubbles, and casting the dish-white
spray afar over the surface of the

Now, she had no thought of

 

herself
intotheseethin cunent,tho shomeantdo-
ingsoforsometiingelse 

. “‘“'“"“‘w . ._ -.__. .

 

 

 

 

 

._.__.._—___ 

15

 

(‘1' ‘-

“Before the game of vingt—un begins,” she '

said, “here’sapack of cards tobe dealt out—
with a portrait among them.”

As she spoke, she drew forth a bundle of let-
ters-evidently old letters—tied in a ribbon of
blue silk. One after another, she pulled them
free from the fastening—just as if dealing out
cards. Each, as it came clear, was rent right
across the middle, and towed despitefully into

, the stream.
A At the bottom of the ket. after the letters
shad been all ' d o , was a photograph pic-

ture. It was a likeness of Charles Clancy, given
to herononeof those dayswhen hehadflung
himself appealineg at her feet:

She did not tear it in twain, like the letter;
though at first this ap red to be her intent.
Some thou ht striking er, she held it up before
the moon, or eyes for a time resting upon, and
closely scanning it. Strange Wild memories,
winters of them, seemed to roll over her face,
while she thus made scrutiny of the features so
indelibly en aven upon her heart. She was
looking her upon them, in the hope of being
ableto erase the image, as she had a determina-
tion to do.

Who can tell what was then ‘ within
that heart? Who could describe its desolation!
Certainly no writer of romance.

Whatever resolve she had arrived at, for a
£11th she appeared to hesitate about the execut-

en, like an echo, heard amidst the rippling
waters, came back into her ear the words spok-
en b her sister: .

“ at us think only 0 our father.”

The thought decided er; and step ing out to
(he extremest end of the guard-rm , she flung
the photograph upon the paddles of the revolv-
hg wheel, as she did so, saying:

‘90 there, ima~re of one once loved—picture
of one who has 11 false. Be crushed, and
broken, as he has broken my heart 1”

The sigh that escaped her, as she surrendered
the bit of cardboard, was more like a. scream—a
0'30! anguish. It had the accent that could
0 come from that she had spoken of—a
bro on heart.

As she turned away to re—enter the cahin of
the steamboat, she seemed ill-pre red for tak-
in part, or pleasure, in a hand 0 cards.

d she took not either. That game of
v un was never played.

S half distra g t with the agony through
which her soul had passed—the traces of which
he knew must be visible on her face—before

appearing in the brilliantly-1i ted saloon, she

round the corner of the cabin, in-

nding to enter her own state-room by the out-
side door. .

It was but to spend amomentbefore herlook-
lug-gratoarrange herdress,the coiflure of
her ir—perhapsthe expremion of her face-—
allthings hattoamau mayap trivial,but
to a woman important—even in the hour of
sadness and despair. No blame to woman for
acting thus. It is but an instinct—the primary
care of her life~the secret spring of her infin-
once and wer. '

In 'ng to her toilette Helen Armstrong
was bu followin the example of her sex.

She did not to ow it far—notso farasto get
before the looking-glam, or even inside the room.
Before entering it, she made stop by the door,
andstood with face turned toward
hank. Theboathadsheered closein shore' so
close that the tall fondness shadowed r
track—the tips of their branches almost sweep-
iu the hurricane-deck.

They were cypresaes, festooned with Spanish
moss, that hung down like the drapery of a
death-bed. One was bli htedhstretching forth
bare limbs, blanched w ite y the weather,
‘aiccam and jointed like the arms of a skele-
io

n. .
hostl ht and caused her a t
It was a g deg-{sting clear moonbeann

alvering, astun the place
amer swe past -
It was a rgligl to her, when the boat got back
' i to dar ess.

‘gsldlyllnomentary : for than, under the shadow
if the p , amidst the fearful corusca.
don of the fireflies, she saw the face of Charles
Tlanc !

It was among the trees high up, on a level
with the hurricane-deck.

It could only have been fancy! Clancy

‘ could not be there, either in the trees. or on the
earth? The thing could only be a deception of
hersenses—a delusive vision, such as occurs to
clairvoyants, at times deceiving themselves.
' Hallucination or not, Helen Armstrong had
no time to reflect upon it Before the face of
her false lover faded from her view, a pair of
“arms, black, sine , and stiff, were stretched
toward her; to y_ her around the
waist, and lifted er in the air!

CHAPTER XIX.
wrun- nscaxs or an.
‘ Hm Anemone vs a shriek, asshe elt
herself elevated into  wfhere for a t—
" ded. y or an iii-tan
wwwmhertoseethe boatpass on

W At same indent she caught sight
of sister. as the latter rushed out upon the

 

the river’s i

'gfiwem

.in oustoaes.

 

The Death-Shot; or, Tracked to Death.

guards, and gave a piercing cry in reply to her r

own.
Assheherself screamed asecondtime,w t-

ever had seized her suddenly relaxed its ho d; .
and her next sensation was of falling from a ;
giddy hight, till the fall was broken by a plunge '

into water. She experienced a severe shoc ,

striking her almost senseless. She was only

sensible of a drummir'iifiein her ears, a choking in ‘

the throat—in short,
hyxia by drowning.

girls, and then continuously kept up bfy Jessie,
ught the pasengers rus ' out o the sa-

sensation' that precedes 1

“All right! We’ve got ’em both. Throw us
a rope!”

The rope was throvm by ready hands, after
which came the command, “ Haul in !”

A light, held high up on the steamer. flashed
its beams dawn into the boat. Lying along its
thwarts could be perceived a form—that of a
lady—in a dre§ once white, now discolored by
the muddy Water filtering from its skirts. Her
head rested upon the knees of n ntan, whose

. ; scant garments were similarly saturated.
he responsive cries given out by the two i
‘ arms of Louis De re.

i

loon a crowd collectin upon t e stern-guards. ‘

“ me one overboa l” was the thong and
the about that rung through the vesse
reached the ear of the pilot: who, instantly
ringing the “stop” bell, caused the
wheel to suspend its revolutions, bringing the
steamer to a sudden stop.

It was Helen Armstrong, supported in the

She appeared ifeless: and the first sight of
her drew anxious exclaniations irom those

r standing upon the steamer.

Only for a short while was the anxiety on-

2 dured. A few minutes after she had 1.0011 car-

dle- I

The strong current, ‘

against which the boat was at the timecontend- s
' . received by every one of them.

contribifl'ed to its suddenness.
eanw'hile, Jessie,
nessed the mysterious catastrop

. he, was too
much awed by its mystery to give any intelli-

the only one who had wit- 2‘

i
l

gible explanation of it. She could only franti- i

call exclaim:
“ ‘y sister! taken up'into the air! She’sf
rfiow” own in the water Oh, save her! Save
er!

“ In the water—where?” asked a voice, whose
earnest tone spoke of readiness to respond to

the a. .

“ {onder—there—under that t tree. She
was in its top first, then dro
river. I heard the lun
after. She has su

ried to her stateroom, there come from it the
report that she still lived, and was out of dan-
r. Colonel Armstrong himself imparted to
is fellow—passengers this intelligence—joy fully

 

Inside the stateroom of the two sisters, after

. their father had gone forth, there was a little

bit of a scene, with a conversation that may he

; worth repeating. The younger connncnccd it

i
i

i

l em
down into the I such a mystery, all of it.

t did not see her ! time up in the air, as if hovering there. like an
to 6 bottom. Merciful { angel, on wing! I’d be willingr to swear that I
f c

Heavens! Oh Helen—sister! Where are you?” ‘

The people were puzzled , by these incoherent
speeches. Both ngers above, and boatmen
on the under-doc , were alike mystified. They
stood as if llobound.

i

l

by say .

“ Tell mtg, Hele‘rilll  siétdcr, don‘t be afraid
to speak e tru . ' y i you jump over-
board?”

“Jump overboard! What are you talking
t, J essie?”

“I declare I don’t know myself. It seems
I saw you for some

saw you so. curse, it couh only have been
my fancy fri htened as I was at seeing you fall
overboard. fter that you appeared to drop
straight down, your white skirt streaming alter.
Then I heard a plunge. Oh Halon! it was fear—

Fortunate yf one of the former had retained y to]; both the fancy and the reality. What did
0

his presence

ness. Fortunately, too, he the courage to

i

mind, and 8.10 with it his cool- i it mean?”

“ That was just what I was asking myself at

act under the emergency. As also the capacit , g the time on saw me suspended, as you say, in

being a swimmerof the first clam. It was e
who had asked the nestion “ Wherel”-the
tyooung planter, Louis lilifiire He only waited

hear the answer. W o it was beinfilgiven,
he had hurriedly divested himself of ‘ coat
and foot wear. In evenin costume, his shoes
were easily kicked off—w ite waistcoat and
coat tossed aside at the same time. Then, with-
out staying to hear lnlf the offered explanation
he sprimg over the guards, and swam toward
the pointed out.

“ rave, noble fellow!” was the thought of
Jessie, her admiration for the man—now her

acknowledged suitor—for the moment making

hgegiorget the pen] in which her siste' r was

p But it now seemed less. Confident in her

lover’s stren h believing him ca ble of an -
almostsure that H would

V
She stood, as did every one also upon the

 

i

i
i

the air; or so I was, dear Jessie. I soon nitcr~
ward arrived at the explanation of it. Though
puzzling me then, as it does you still, nothing
can be more simple.”

“ But what was it, anyhow?”

“ Well, then, it was this: As I stood leaning
over the guard-rail I was suddenly carried away
from it, as if by a pair of strong, bony arms.
After keeping me awhile. they released me from
their grasp, lettin me fall )nimp into the river
where certainly should ave been (how
but for—”

“ For Louis—my dear Louis!”

“ Ah! Jessie: I don't wonder at your admira-
tion. He deserves it all. I am envious, but
not. je”alous. I can never know that feeling

in. A

“Dear sister! do not think of such thin .
Don’t you see you haven‘t yet explained e
strangest part? \Vhat curried you into the air?
You speak of a pair of arms. What kind of

steamer, watching with earnest, ann'ous eyes. 9 arms? To whom did the belon i"

Hers were more: they were flashing with wild

feverish excitement; givi glam of he at
mtervals alterna with a fixed gaze ofpfmr
—the expression of features ohang'ng in cor-

ndence.

ere might be wonder at her hopes, but none
at her fears. The moon'had sunk to the level of
thetree—tops,andthebosomoftheriverwas in
dark shadow; darker by the bank where the
boat was new drifting. But little chance there
was to distinguish an objeetin the water—less
for one swimming upon its surface. And then
the river was deep, its current ra id, its waves
turbid and full of dangerous edcfies.‘ In addi-
tion, it was a t infested—well known to be
m fagofltgithhaiglt of the; hideous miiiitlillle, the
gs. r, in eqmll leaded gar- —-the
shark of the South-wee rn waters. All these
things were in the thoughts of those who stood
ben mg over the stem-guards of the Belle of
Natchez- causing them mm for the fate, not
onlyof the beautiful young y who had fallen
overboard, but the handsome, courageous gen-
tleman whohad plungedln, andwasswimming

to her rescue.
Anxiety would be a light word—a slight,
trivial feeling-compared with that throbbing
intbe and showmg itself in thecounte-

alimeaitiftgefiehArmsflong. m the W.
re m suspense
into the acute agony of d ’ ' , as tg‘nm

and. um oung planter ed not, nor wai’r
anythingfio be seen of him in the water. en
her father, standing by her side, could do little
to comfort her. lie. tot). was paralyzed-a my
to agonised emotions.

The steemer’s boat had been manned, and set
loose as quickly as could be done. It was now
right over the t where the swimmer had
beenlastseen. allegeswereflxedu nit—
..u m to catc anymord of c r.

Not theytolisten..Fromthesha-
(lowed of the river came a shout sent up

" ’s saved!”

"gen, quickly after, spoke a rough boatman’l

 

“ To a ghostly cypress- ree. S es, J essie; that
is the explanation of what mystifies you, as it
did me forawhile. I know all about it now.
A t outstretching limb, forked at the end,

caught the steamer somewhere forward,
and got bent dawn. It caught me, also, just as
it was springing up again, and gave me the
swing, and the drop, and the {pod ducking I’ve
had. Now you know all.”

A sweet m thrilled through J cssie’s heart on
receivingt ' explanation. She was no longer
troubled with a suspicion, hitherto distressing
her. Her sister had not intended suicide!

CHAPTER XX.
A nacxwoons JURY IN DELIBERATION.
Tim men who, after the second day’s search,
had returned to Mrs. Clancy’s cottage, were
few in number, being only her more intimate
friends and well-wishers. Most of the searchers
gone direct to their own homes.

, however, the news Spread abroad that
the mother of the murdered man was herself
stricken down. This, giving a frlo stimulus to
sym thy, as well as curiosity. caused all to as
semglz anew—many starting from the beds, to
which they had betaken themselves after the
dag: fatigue. _

fore midnight there was a crowd around
the house, .
looted. And of the VOlces mingling in conver-
sation the tone was more excited and angry.
It was only subdued in the presence of that
corpse, lying cold upon its conch, its pale face
mmed appealingly toward them.
From the dead there was no need of any ap~
alto cause a demand for insticc. loam7 of
he livin were loudly calling: tor it: and” c ose
to the c amber of death, knots of men, with
their heads near together, were discussing the
ways and means of obtaining it surely and

 

c y.
In such cases there are nlways some who com-
mand. It ma not be from {my myruiority of
rank or wealt . In the hour of mod the right-
ful chieftains—those whom God dcsigred 
bed-are recognized, and acknowledged.

ter than any that. had yet cob"

 

 

x.

-a—

1-. .~L.

 .

    

z

‘ 4‘“ u
g.“ _ _._r . 'c—h‘é—L‘nlsn

«—

on“... w»...n-r

--.~‘

‘ :. .‘z‘x;

34-m- : .
:am _x;,.—~ —.-._ -____...‘-~ -_-A

as.“
-41‘

'G.

E‘.,

.1...

; :41. A

.__ . ._.-_.. .

frazz— _:_ 3 _:‘.

... or

am-.. r .. ‘.~‘

16

. w_....h-—.~~.~._

 2;"

 

A group, composed principally of these, stood i and they had sufficiently reflected upon it, his iety

The New York Library:

1 c.13.

The coon-hunter could trust his wife's

in front of the cottage, debating what was best I account of the affair seemed still less like the affections, but was not so confident as to her

to be done. It was a true backwoods jury,
roughly improvised, and not confined to twelve;

for there were more than twenty taking in i

the deliberation. They had drawn toge er by

a sort of tacit and common consent, and by the ‘

same had a foreman been appointed, a planter
of standing in the nei hborhood.
The uestion in do

so who was his murderer?

The former was soon decided in the affirma- t tial, to many of those engaged in the inquiry,
tive. No one had the slightest doubt about the , this chapter of testimony appeared almost con-

crime. The conjectures of all were turned to-
ward the crimmal. What
brought forward to fix it on
arrested, and who was now lying in the jail to
await legal trial?

Every sign seen by an of the collected
crowd, every incident that transpired, was
as calmly discussed, and carefully weighed by
this rou h, backwoods w, as if it had been
com of the twelve men to be found in
the most civilized city. Perhaps with more in-
telligence—certainly with as much determina-
tion to arrive at a righteous verdict.

They discussed not onl the occurrences of i fled the two hunters, declaring their readiness

which they had been e aware, but the mo-
tives that might lead to them. Among these
last came prominentl up the relations that had
existed between the wo men. There had been
nothing hitherto known to tell of any hostility,
that might lead to the commission of such a
crime.

There was little said about Darke’s relations
Eii’ih the family of the Armstrori , and less of

e on Armstrong in particular. was suspect-
ed that he had sou ht the hand of the young
lady; but no one t on ht of Clancy having
been his rival. Up to t t time Colonel Arm-
strong had maintained a proud position. It was
not robable that he would have permitted his
dang ter to think of matching wrth a man cir-
cumstanced as was Charles Clancy.

Clancy’s love secret had been carefully ke t.
None were privy to it. A few onl suspec it
among these his mother, whose ps were now
sealed by death.

Had the deliberating backwoodsmen but
known that he had been Darke’s rival suitor—
still more the successful one—it would have
given a difierent turn to their deliberations—al-
most a key to the crime. Than such motive,
nothing ints more surely to murder.

Had elen Armstrong been herself present
onfiaigiem, or near—anywhere that she could
have tidings of the 'cal events excitin
the settlement—there woul have been no di -
culty about their comin‘glto a conclusion. The
self-constituted jury wo d, in all robability,
have been told something to elicit rom them a
quick verdict, an equally quick sentence, with,
perhapa its instant execution.

But elen Armstrong was no longer there—
no longer near. By that time she must have
been hundreds of miles from the , she and
all related to her. Any secret s could have
disclosed was not available for that trial going
on by the widow Clancy’s cottage.

And, as no one suspected her of havin such
secret, her name was only mentioned inc dent—
ally, without any thou ht of her be' able to
throw light upon the k mystery ey were
endeavoring to make clear.

For several hours they remained in consulta-
tion, weighing the testimony that had been laid
before them.

The circumstances that seemed to fix the guilt
upon Darke were repeatedly passed in review,
and still they did not bring conviction—at least,

, not complete. No one of them but might have

been compatible with his innocence. A bullet
fittin a smooth-bore fowling-piece. however

y, was not of itself testimony sufficient to

a man; even tho h ClanOy’s body had
been found with the ball in it.  these con-
ditions were wantin to the chain of evidence.
The body had not n found, and the bullet
was onl buried in the bark of .a cypress-knee,

The b ood which it had carried with it into
the wood was evidence of its havrng paged
thrgfih livm' g flesh—whether tha of man, or
ani , could not be decided.

The torn hole throu h the skirt of Darke’s
coat, connected with C cy’s gun having been
found discharged looked more like something
from which a deduction could be dra . unfa-
vorable to the accused. Though it m1
favor him, as proof of a as: between e two,
and that the killingof cy was notapre-
meditated murder. f this circumstance Darke
had offered no explanation. After his arrest he
had preservad a sullen silence, and refusedto
answer interrogatories.”

“ You’re going to try me,” he said, in reply to
9. ion put by one of the sheriff’s party.
“ be ime enough then to explain what
‘pfimw "on againsthimhad bee

e wors appearances in
his own behavior, as also that of the dog—both
toss the least exceedingly suspicious. About
the tter he had madea statement u n the

und; though it had failed to satisfy those of

e searching flirty who were most to

n

aspect him. (1, now that time h elapsed,

te was at first twofold: ; der the c
Had C arles Clancy been murdered? And, if I the dog he

roof could be,
emanthat day l u

talsoh.

; true one.

‘ His having once chastised Clancy’s prudence. She might say something in the
; dog might, naturally eno ‘

h, make the animal ” to compromise A word—the
afterward spiteful tow him. But whyhad slightest hint of what.had happened— hi.
this spite not been shown while they were lead to his bein (gastroned, an conf —
aroun the cottage before setting out on the with torture, if e th were suspected.
i search? Why was it only made manifest, andin No wonder that  the rest of the day
, such earnest manner, after they had arrived un- Blue Bill wore an air of abstraction, and hood
ress—be 0nd doubt the place where the tobacco—plants with a careless hand, often
last 100 ed upon his master? choizping oi! the leaves. Fortunatel for him,
; Although still nothing more than circumstan— his allow-slaves were not in a mood z) observe
these vagaries, or make inquiry as to the cause.

He was rejorced when the sound of the even-
clusive of Darke’s guilt. ing bell summoned them back to the “big
During the deliberations two individuals came house.”

11 the und, who contributed an addition- Soon he was once more in the midst of his
item 0 information, corroborative of this. Bicaninnies, with Phoebe by his side; towhom
These were Simeon Woodley and Ned Heywood. e imparted a fresh caution to “keep dark on
Their added testimony referred to the footprints dat ere seerous subjeck.”
! seen by the swamp’s edge. After assistin at They talked over the events of the day-—
I the arrest they had proceeded thither, ' g thbe being the narrator. She told him of all
4 Darke’s boots-which Woodle had surrepti- that had happened—of the search, and such in-
I tiously secured—alon with t em. Like the cidents connected with it as had reached the
, bullet to the barrel 0 his gun, his boots were plantation of the Darkes; how both the old and
I found to fit the tracks exactly. No others could young master had taken in it, both having
9 have made those marks in the mud. So certi— returned home. She ad ed, of her own obser-
vation, that Massa Dick looked “berry scaled-
like, an; white in de checks as a ole she-

f stantial evidence, still further strengthening the “Date jess dc way he 0 hter loo ” was
, case a ' the accused. Blue Bill’s response. After which they ate their
I As ese facts Were brought forward, one af- frugal supper, and once more went to rest.
, ter another, the group of deliberators seemed But on this second night the terrible secret,
; gradually subsiding into a fixed belief, likely shared by them, kept both from sleeping.
soon to end in action—that sort usually taken Neither got so much as a dose.
by the executive omcers of “ Justice Lynch. ” And as morning dawned, they were startled
by hearing noises in the negro-quarter. They
CHAPTER xx], were not the usual sounds consequent on the
THE OWN-HUNTER CONSCIINCE—STRICXEN.

u rising of their fellow-slaves; a commraigltniug
n
BLUE BILL, after confiding the dread secret

o voicesin jest and cheerful laughter.
contrafiy, it was a din of serious significance,
to his sable spouse, felt alto ther easier in his
mind; and having, as rela , lain down by her

with c that told of calamity.
When the coon-hunter drew back his door
side in the midst of his black olive-branches, on
that night, slegdsoundly enou .

and looked forth, he saw commotion outside;
h
As yet he no certain Enowledge, that a

and was soon told its cause. One of his fellow-
murder had been committed. He only knew

bondsmen coming forward said:
“ Mass’ Dick am arressed by de sherifl. Boy
that a fight must have taken place between two
men, one of whom was his geoung master, and

tuk ’im for de murder of Mass Cha’l’ Clancy.”
the other he ed to Charles Clancy.

'He had heard he “chm of shots, and after-
ward saw the former 'ng past in reckless
retreat, which seemed to show that the affair
must have had a tragical ending, and that
Clancy had been killed. Still the coon-hunter
could not know it to be so; and, hopin that it
might be otherwise, he was not so muc frayed
by the affair as to lose his night’s rest. . .

In the morn' , when, as usual, hoe in hand,

to make oath of it.
It was another link in the chain of circum-

 

 

The coon-hunter rushed out and on to the his
house. He reached it in time to see Ric
Dam filiupii‘. “ til? “imiifi’e‘i if u”
coun en, a 0 re-
turngtohis Phoebe. ’

“Now,” he said to her, “dar ain’t no longer
so much reezun to hab fear. I see Sime Wood-
ley ’mong do men, and dis ni ger know dat
he’ll £1) me his protecksh w tsomever I'se
do. , Phoebe gal, I’ve e up In mind to
make a clean bress ob de hul t’ing, an tell what
he went abroad his work, no one would have I I heern an’ see besides deluverm’ up boat do

ted him to be the deposito of a secret I letter an’ de picter. What’s yar View ob do

so momentous. He was noted as t alga est of ! matter? ’Peak lam. and doan’ be noways
—-his laugh the lo , long- ' meal -mouthed’ ut it.”

carried across the plantation I “ y views is den, for de tellin’ ob de troof.

fields, whether among com-stalks, cotton-plants, ! Ole Eph Darke may flog us till dar ain’t a hit

or tobacco-leaves; and on that particular day, ! 0’ skin left 11 n our backs. I’ll take my share

it rung with its wanted cheerfulneu. 1 ob dc ’sponsi ility an’ half ob de fioggin’. But

Only during the earlier hours. When at mid-‘1 let the troof be tole—de whole troof, an’ nufln’
day a report reached the place where the slaves 1 but de troof.” .
were at work, that a man had been murdered, a 1 “ Den itshsll he did. Phoebe, you’rea darlin’.
white man, aneighbor who lived near by, and , Kiss me, ole gal. If need be, we’ll die toged-
that this man was Charles Clancy the coon- 1 der.”
hunter, in common with the rest of the gang 1 And the twc black faces came in contact,
threw down his hoe, all uniting in a about of ‘ their bosoms, too—both heating with a human-
sympathetic sorrow. For all of them knew , ity that mightshame whiterskins. .
young “Massa Chummost g, and i ——
$5210; tloth th Ila tl him? C A! [ER XXH‘

m mee em wi canon 00 , an ,
acoost them with kindly worpds.  ‘ VOmeY.wm _ y

The sad tidings need a profound impres- } WHILE the im rovised Jury was still in con-
sion 11 n all; an from that moment, though 1 sultation and ye undecided, the little clock on
their had to be continued. there was no i the mantel struck twelve midnight; of late not
more cheerfulness in the tobacco-field. Even I oft a merry hour in the cottage of the Clancys,
their conversation was hushed, or carried on in j but this night more thanever sad.

a low, subdued tone; the hoes being alone heard y The striking of the clock seemed the announce-
as their steel blades struck uponanoccasional ; mentof a crisis. For a time it silenced the
“one, onl me i voiices of those conversrng' , bothinside the house

But while his fellow-laborers were Y M ' m 011‘-
through sorrow, Blue Bill was hless from And scarce had the last strokeceased to vi-
another and different cause. y onl knew brate on the night arr, when a vorce was heard,
that yormg Massa Clancy had been ' ed— thathadnot yettaken partinthedeliberations.
murdered as the report reached them—while he It sounded as if comm from the roadfgate.

how, when, where, and by whom. This “ Mass’ Woodley 1n. Tyke the vorce, inter-
knowledge made him feel different from the rogatively; the question dressed to the group
rest; for while sorrowing as much. and W115 in 1'01“? 0‘ t!” ho‘mf; .
more than my, for ohm-leg ’s death,f “ 3.3.; hes here. simultaneously anst
hadfearsforhisownlife and m 01' I878 -

them. ’ “ Kin I ’ all I Wudwifyou, Mass’ Woodley?
aggin the in war at the gate.

“ Bartinly,” sai the hunter, separating from
the others, and striding toward the road en-

trance.

his ton 8 could never give - “1 reok’n I know that voice,” he added, on
Short. t e coomhunter saw that his life was in l drawm near. “It’s Blue Bill, ain’t it?”
danger of being compromised by his ill-lIle—in v “ Hus . Mass’ Woodley! For Goramity’s sake
being the invo untary spectator of a crime, or 1’ doan ’peak outm name. Not fo’ all do Worl’ let
at least of such circumstances as would prove . dem peeple hear t. Ef dey do, dis nigger am a
its committal. In full consciousness of this he dead man.”

determined not to commit byany vo un- l “ Why, Bill, what’s the matter? Why d’ye
tary avowal of what he had seen, or heard; but talk so mystoerousi Is ther anythin’ wrong!

 

He well knew that if Dick Darke should be-
come uainted with the fact of his having
beenaw nesstothatra idretreat among the
trees, he, Blue Bill, woul be Maw wheIr:

 

 

l
1

 

resolved to bury the secret in his own breast, 0h. now I think o’tl you’re out from the qua’ta'
andtoinsistu its being sointen'edwithm artertime. Nevermind’boutthat;l’llnotho-
thebosomofhisbotterhslf. tray ou. Butwhathev ecomefori”. «
That day Phoebe was not in the field along I ‘ oller me, Mam’ W or I tell erall. I
withthaworking-gang; andthisgflwanx- ' dsssn’ttay hya, leessomeob dam f g .c.

\

sway-m...“ — ~ - r ‘

 

‘—‘

 

“‘

 

" ' ‘4”. d%

The De

 

‘7'.—

.a. ‘l -

m1 1;. a, r“ 1, '1 4_ - a"
-bfl-D110b, 0., iraoheo. to Death.

7 '17

 

 

You kum little way from de house, into de wood
groun’: den I tell you wha’ fotch me out. DIS
Bill, hab somethin’ to saieto you .berry
tickler. Yes, Mass‘ W’oodley, rry patickler.

am a t’ing ob life an’ def.” .

Woodley did not stay to hear more; but, lift—
ing the latch, quietly pushed open the gate, and
passedout into the road. Then following the
negro, who flitted like a shadow before him, the
two were soon standing under cover of some
bushes, that formed a strip of thicket running
alo the road-side.

“ 0w, what air it?” asked Woodley of the
coon-hunter, whom he well knew from having
often met him in his midnight rambles.

“ Mass’ VVoodley, you wants to know who kill
Mass’ Charl’ Clancy?” _

“Wh , Bill, that’s the ve tlung we’re all
talkin’ ’ ut an’ tryin’ to firm out. In coorse
we want to know. But who is thar to tell us?”

“Dis nig .”

“ Air ye 1n aimest, Bill?”

“ So much in earness dat I ha’n’t got no chance
go sleep till I hab revea de secret. Do ole
ooman, neider. No, Mass’ oodle , Phoebe she
no let me ress till I do dat same. he say it am
do duty oh 3. Christyun man, an’, as ye know, we

belong to do Methodies. Darfore, I now
tell yo, do man who kill Charl’ Clancy wa’ my
own mass’r—de young un—Mass’ Dick.” ‘

“ Bill! are ye sure 0’ what ye say?”

“ So shoo I kin sw’a’ it as do troof, de whole
troof, an’ nufiin’ but de troof.”

“ But what proof have ye?”

. “ De proof! I ’most see’d itwifma own eyes.
If I didn’t see, I heerd it wif ma oars.”

“B the ’tarnal! this looks like cl’ar ovydince
at Tell me Bill, 0’ all that you Seo’d an’
"r' “Hakeem. I... .m-

a, e , you e _

all do aarkimstances c nected wif do case.”mg
» In ten minutes after, Simeon Woodley was
made acquainted with everything the coon-
hunter know;the latter havin given him full

details of all that had occ on that occasion
when his coon-chase was brought to such an un.
satisfactory termination

To thehackwoodsman it was not a surprise.
He had alread arrived at a fixed conclusion,
and 3111’. reveition was in correspondence with

it. ~

0n hearing it, be but said—

“ While runmn’ oi! your master let fall a let-
1&3 did he? You picked it up, Bill? Ye’vo got

t

“ Hya’s dat eyedentikil dokyment.”

The no handed over the epistle, the photo-
graph st‘ inside it.

“ All right, Bill! I reckon this oughtor make
thi‘riiggntol ably cl’ar. Now, what d’ye want me
to o

“ Lor’ Mad Woodie ! You know bees. I’se
needn’t tell ye dat. ole Eph’m Darke hear
wha’ dis hab been an’ us an’ dud, do life
ch Blue B w’uldn’t be wu a ole coon-skin—
no; not so much as a corn-chuck. I’se get do
cowhide ebbe hour ob do day and do night,
too. I’se t 0E to def, sa’tin shoo.”

9

. “ W I reckon,” reioined the hun-
lar; and n continued, reflec ively, “ Yes;
ou’d be carved utty sevare if they war to

know on’t. Wal, t mustn’t be and won’t be—
that I promise ye, Bill. 'Your evydence
wouldn’t count for anythin’ in a law-co no-
how. Tharfor’ we won’t bring ye fo ; so
don’t you be skeeart. 183s: we shan’t want
no more testymony, and ain’t likely to be
mycma-kwestemn’ lawyers inthe case. Now
d’ye slip back to y’uryfluartors, and gi’e y’urself
ncfurrerconsarn. I see you shan‘t git into
an trouble. Durned of I don’t !”
»*ith this emphatic promise, the old deer and
boar-hunter separated from the loss pretentious
of the chase; as he did so giving the lat-
torasqueeas of the hand, which told him he

might back in confidence to the ne m.
anus-a bythe side of hisPhcobe wl out
tear.

 

CHAPTER XXIII.
ooavmcmo svmancu

Wm impatience the backwoods jury await.
0d the return of the backwmdsman. With im-
patience; for, before his leavin them, they had
well-nigh resolved upon a ve ict, with a son-
tence, and the mode of carr ing it into execu-
tion. One after another ha ste pod across the
fimhold of the cottage, onto the chamber
I! death, and looked upon the 003% of Clancy’s
mother—whom they all regar- ed as havmg
been murdered as much as her son.

And one as another, after  on that pale

that seemed making i mute appeal to
them for justice—for vengeance—came out mut-
toting avow, that there _should be both: some
loudly vociferating it, With the emphasis of an

oath.

It did not now need what Simeon Woodloy
had in store to excite them to instant action.
Alread wore they sufficiently inflamed. The
furore the mob, with all its maddened ven-
gaancs, had been gradually meeting their
spirit, and had almost reac its cuhmnating

 

Still had that [ancient calnmcanto keep them

 

patient a. little longer, and hear what Woodéecy
might have to say. They knew, or suspec ,
that he had been called from them on some mat-
ter connected with the subject under considera-
tion. At such a time who would have dared inr
terrupt their deliberations for any trivial ur-
)Ose? Althou h none of them recognized lue

ill‘s voice, a roitl disguised as it had been,
they knew it was t at of a negro. This, how-
ever, was no reason why the hunter should not
have received some communication likely to
throw fresh light on the affair. So once more
gathering around him, the demanded to know
what it was; then respect ully listened.

He told them all he had heard, without mak-
ing known who was his informant, or in any
way compromisin the brave fellow with a
black skin, who h risked life itself by making
disclosure of the truth.

To this the old hunter only referred in a slight
manner. They all understood its significance,
and none pressed him for more minute explana-
tion.

“ My informant,” he said, after finishing the
chapter of occurrences communicated by the
coon-hunter, “ has gived me the letter drop
by Dick Darke, which, as I’ve tole ye he pic ed

up. - Here it air. Perhaps it ma t w some
more light on the matter; though  you’ll
’ar enough

'i !
:llwmmothatthethmgsc

The did all a. . A dozen voices had re-
g? ydec ,werestilldeclaringthat.

me now cried out:

“ What need to talk an more? Charley Clan-
c ’s been killed—he’s n murdered. Dick

arke’s the man that did it!”

It was not from an lack of convincing evi-
dence, but rather a eeling of curiosity, that

rompted them to call for the ' of the
hatter, which the hunter now held conspicuously
in his hand. Its contents Imght have no bear-
i on the case. Still there could be no harm
in owing what they were.

“ You read it HenWSpenoel You’re a schol-

‘ ' .oodle , han ' the let-
ter over to a. young fellow o learned ooh—the
schoolmaster of the settlement.

S nce, stepping close 11 to the porch, into
w ch some one had carri a candle, and hold-
ing the letter before the light, first read the su-

rscriglon, which, as he told them, was in a

[y’s ndwriting.

‘ To Charles Clancy,” he said.

“ Charles Clancy!”

Half ascoreof voices ronounced thcname,
all in a similar tone— of surprise. Ono

asked:
“ Was that letter by Dick Darkel”
y, to whom the ques-

“ It was,” said W
tion was addressed.

“Have patience, boy!!!” an elderly
man “Don’t interrupt till we hoarwhat’s in
I .

They all took the hint, and remained silent.

But when the envelope was laid open, and a
photogra h drawn out, showiplg the rtrait of

ayo ,recogilzedb asa ikenomof
Heler‘ixfrmsh‘ong, ore wasy a fresh outburst of
exclamations beto increased rise-

which became stronger ' when Spence read
out the inscript upon the picture:

“Ham Annamso, son. an: sin novns.”

Thelettorwas addressed to Charles Clancy;
to him the photograph must have been sent! A
love affair between Miss Armstrong and the
man who had been murdered! Anewrevela—
tion to all present' astoundingba: t!

“Goon, S col Givo us lo I” «Had
an im tion voice.

“ Yes, give us tin letter! We’re on the right
track now, I recko " added another.

The epistle was on. out of the envelope.
The schoolmaster, unfolding it, read aloud:

“Dun Owns: When we last met under the
magnolia, you asked me a question. I told you I
would answer it in writing. I now keep my rom-
iso, and you will find the answer underneat m
own ve imperfect in which I herewith sen
inclose . Papa has fine ly fixed the do of our de-
parture from the old home. On esdi next we
are to set out in search of a new one. 11 it be as
dear as that we leave behind? The answer will de-
mnd upon—need I say whom? After reading what I

ve written upon the carts, surely you can guess.
There. I have confessed all—all woman can, could,
or should. In six little words I have made over to
you my heart. Accept them as its surrender!

“And now Charles, to speak of things more pro
sale as in this hard world we are constrained to do.
On ‘Tuesday mornings-at a very early hour I be-
llcve—a boat will leave Natchez, bound up the Bed
river. Upon it we travel as far as Nltohitochoa.
There we are to remain for some time, while com-

leting re arat-ona for our further transport Into

exas. glather is not certain what part of the
‘ Lone Star ‘ State he will select for our future
home. He speaks of a place upon some brand: of
the Colorado river, said to he a beautiful country'
which you, having been out there, will know
about. In any case, we are to remain for a time—
at least six weeks—in Natchitochel; ~and there, Care
108 mio. I need not tell you, there is a post-office for
receiving letters as also for delivering them. \lnnd,
Isa for dollvorlngthem! Before we [one for the
far ntler, where there ma be neither post-0800
nor post I shall write you f particulars about our
intended ‘locatlon ‘wwlth directions how to'flnd it.
Need I be veryminutcl' Or can I promise mvaclt.

 

that your wonderful skill as a ‘ tracker.’ of which
we‘ve heard, WIII enable you to discover-it? They
say Love is blind. I hope, dear Charles, yours will
not be so: else you may not find the way to your
sweetheart in the wilderness.

“How I go on talking, or rather writing, things I
intended to say to you at our next meeting under
the magnolia—our magnolia! Sad thought this,
tagged toa pleasant expectation: for it must be our
last intervxew under the dear old tree. Our last
anywhere, until we come together in Texas per-
haps on some prairie where there are no trees.
Well; we shall then meet, I hope, never to part; >
and in the open daytime, where we shallneed neiih-l
or night, nor tree shadows to conceal us. I m sure
father humbled as he now is, will no longer object.
Dear Charles, I don’t think he would have done so
at any time, but for his reverses. They made him
think of—never mind what. I shall tell you all un-
der the magnolia. '

“ And new master mine—this makes you so—bo

unctual! onday night, and ton o‘clock—tho old

our. Remember that next morning I shall be
gone long before the wild wood son tors are sin -
ing their reveille ’ to awaken you. ule drops thI
into our tree ost-ofli ce tonight—Saturday ni ht.
You have tol me you go there every day. T on
you will be sure 0 getting it in time; and once
more I may listen to you attery, as you quoted
the old, song about showing the night flowers their
queen.

“ (7h! Charles, how sweet that was, is, and ever
will be to yours, HELEN ARMSTRONG."

“ And that letter was found on Dick Darkef"
questioned a voice, as soon as the reading had
come to an end. _

“It war dro pod by him,” answered Wood-
le ; J‘ and or’ ye may say it war found on

“ You’re sure of that, Simeon Woodley?”
“Wal,a man can’t be sure 0’ athing unless
he sees it. I didn’t see it myself wi’ my own
eyes. For all that, I’ve had roof cl’ar ono
to convince me; an’ I’m r dyto stan’ at 0
back 0’ it.”
“ Dash the letter!” exclaimed one of the im-
‘ tient ones, who had alread spoken; “and
picter, too! Don’t mis 8 me, boys. I
ainft referrin’ eyther to the young lady as wrote
it, nor him she wrote to. I only mean that
neither letter nor picter are needed to prove
what we’re all wantin’ to know an’ do know.
They arn’t nor warn’t requi , nohow. To
my mind, from the fust 0 oil, nothin’ ked be
cl arer than that Charle ancy has been '
’oep‘ting as to who kille him—murdered him, '
ye will; for that’s what’s been done. Is there a
man on the ground who don’t know the name 0’
m was answe a unam-
mous n’egafive, fo owed by the name, “Dick
And along with the answer commenced a ' ~
niflcant movement throughout the emit:
were heard—some muttered. some
spoken aloud—while men were observed looking
to their us, and striding toward their horses:
igalslthe W'd so, crying starnly, “To the jail! to
e
Intenminutesafter, thwehorseswereinmo-
tion, with riders upon their backs, moving along
the road between Clancy’s cottage and the
county town. They formed a cavalcade, if not
regular in line of march, terribly imposing in

(1 Richard Darke, inside the cell where he
wasconfined, have seen those marching horse-
men heard their throats, and witnessed their

oxci gestures, he would have shaken in his
shoes, an with a trembling worse than anyagoc
the swamp could have given him.

 

CHAPTER XXIV.
m m JAIL.

Tn jail in which Richard Darke had been in-
carcerated was, as we have said, in the .capihl
town of the county where the murder—if mur-
der it was—had been committed.

In the old civilized countries of .Europe the

“ countv town,” or “ capital of the-
county,” presents an  idea. There risu
before the fancy an array_o streets. generally
crooked, with several crossings, a market-house,
one or more churches, and, it may be, a cathe-

A countv town in the Southern or South-
western States of America need not suggest any
parallel to this icture. True, some may show
stmeu; crossing, t never crooked: certame the
churches in more than the Old—World proportion;
and indubitably a buildingoof far greater
tension than the English wn-hall or mar
house.

This will be the “ Court-House ”—-a structure
almost peculiar to the American Rappric, and.
forming a conspicuous feature in nationall
architoctm‘e; as it also plays an important part
in the political life of the country.

Ihave nospace,norneeditbemypurpose,to
d ' an American court—house, or the man
uses to which it is put. Sufficient to say .
notwithstanding its great size and pretentious
style of architecture—sometimes the 
Grecian, w1th Corinthian columns and swelling
cupola—it affluently stands in the center of a
townthatco d scarce claimtobecalled
—a more collection of “ weather-
houses, suburbed by log cabins, not much be“
than huts.

)0

 

0‘ “he .....

n
.‘<Cum.—s. “ .. v7»:

 

 

' -maax

 

18

place that dares look at the Court-House, and
say, " I am a house as well as you.”

111 point; of sine and grandeur, it is justified in
makin,r thi; dc;
ca. town there is sure to be an "hotel" ca who
of bedding a hundred guestswif a Com‘t-
town, two hundred—and dining them at the
same table.

The reason for the county towns of the United
States being thus often insignificant places is
well understood. It is simply the result of a
law~—a sequence of Republican faith and fair-
ness—~that the political center of any district
shall be placed in a central situation, territo- ,
rially, so as to be ciprilly accessible to all. This
spot, how’cver ac<'ommodating to legislators, is
often the revm'se for the convenience of its in- .
habitants. its commerce, and general] the in—
dustrial development of the place. The Conse-
3uence is that the county town has a lively-

eadl existence, remaining stagnant for a long
perio of time; its latest and only progress [

var-L522;  i

  4:313,» ii“ I
. 1’ “z 'I
. i”

o
/
u \ V
1
...,._-
- l
i

being that WhiCh it saw When first fOImed— ; out of his saddle: threw the bridle-rein over its 1
‘ bow; left the horse to take care of itself; but i

when the ('ourt-llouse was erected, and the
half-score of frainc-buildirws, with the hotel,
shot up simultaneously. The log cabins may
have been there bcl'ore.

Such a county town was that in whose jail
Richard Darke had been lodged. A Court-
IIouse in the center, with plentv of open 3 ace
around it: the “Hotel” standing opposi , a.

wooden structure, painted white, with an array ,

of windows and green venetian shuttem, nu-
merous as in a spinning factory; twenty or
thirty private dwellings, similarly limned; a
livery stable; two or three stores; and a strag—

lill" suburb of “shanties” surrounded b a '
S .n 3'

rank vegetation of “ jimson weeds" and Wild

miyroyal. The county jail was a part of the ,
‘g’lSlthlVC building, situated in a sort of wing ‘

projecting from the main structure. There was
at one room, or cell, devoted to this special
gurposc; for in the Southwestern States only a

espcrate criminal—a man committed for mur-

The New York

' . . _ ..
The “Hotel” is the only other building in the der or some on ital crime—could be shut u in i had withdrawn to give a good opportunity!

rice; for in the smallest Ameri- ‘

ouse ,

‘ site the door of the jaili

a prison cell. or the detention of debtors, t iere ,

i was another and better style of chamber, in a.
l remote corner of the Court-House.

It was close u )on two o’clock A. M. on the
morning after Dick Darke had been placed in
confinement, when the troop of horsemen, al-
ready described, was seen approaching the
county town by one of the roads that led to it.
They were still riding strag rled out, and irreg-

‘ ularly, to all appearance w1t out leader or any

one commanding them. Notwithstandin this,

’ there was an idea or purpose, that seeme( to in-
‘ spire and keep them in a sort of order.

At all
events, it carried them straight on, and with as ,
much decision as though they were moving by
the strictest military discipline.

“'hen close up to the Court-House, and oppo-
they halted without
having received any \VON of command, though
as promptly as if this had been given by the i
most martinet colonel.

And, on halting, every one of them leaped

. ’ .
I, "r
" l 'l
’ ’.’./: i  ‘l'.
.,, . N I
I”, ’
,I'l“ I i
1

Ivy'll l I'
ii

1

r
I

“ To run JAIL! 10 um JAIL I”—Page 1’7.

1 holding on to the gun each had in hand.
Thus the

the new had been the day before shut up.

Three or four of them, some a little in ad- 5

vance of the others, who had alread arrived
3 at the door, were, soen standing

813: t in. atti-
tudes and with looks that betoken surprise. ,
There should, then, have been a jailer to re- ;

' ceive them. There was none!
So much. the better, then ht some; it would

‘ be all the easier to accomp ish the purpose for 5

j which they had come.

This was to break open the prison door. {1mg
out the incarcerated criminal, and hang him"
without further m5], either by ~dge or jury-
“ Lynch ” had already ronounc the sentence;

‘ it into execution.
i Stran that the Jail-keeper should not be at

,‘hispost

‘, ’:‘, If.”

 flu"
“\‘f‘.’ .' ‘
'1}! - '.

'4 [My :‘

advanced toward the cell, in which ‘

they, his executive 0 corn, were thento carry
5 Red river—the Bed of

Was he in connivance with them, and ,

Or had he been warned of their approach, and,
knowing their desperate design, forsaken his

‘ post through fear?

Whatever the reason, he was not there”-
ncither he nor any one representing him. There
was nothing to stay them in their intent. Nor
was there any authority that could have done
this. No power, not even the shcriif with his
posse. At that moment it would have bccu
dangerous for any man, or party of men, to
have offered obstruction to the stern, deter—
mined otlicers whom J usticc Lynch had deputel
to carry out his decree.

From him they had the order to take Dick
Darke from his prison, and hang him forthwith.
No special place was mentioned. The nearest
post, or trce-branch—f or that matter, the swing
sign of the hotel. Anywhere; so long as the
criminal was executed.

With this resolve, fixed before their starting
from Mrs. Clancy‘s cottage, and kept firm by
frequent threats and angry ejaculations as they

,/,',;,_,

u
y.

,‘ ‘\   gig}  , v V;
‘i‘  1,), “Wk \

My

31:”  ('2 H...
§%liiliiii iii-ii”
‘ (1 / .‘ .

f
; A

,1 3w

. Iv
Jill
.vN'li’il'

journeyed along the road, they broke open the

door of the prison, and rushed into the cell,

where they knew, or supposed, the malefactor

to be confined. ‘
Some prudent ones remained by the door to

prevent is egress. Others went inside to seim
1m

The chamber was dark and silent. When:
light had been struck, they saw that it was
em tyl

or once the decree of Judge Lynch remained

‘ null and void. Richard Darke, a sure assassin,

had escaped from the vengeance of angry exo-
cutioners.

CHAPTER XXV.
A cnown or sons-m-an.

Anovn two hundred miles iron: the mouth of

sinus. ds' the
town of Natchitoches. The name is Indian, and
to be pronounced as it writh “ Nak—e—tosh.’

 

 

 

The T‘s-ffifilmfi 917: inched twflh; -

 a. 19

 

 

 V i
It is one of the oldest of Southwestem settle-

ments—dating from the earliest attem ts at
Spanish and French colonization in the issis-
sippi valley; having at different periods been in
gissession of both nations; finally falling to the
nited States, at the transfer 01 the Louisiana
territory, in 1803, by Napoleon Bona arte.

For eighteen millions of dollars, w ich would
not at the present time purchase a single parish
in Louisiana State, Bonaparte, pressed for money,
surrendered a tract of territory since transform-
cd into several populous provinces—in fact, most

of the North American continent between the ‘

Mississippi river and the Rocky Mountains: for
it was through the cession of Louisiana that this
became claimable by the Government of the
United States.
From its earl colonization b
branches of the {a
tion by the commin ling of many nationali-
es that compose the erican people, the pop-
ulation of Louisiana presents to the ethnologist
a study of peculiar interest—the negro and na-

two distinct

tive Indian also forming an element in the amal- ‘

In N atehitoches the traces of these varied types
of humanity still exist, with many of the pecu—
liar national customs appertaining to each:
though not so distinctly marked as some twenty
odd ears ago, when it was the scene of certain
incl ants 110w to be recorded in our story.
Then, was it a place fully deserving to be called
peculiar; that is, when com
other American towns—especmlly them of the
north. It was, in fact only a large village; but
as unlike a village on the Susquehanna udson,
Men'imac, or Connecticut, as a Swiss et to
a con lomeration f smoking factories in Massa-
chuse or ncaghire'

Standing upon ablufl of the Red river’s bank,
elevated man feet above the water surface. its
painted w en houses, built French fashion,
with verandas—there called “ iazzas ”—an:l
high-pitched roofs, its trottoirs brick-paved and
shaded by trees of almost tropical foliage—con-
spicuous among them the odoriferous magnolia3
and the meha azedarach or “ Pride of China
-theae in places oomple y arcading the sheets
the town of N atchitoches offered the aspect of a
ms in urbe or urbs in rare, whichever way you
may wish  The porches and piazzas were en-
t With creepers; here and there were
stretches of trellis, along which meandered the
cord-like tendrils of bmias, aristolochias, and
orchids, their flowers ing over doorways,
shu out the too brigh sunlight from win-
dows, and flllin theair with fragrance; while
am them w irred the tiny humming—bird,
b the large humble-bee, or from one to an-
other, on silent wing, flitted the butterfly.
These were sights you saw at every turning, as

ou made promenade through the streets of
atchltoches.

And there were Other sights equally gratify-
ingto the eye. In these same trell veran-
da: an new y girls of graceful mien, ele-

y appareled, ounging in the open Kgrches,
or, perha peering coyly through t half-
clmcd 01181 their eyes invariabl dark
brown or coal k, the marble foreh above
than witnfeunted vithotfihcehevelure  hue hr:-
sembllng raven. or att t
time most 0 manna. of Natchitoches
were descended from the old Latinic colonists
—-the Saxon blonds having scarce yet shown her-
self in the far Southwest. .

Meet these same young ladies in the street, it
was the custom, and comma tl faut, to take of!
yourhat,makea bow and pass on—of cburse
'wmmut stopping. Everyman who claimed to
be a gentleman was e to do this; and
every woman, whether y or notE if decently
dreaed, was treated to such de prance. On
which side or other the privxlege might be' sup-

to lie it was denied to none. The hum-
lest shop clerk or artisaan the dray-driver
—mi§ht thus make obeisance to the roudest
and intiest damsel who  the tro irs of
Natchitocbes. It gave no right of converse, nor
the all htest claim to acquamtanceship. A mere
formality of politeness; and to presume carry-
ing it further would not only have been deequ
a rudeness, bdt instantly, and perhaps very seri-
ousl , resented.

A the time halgokcn of there appeared u n
the streets of t lished Southern town wo
young ladies to w om bats were taken of! With
more than the usual alacrity, and bows made
with an obsequiousneas, as also an elaborate
grace, that in many cases spoke of an inner

rompting beyond mere politeness. The ladies
hi uestion were sisters, who had lately arrived
in the place, and were staying at its principal
hotel. There was no mystery in Natchitoches as

to who they were, nor need there be any here. :

The had not been forty-eight hours in the town
befoyre every young “blood” belonging to it,
and eve planter or planta’s son Within a cir—
cuit of want miles, knew them to be the

lonel Archibald Armstrong—
ppi State, and now on the way
to establish himself in Texas.

tinic race, an its after—occu— .

with most ‘

neither needed to go on into Texas. .Before
their father had been ten days in Natchitoches,

‘ with some of whose noblest families he held rc-
: lationship, since from one of them was he dev

he might have made choice of sons-in-law to .

the number of at least a dozen, all eligible;

among them a member of Congress, two or ‘
three of the State Legislature, a couple of ofli- . _ _ ‘ _
‘ tory—m short, founding a sort of lransatlantic

cers quartered at the nearest military post, with

an assortment of planters, wealthy merchants, I

and men who made their living by the law.
These suitors were all rejected—all except

one.

pre, alrc

stormed, and captured it.
question of his hfe had been asked; the answer
of most importance, to hers, as well as his, had
been given. Vows had been exchanged between
them.

The 'oung planter, by name Louis Du- ‘
y spoken of as having laid siege to ‘
the heart of Jessie Armstrong, had finally f
The most important

The younger daughter of Colonel Armstrong '

. had not surrendered unconditionally. Before ,
leaving the old home, she had promised her .

father she would not forsake him—at least not
till the had become settled in their new one.
Louis 13,
: nifled his assent to its conditions, in a way that
not only met every obstacle, but made things
mutually agreeable to himself and his future
father-in-law. This he did, by progosing to ac-
company the latter into Tex an bear a
in the fortunes of the projec settlement. 6
Creole planter could yield this point all the
‘ more easily, as, in common with many other
Louisianians, he had already been turninghis
eyes toward that splendid territory recently
acquired from the Sister Republic of exico.
Dupre had triumphed over many rival aspi-
rants to the affections of Jessie Armstrong;
' for many there had been.
They were few, however compared with the
1 host making suit to her who Was to be his fu-
j ture sister—in-law. About Helen  the
jeunesse dare—the “bloods ”—of Natphltoches
‘ were, many of them, half mad. Within a week
after her arrival, two or three duels were
fought on her account, fortunately without fa-
tal ending. .

Not that she had given anyone the slightest
cause or cue, to be her champion. She had fa-
vo no one with even so much as a. smile. On
the contrary, she had met all their approaches
with a denying indifference; while a cloud of
melanchol seemed to brood almost contin
ly on her row. \‘

Anyone might have perceived that there was
un terms rangeur—a worm eating at her heart.
Too plainly was shesuflen'ngfromapamionof

the .

Tfi‘dm not dismay her, N atchitoches adoren;
nor mammghem from ~mnugng  iatdolra-
tion. contrary eepen - or
cold indifference settdn thzir hot Sou ern
hearts aflame—its very ' ass but maddening
them the more.

CHAPTER xva
0 NEWS FRO! HAW.

#333333“ mwddmhg fl” “"91
0 an poo in
Natchitoches. The colonel had been, all m in-
tervening time in cttingup a party
for hisproposedco tion Texas. A d
increase 0 strength had been b ac-
cession of Dupre, the betrothed of 
Jessie. Themmgoplanter poaessed w
abundance p ty cash in hand, with a nu-
merous o ' ofslavee—theso ofcllagcs
andshadesofcoor fromnegro—blackto -
roan-white. He had also stock'and obs in
coOn 0.. f decad bankruptc
e score 0 once, or ,
therowasno nececsi for him to breakup h’i's
Louisiana home. was only ' done for
the reasons already ' eel—one of being
the condition imposed y his fiancee. On her
Bart it was not caprice, nor was it called forth
any frivolous micxt. He knew this, and
admired her all emore. He knewshe was
but keepixfi that vow made to her father, sacred
asany as on the day when Richard Darke
Was rejected by her sister' and repeated on
another day when Ephraim barke sent word to
Archibald rmstrong, in the shape of a le%
summons, to turn out from his home, forfei
fiy the force] ' of the mortga Then,
clen Armstrong once more me e promise
notto forsake her father; but to bear rt in
his misfortunes, until such time as he might re-
cover' from them; then Jessie, with zeal
and like filial affection had ined in the resolve.
All this the latterfhad e llinowlftofher 
anced,b wa o excusing erse orw t
l might otherwigre have appeared a too , or
,‘ vexatious condition.
She had no need to have given the c
! tion. To the young Creole, love-entran any
conditions would have seemed easy so long as
; they made him sure that the blonde uty w...
‘ to be his. Besides, as we have said, he had al-
! read been casting his thoughts toward Tens;

 

lane.

[ a

upre was told of this promise; and sig- '

 

scended. In Louisiana he was but a planter
among planters. In Texas, where land was
cheap, he had a dream of establishing himself
on a grander scale, at least as re arded terri—

warm.
or this, Colonel Armstrong would be no
weak ally. The late Mississippian lanter
though in reduced circumstances, was ill be]

in high estimation. His character commanded
respect, and would be sure to draw around him
some of those strong, stalwart men of the back—
woods, equall apt with ax and rifle, without
whom no sett ement on the far frontier of Texas
would stand a chance of either security or suc-

sei
P

‘ CCSS.

' it. Jule hag

 

For it was to the far frontier the intended
going, where land was still sold at overnment
prices—a dollar and a quarter—five English
shillings the acre!

Now that Louis Dupre, the ca italist, had
joined in it, the organization of he intended
colon was easy enough, and Colonel Armst
had ut to superintend the preparations—the
purchase of wagons, with their teams of mules
or OXen; the engagement of teamsters and other
attendants, and also some examination into the
character and credentials of families proposing
to be their fellow-colonists.

In mfivafioufifiitiffs, thiefolonel was thrown
agood upon ' so an isoldcam 'gning
experiences. Be 0nd the fact that hgséliuun'c
son-in-law would sure to rovide the sinews
of wet-Ellie received but hslig t eanesistanoe from

' ei erin lanmn' gt eexp 'tion orcarry-
' out its detillls.

4 his side the careless Creole was too much
engrossed with his golden-haired Jessie to give
th ht to anythi else. She was the sunbeam
in w 'ch he bask , and out of her presence he
felt as if in shadow. Her absence wasuncon-
to him, as m' ht to the helianthus. Even

her company, ’ others were present, then
was constraint to him, and perhaps also to her.
goth  alone—ch]? cum moo—as

u s ' is native nguage, used jest-

Iy sag, w en they had the good fortune of
be g by t emselves.

As a consequence of this dual
Helen Armstrong was often left without com—
pan , or with only that of her mulatto maid,

In; The girl observed the signs of grief visi-
ble on the brow,'and grossing] upon the heart of
her yonng he co (1 only guessat its
cause; though she could do this with a good
deal of certainty. Jule had been instructed in
read; and, when she used to dro those scented
billets-don: into the knot-hole oiP the magnolia
she not only knew them to be love—letters,
alsothenamcof the man whowasexpectedtc
tab them from their lace of deposit.

Of the last letter 5 e had there carried, and
what It had led to, her young mistress had not
made her acquainted—even of as much as you
known to herself. This was onl what had has:
told her by Ddrke. at that ill- rred nocturnal
encmmnol. terundertheshadeof thesamenng-

1a.

The tragical incidents that took lach
wardwere,to the maidastothe ,alto’
gather own. No news of them had as yet
reached Natchitoches.

Not from these, then, came that deep moha-

choly, at times bordering on despair; andwhidi

the proud lady, stricken in hermost sensitive
part, endeavored to conceal, even from her
slave, whom habit had taught her to regard as
onowouldawall, stree, oradumbanimal.“

But the mnlatto ' 1, botndswo th
was, possesed a cart rimful 0 all!
more iall for her whose  she
was. been deeply penetra by the
'°": 1....“ ’h" “w is... midi. “mm m
o youn m1
her own sorrows to endure—her
lover left behind—she and only one other,”

she supposed, knew where. Jupiter, the mn- .

away, of her own race, color, and kind, a slave
like erself, was far away, in all likelihood still
lurking in the dismal recesses of the swam
But she was sustained by the ho , that c
might yet escape from his difiicul ies, and re-
join her in a land where the dogs of Dick Darko
would no longer be able to track him. W13“.
ever might be the fate of the fu 'tive slave, she
was sure of his devoted love or herself, and
this was sufficient to keep her from despair-in .
Therefore, had she the_strength and spirit
sympathize with her white mistress, whom she ,
saw, day by day, endeavormg to bear up, but
evidently  ‘
Jule could no look upon these signs without
making an effort to ascertain the true cause.
The time had come for knowing it. It was not
curiosity, but a nobler sentiment, that prompt

ed her. ,
Inspired b this, she entered the chambered
When the latter was alone-
believed

H
I in? b that restlessness pecuhar' to Wm 1 She aux-nod in her hand um which she
I! South

, ._-...‘_-. _...._.-. ... -. m.-.

western men—ever lmpelling them ' would 've her the clue to her 0 unkind-
The adverse fortunes of the Mississippi planter , on either southward or toward the setting sun. I mchncfily. It might, poring, furthc

? m “so W W" m ruins I m .. up” muster are...“ “rest-u... a. » .. a. x
‘ f his u rswere con . I 118 t an own, con v a ' am— ' en! e norm '.
£2.22"... their future. For that matter I bition. HehadtraveledinEurone—in France— the roomwith anagth fir. dhfipmam ' l

 

20

L...

 

ml!!- at

newspaper just come by the post. It has some-
thing in it, i’m sure will be news to you, but
sad news, 1 fear.”

The young lady stretched forth her hand and

took hold of the ne\vspa1mr—the Natchez
Courier. Her lingers trembled as they closed
upon the sheet. At the same time her eyes
blazed up with a fierce jealous light. She ex-
pected to read among its marriage notices that
of Charles Clancy with a Creole girl, whose
name was unknown to her. It would be the
lategt chapter, the culminating point, of his
or .lv.
L Ohlgwhat a change came over her counten-
ance, when, insteaif of his marria 6, her e e
rested upon a heading that proc med—Li's
murder!

Ai'tcr that, change succeeded change in the :

glances of her eyes, the color of her cheeks, her
air, attitude, everything, as, with pal itating
heart and quick-beating breast, she dra in the
details given by the newspaper—set, as they
were, in conspicuous type.

ll ‘1":
ii
1i i

ll“

.  that I

The New York Library.

l
l

i and the proud gir

i

 

 

 

—v 7—“ 4,1,

l

The sadness had been enough, without the .
shame. Both together were beyond bearing;

, hitherto sustained b an in- :
dignant jealousy, now gave way to a 'iferent
emotion. Lettin fall the paper upon the floor,
she smik back, in her chair, her heart wildly
beating within her breast—threatening to beat

no more.

the moonbeams shimmering through the lattice

work showed they were both beautifulvof the

two distinct styles, brunette and blonde. To be

sure of this, it will be sufficient to say, they
i were Helen Armstrong and her sister Jessie.

On the faces of the two, thus differing in com-

lexion, still more different was the expression.

n Jessie’s dimpled cheeks danced gladness, ‘oy
sgarkling in her eyes of grayish—blue. For her
t epast had no sorr0ws, the future no fears.
Her life was in the resent—the bright, prospe-
rous resent. She dwelt upon the sunny side of
the 0 end, amidst its silver lining. She was at
. that moment expecting her lover, Louis. He

had promised to come: and, with the instinct of
1 awoman, knowing herself well loved, she had
no fear of his disappointing her.

How different With her sister! Different in
' everything—memories of the past, thoughts of.
with one of the princely hostelries of the res- the present, forecasts for the future. The sheen
ent (lay—set beside that the princeliest of hem of her raven hair, the somber shadow on her
all, the “Langham” of London—it would have , brow, her wan cheeks already beginning to
appeared a hut alongside a palace. i show signs of wasting, the look of settled hope—

 

CHAPTER XXV II.
srncrnns IN THE eraser.

Tm: Natchitoches Hotel, at which Colonel
Armstrong had put up before starting out on
his expedition to Texas, was, as a matter of
course, the principal one in the place. It would
not have been proper for a. planter—even a de-
cayhed one—to stay at a second-class house.

8 first was far from splendid. Compared

3" i

. WWII/4

 

 

 

 

 

 

, ///f7;"/  .
‘ /II/  1",, :7, ‘fl‘llhflj ,flil

umne FALL run Pm crew was mos, an em 3m mo HEB cam—Page 20. 0

They told of the murder of Charles Clancy-
of the arrest of Richard Darke, as the suspec

'murderer: and of the latter having been taken

to the jail of the county town. There was
nothing said of what had been done to him after
-—the paper having gone to press on the day of
the arrest.

It Contained, however, an account of the death
of Clancy’s widowed mother, and the conse-
quent excitement throughout the settlement
where these tragical events had taken place.
Other details were given; and one pa p
of special, of terribly painful interest, to elcn
Armstrong—holding her spell-bound as she read.

It isscarco necessa to say, that this related
to the letter she had erself written, addressed
to Charles Clancy, and by Richard Darke ab-
stracted from the tree.

Its content; were on] given in 6 items, as a
copy of it had m t rcac lC( the ban of the edi-
tor. Bizt, even thus, they were compromising
to her; fearfull'y humiliating, and she felt it.

 

, The ladies in question were both young; and .

Yet was it in every way comfortable. What ] lessncss in her eyes, once so grandly, so imperi-
it might lack in interior luxuriousness—as re- ’ ously glancmg—all this was in contrast with
garded upholstery and the like—was fully com- I the countenance of her Sister.
pensated by its outside adorning; these not $he had reason for being sad. The disap-
0win aught to the architecture of the house pomtmentS, Chagrins, sorrows that within a
but al to the vegetation that surrounded an r short period of time she had been called upon to
shadowed it, The native magnolia spread its I enduret were enough to prostrade the mud-
broad laurel-like leaves against the painted  est spirit, and bring it to a level wi& the.
wooden walls, while the exotic “Pride of Chl- i earth-
na,” rivaling the indigenous tree both in flower 1 And along with all these, thrown into the
and fra ce, let fall its perfumed spikes , scale, was the shame of that letter, the contents
against 9 green jalousies; as if courting nd- of which would be scattered abroad, and known
miration from those who sat within the cham- ' everywhere.
hem, Into which were wafted its delicious odors. It was not of the letter she was now thinking.
. On astill spring night, with a full moon cours- ’ No. Little would she have cared for any humi—
ing through southern skies, when the gleam of liation it could have caused had Charles Clancy
the fireflies could only be perceived under the i been still alive. It was his death that was
darker shadOW of the trees, two ladies might I giving her the great grief—that, and a thought
have been seen inside the vine-trellised veran- ! of the wrong she had done him. The two com—
da of the uaint. old-fashioned, wooden house, i bined made up an agony lacerating her heart,
which was hen the chief hotel of Natehitoches. ' almost cleaving it in twain.

“Cheer up, Helen! Cheer up, dear sister!

6K

hm _,_.._.

Remember that many others have had to suffer

the same as you.”

These were the words of J ewe.

In response:

“No, neVer! Or, if many have, none to re-
cover from it. How could they? We women,
J essieh—true women, like on and m self—have
out one love in our life. f we lose t at, we can
have no other, or none worth having. 1 have

,lost it, and care not to live an hour longer.”

“ No, no, no!
tress me, sister. Pray, do not speak so. Time
will change everything—time and our new life
in Texas. Your sadness will depart, and all
will be well again. I feel sure of it. There is jo
yet in store for you. There is, Helen! there is! ’

“ Never—for me, never!”

The chill, determined re 'oinder had its effect.
Jessie, awed b it, desiste( from her attem t at
consolation. ghe saw it was of no use just then,
and a delicate instinct admonished her to post-
, no the task for a more favorable op rtunit .

sides, she was then expecting her over, w o
ht make his appearance at any moment.

e had not yet entered the hotel. She knew
this, for she had been watching the a preaches
to it, the street running right and 163%. At in-
tervals she had been scanning it through the lat-
tice-work, scrutinizing the street promenaders—
herself unseen, screened by the leafy climbing-
plants, the bignonias, with their bell-shaped
flowers, and the odoriferous aristelochias.

Once more she )laced herself at the post of
gbsfirvattém? and ooked along the street. She

so no 0 every passenger that passed under
the arcade ot‘ the China trees, endeavorlng to
identif a certain form and set of features.
Only ose of masculine gender were submitted
to her scrutin n To the women that went past,
white or blue , she scarce gave a glance. The
men alone had an interest for her, and of them
only one—Louis
the shadowy veranda, she stood awaiting him,
thinking of no one else.

She was mistaken. Just at that moment some
one also came in sight—one in whom she had an
interest, or rather for whom she had a fear—
...mething more, a feeling of repulsion.

[t was a man of colossal size, who was seen
silently liding along the trottoir, under the
shadow o the trees. /

He stopped in front of the hotel, just opposite.
the veranda. and stood gazing at her, as she
leaned over the baluster rail.

Even about this man’s figure there was some-
.hing forbidding—an expression of slouchino

lorut‘ility. But it'was nothing, compared with

the smistercastseenu nhis featiu-es,asthe
appeared under the lig‘iii: of a lamp that have?!'
from the entrance-door of the hotel.

Jessie Armstrong, recognizing the face, did
not stay to scrutimse it. The recognition Was
instantaneous, and caused her to tremble and
shrink back. Quick! receding beyond eyeshot
from the street, she p aced herself in a cowering
attitude by the side of her sister.

_“ What 5 the matter, Jess?” asked Helen, ob-
serving her frayed aspect, and in turn becoming
the comforter. “ You’ve seen something to vex
you? Something of—Louis?”

' “No no, Helen!

‘“ at him! one else?

., I 
“0h, sister responded Jessie, “it’s a man

timeless itsendsa hive thrmigh’
me. Icannottellwh s r

7’
“Has he been rude to you!” '
“ Not exactly rude, but certainl something
like it. I might say im rtinent. estates at

inastrangeway munderhisbroada
me pulled low over his eyes. And :

brimmed ha
such eyes! y look hollow and horrid, like
'those of an alligator. I saw them just now, as
he was ' g, and stop under the lamp-
light. I lieve he’s standing there‘still.”

“let me have a peep at his alligator eyes.
Perhaps I can give them such a look in return,
as for the future may make the fellow better
kee ) his distance.”

e fearless elder sister, more defiant through
her very sadness, stepped forward to the veran-
da railing, and, leaning over it, looked down
into the street.

She saw peoflo passing—several men, but
none that won] answer to the description given
by her sister.

One, however, came past, whose gait first,

and then his figure, and after that his face, at- !

tracted her attention—attracted and strongly

‘ arrested it. .
He, too, stop in front of the hotel. Fool-

ishl if he ha< any occasion for coneealin his :
y, mod, the

face. Since in the position he had assu

lampli ht fellqu upon it. Well might be have

w” it otherwise: for in the countenance so
msented Helen Armstrong identified features

gist exposed their owner to danger, while at

the same time causing terror to herself.

She stood as if overpowered, fascuiatod by the
si t. It was a strong, terrible emotion that
he d her so transfixed.

Ami. only for an instant. Then. recovering
herself, she retreated backward, intending to
tan conned win: her cider.

Do not talk that way; you dis- ‘

pre. 80 she believed, as, in I

The Death-Shot; or, Tracked to Death.

: Jessie was no longer there. Her lover had
i meanwhile entered the hotel, and she had silent-
! 1y glided from the veranda to receive him.‘

In its shadow Helen was alone, up) alled by
, the loneliness, her heart beating audi y within

her breast.

And for 801m time she stood thus—despite her
‘ boasted courage, trembling. She, too, had been
‘ frayed by a specter in the street.

On scanning the piazza, she saw that there [

was no human figure in it, save her own. She

had seen this on first stepping back, and only '

, looked mechanically.

There was light enou h to make discernible I
I the outlines of a chair— he cane-seated rocking- ‘

3 chair of the States. Into this she sunk, without
i thought of its power of oscillation or availin

i herself of it. On the contrary, s e remain

' rigidly erect u
l as upon a pivo , in balance.

Her thoughts were similarly concentrated;
‘ her hands clasped over her forehead, as if to
. keep them from scattering;

On stepping back from t e balustrade, she had
done so with a feeling of alarm, and a shiver
throughout her frame. What she had seen was
well calculated to cause both.

Both were over in an instant, her courage and
ctfiolness returning; along with them an impulse
0 an r.

Dog: in the street, at lea than twen
; distant, was the assamin of her lever— 9 man
who had made her life desolate. There was he,
, after escaping from the prison  which his cap-
l tors had confined, and so hgiently guarded
! him. She had nowthenews hisesca , hya
later mail that had arrived at Natchi es.

She could have him re-arrested—could, should,
and would. This was the resolve to which she
came, after the first moment of confusion.

But how? At once cry “ murderer!” and all
upon the street (passengers to some him!

No. It woul be the very way to give him a
chance of getting ofl. Erethe cra’could be re-
sponded to, he would be away in the woods,
with suflicient start not to be easily overtaken.
Around Natchitoches the thickest kind of timber,
almost untouched by ax, came close u to the
houses. Within a hundred yards of out-
skirts, aman might plunge into the primeval
forest—a fugitive find concealment in thicket
and swamp.

Helen Armstrong was over twenty years of
age: had been brought upin the backw
customed to western ways. Of on g
spirit, like the pioneer stock from whom
was descended, reflective and inq
understood something of western
hmithesenseandsangfrotdtotake the neces-

sary steps for than. She saw

the by raising an

beonlélgi theoriminal a chance to escape

from o '
As he had not seen, or, at events, not re-

cognized her—she imagined this—there could be

no need for any hurried action to prevent his

 

leaving' the . Doubtl he would be there
for days. 6, or lea—halls... day—an

would be enough to carry out the purpose that
now sha ibelf in her thoughts. This was to
commmncate what‘ she had seen to her father,
as also to Louis

 

i had fox-amomtlali:1 overpow
“he al the troteot’ it in
. 0 7'

.momfimumm%s

lover.
Whether his or not, the man so
3 inthe actor moving away. He was
‘toofaroflttobehounded witha “hue-and ,
, that would give any chance of overtaking, much
I less making capture of him.
1 But this Helen Armstrong had no lon r
I thought of raising. She resolvedon the 0 or
course of action, to can; out which she only
! Waited for the return of or father, at the time
, absent from the hotel, and the disentanglement
, of Louis Dupre from his amorous dalliance with
3 her sister.
I “ Where is the woman?” “Ou est la fammsl")
I was the first questign satire:aJ y 'lialleyrandb , when
, an knotty int 0 na io po ic was rought
; begin-e him. p0The famed di omati’st knew, and
lacknowl , hshadno versariesinhisown
‘ line mone ifiicult to deal with than women.
or yet more frequently; since, according to
1 his interrogatory. there was sure to be one at

, the bottom of every trouble—the causa tetter- .

l n'ma belli. .

' Talle nd’s faith has not always been found
true. n the case of Helen Armstrong, feminine

I diplomac was destined to defeat. 0n seeing

! Richard Barks in the street better had she at

I, once shouted“ murderer!" it might,
i have led to his I'D-arrest.
{ was very likely to be diilerent; since other e es,

in a little bit ofy
1 was tiles.

5 besides hers, were en
play, watching both.

‘3’;

n the seat, with the chair poised i

, perchanoe, i
As it was, the result :

21

-L

l

; scribed by her sister as resemng the eyes of
f alligators.

' e owner of them after what he had seen,

i

; came to certain conclusions; these being such,
! that he stole silently away from the spot, deter-
' mined to put the assassin upon his guard.

' CHAPTER xxvm.

THE “ CHOCTAW CHIEF.”
“ YOU’LL excuse me, stranger, for intern: tin’
. you in the readin’ 0’ your newsgper. I l‘ 'e to
_ see men in the way 0 acquirin7 iowledgc. But
‘ we’re all of us here goin’ to take a drink. VVon’t
you join?”

The invitation, rudely if not nnconrtecusly
extended, came from a man of middle age, u he
stood at least six feet three, without counting
the thick soles of a pair of horseskin boots—the
tops of which rose several inches alove his
knees. He was a person ran boned and gener-
ally of rough exterior, wearing a blanket coat;
his trowsers tucked into the aforesaid boots,
with a leather belt round his waist, under the
coat, but over the bait of a be“ ie-kniie, alo —
side which pecped out the brass but of a Colts
revolving pistol—army pattern. In correspon-
dence With this paraphernalia of clothing and
equipment, he showed a cut-throat countenance,
typical of the State Penitentiary; cheeks bloat-
ed as from excessive indul nce in drink: eyes
watery and somewhat blooushct; 1i 5 thick and
sensual; with a nose set obliquely, ooking as if
it had received hard treatment in some 
tic encounter. His hair was of a ‘ellovnsh' clay
color, of lighter tint over the eye rows. There
was none either on his lips or ‘an 3, nor et
11 n histhickh -likethroat, w ich seem a
' some day it mig t stand in need of something
stiller than a heard to protect it from the nouns
of thehanggi. .

He, to w the invitation had been extend.

ed, was of quite a different ap ainnce; nota
whit lea repulsive, only tha the repellent
points were mental or moral, rather than h '-
cal. In he was not much over half thazigf
the indi who had addressed him—twenty-
five perhaps—of dark complexion, tint cadaver-
ons; the cheeks rd, as if from slce less
: anxiety; the upper 'p showing elongated b uish
. otehes as from a pair of mustaches recently
: removed; the eyes coal black, with a'sinister
l glance, sent with mfifiifious furtivcness from
' under a broad hath pulled low downover
l how. His figure might have been well
. but for garments somewhat coarse and
clumsily fitting; too ample both for body and
lim as it intended to conceal these, rather
than show em to advantage.
A practiced detective alter scanning this in-
dividual, taking note of his habilinwnts, especi-
his hat and the manner of, wearing
(Viv ' 1 him a person dresed in
isguise—a disguise or some stro
- adopted. A t, or so icion, ogihm
iappearedtobein emindo therou Herm-
|leswho had invited him todrink; ough he
' was no detective.

 

 

“E

 

“Thank you,” said the "fellow, Iowa»,
ing the per to his so, and use
rim of his hat as little as ' ;

' on
tohsthenameo’yer

linker. 
“0h! in that case I’m agreeable,” mjolnedthe
reader, laying aside his rem,

Ind withit the pager—at the same time
mun; hisfeet. en,stepping tothe
,he ded,inatoneofseemmg' f :
“Phil Qusntrellain’t the man to hack on

where there’s glames ing. Bu gentleznei’:i
asl'mthestran intfiscrowdfi’ hope you
let me pay for t e drinks." ,
The men thus addremedas “ ‘tlemen” were
; seven or eight in number; no one of whom,
g from external 9. pearance, could lay claim to
f the epithet. So ar as this went. they u ere all
J fit comm for the brutal-locking bully in the
’ blanke t who had 0 .ned the conversation.
i Had Phil Quantrell ad rcssed tlum as “ black-
. guards” he would have been nearer the mark.
, illainous scoundrcls they appeared, one and
all: though of different degrees as to 5.00de8!-
ism in their oountenancos, and with a like vari-
ety of villain semblance in their costumes.
{ <Noano 1” shoutled tsevertaId, detcnnined to
‘ prove ey were a eas gen (men in generod-
ty. “No manger can stand trcat liere. You
: must drink with us. Mr. Quantn ll."
1 “ This score’s mine,” said the first Sfol'c'man,
in an authoritatiVe voice. “ Aiter that any-
, bod ' as likes may stand treat. Come, Johnny!
j trot out the stuff. Brandy smash for me.”
The bar-keeper thus appealed to—as repulsive-
; looking as an ' of the arty upon whom he was
1  to Win With t iat dexterity petuliar to
} his craft, soon furnished .the counter with hot-
, tiesand decanters containing several kinds of
g liquors. After which he set a row of tumblers
' alongside, correizpfndmg to the number of those
designing to dr
| And soon the" were all drinking; each hav-
‘ingchoson the pplemostpmterrsdbyh'lpd'

 

 

 

T»

at snout-.11. I... ...,. -'

c.m__;_x.3§
-.. s.  .

 

—4..——..

:A «was r.

 

as....:-.'-,

 

 

22

It was a scene of every-(lay occurrence, every
hour, almost every minute, in a tavern bar-
room of the Southern United States; the only
peculiarity in this case being, that the tavern in
which it took place was ver different from the
ordinary villau'e inn, or roa side hotel. It stood
upon the outs :irts of Natchitoches, in a. su-
burb known as the “Indian quarter;” seine-
times also called “ Spanish town "—both names
having reference to the fact, that the queer
cabin cottages around were inhabited by pure-
blooded Indians and half-breeds, with poor
whites of Spanish extraction—the last bemg
de enerate descendants of those who had origi—
nal colonized the lace.

e tavern itsel , bearing an old Weather-
washed swing-sign, on which had once been de-
picted an Indian in full war-paint, was known
as the “Choctaw Chief.” It was kept by aman
supposed to be a Mexican, but might have been
anything else; who had for his 'barkeeper the
aforementioned “Johnny,” 8. personage sup—

 York Library.

 

 

' sun;

 

 

:2

 

Such was the reputation of the hostelry, at
whose drinking bar stood Phil Quantrell—so call—
ing himself—with the men to whose boon com-
panionshi he had been so brusquely introduced;
as their c ief spokesman said, according to the
custom of the establishment.

The first drink swallowed, Quantrell called
for another round; and then a third was or—
dered, b some one else, who paid, or promised
to gay, or it.

fourth “smile” was insisted u n by an-
other some one who said he woul pay for it;
all the liquor, up to this time consumed, being
either chea brandy or “ rot—gut ” whiskiy.

Quantre , now fairly in his cups, an acting
under the generous impulse they had produced,
sung out, “ Cham agne !”—a wine which the

oorest tavern in he Southern States even the
hoctaw Chief could p1entifully supply.
After that t e choice vintage 0 France, or

 

its rooseberry counterfeit, flowed freely; John-
ny s owmg no reluctance in stripping t 1e

silver

 

Il‘l’l" n I ' m w '
i llElixir"l"ill1 l
Whpwhiww*“ MM”

1
i

 

 

 

 

lasse;” while still others, at intervals, and rather
as if by a slip of the tongue, gave him the title
“Captain.”

J im, Mister, or Captain Borlasse—whichever
designation he deserved—throughout the whole
debauch, kept his bloodshot eyes fixed upon
their new ac uaintance, and watched his eve
movement. is ears. too, were open to cute
every word Quantrell uttered, weighing well its
im rt.
or all this, he said, or did, nothing to show
he was thus attentive to the stranger—as first
his guest, but now a spendthrift host to him and
his arty.

hile the champagne Was being freely
quafled, of course there was much conversation,
and on many subjects. But one became special;
seeming more than all others to engross the at-
tention of the roysterers under the roof of the
Choctaw Chief.

It was a murder that had been committed in
the State of Mississippi, near the town of Nat-

 

l!” .
"it L
'I "it

i

. if; It
"I "Ml
twin“; 1

 

 

 

4"".!E
in 1

I

1,.
it!‘

. ‘i

. L

 

 

 

 

 

 

um Ii.
Immpm; .

l'llllllllll
H] w

((3,

l .

,li 
In iii?
“"4!

“YOUR um Is nor PHILIP gunman: rr Is RICHARD mum: l”—Page 23.

posed to be an Irishman, but of like dubious
nationality,

The Choctaw Chief took in travelers; givin
them bed, board, and lodging. It usually had
a goodly number under its roof; though they
were travelers of a peculiar kind—strange hot
in aspect and manners—no one knowing When
or whence they came, or at what time or
whither bent, when they took their departure.

As the house stood out of the ordinary path
of town promenaders, in an outskirt scarce ever
visited by respectable pie, no one cared to
inquire 1nto the charac r of its guests or aught
else relating to it. To those who 0 anced to
stray in its direction, it was known as a sort of
cheap hostelry, that gave shelter to all sorts of

ueer customers—hunters, trappers, small In—

n traders, returned from an expe ition on
the prairies; and along with these, suc travel-
ers aswere without means to stop at the more
pretentious inns of the village; or having the
means, preferred, for reasons of their own, to
put up at the Choctaw Chief.

 

necks, twistin the wire, and letting fl the
corks. For t e stranger uest had ta en a
purse from his pocket, which all could see was

‘chock full " of old “ eagles,” some observing
—but as ng not ing about—the smgular con-
trast of t 's wealth with the cheap coarse attire
upon his person.

After all not much. Within the wooden
walls of the Choctaw Chief there had been seen
many a contrast quite as curious. Neither its
hybrid landlord, nor his barkeeper, 1101‘ Its
guests were likely to take note—or, at all events,
make finarks u n—many circumstances which
elsew e woul have seemed sin lar. .

Still was there one among t e roystermg
crowd who took note of this; asalso of other
acts done, and sayings spoken, by Phil Qua-1P I
trell in his cu . This was the Colossus who
had introduced” him to the jovial company, and
who still stuck to him as his chaperon.

Some of this man’s associates who appeared
on familiar footin , called him ‘ZJim Bor 8886;”
others, less free, a dressed him as “ Mister Bor— ,

 

chez; an account of which had 'ust a red in
the local journal of Natchitoc es. 6 paper
was lying on the tavern table; and all of them
who could read had already made themselves
acquainted With the articulars of the crime.
Those, whose scholars ip did not extend so far.
had learnt them at second-hand from their bet-
ter-educated associates.

The murdered man was called Clancy—
Charles Clancy—while the murderer, or he un—
der suspimon of being so, was named Richard
Darke, the son of Ephraim Darke, a rich Missisa
SlBFl planter.

he paper gave further details: that the body
of the murdered man had not been found before
the time of its ing to press; though the evi-
dence collected eft no doubt of the foul deed
havmg been done; adding, that Darke, the man
accused of it, after being arrested and lodged in
the county jail, had managed to make his es-
cape—through connivance with his jailer, who
had also disappeared from the place. The part.-
graph likevise mentioned the motive for the

'  out a

  

; ' w; ,i ~
W 3"“ 4“ w

    

 Death-Shot; or, Tracked _to Death.

 

Sr

committal of the crime—at least as it was sup-
or conjectured; giving the name of a
youn lady, Miss Helen Armstrong, and speak—
rug 0 a letter and picture dropped by the sus-
pected assassin. It wound up { saying, that
‘no doubt both prisoner and jailer ad G. . T.—
“ Gone to Texas ”——a hrase at that time of
frequent use in the States-applied to fugitives
from justice. It wound u by giving the copy
of a proclamation from t e State authorities,
‘ofl'ering a reward of two thousand dollars for
; the apprehension of Richard Burke, and five
'3 hundred dollars for Joe Harkness—this being
the name of the conniving jail-keeper.

While the murder was being canvassed and
discussed by the drinkers in the bar-room of the
Choctaw Chief—a subject that secured to have a
strange fascination for tlre1n~B0rlasse, who had
become elevated with the alcohol, though usual-
ly a man of taciturn habit, broke out with an
asseveration that caused surprise to all, even his
more intimate associates.

“ Curse the luck 1” he vociferated, bringing his
fist down upon the counter till the decanters

, danced under the concussion; “I’d ’a’ given a
hundred dollars to ’a’ been in the place 0’ that
fellow Darke, whoever he is!”

“ Why?” interrogated several of his confreres.
“Why, .l’im?” “ Why, Mr. Borlasse’l” “ Why,

tain?

‘?Why?” echoed the man of man titles, again
striking the counter and causing ecanters and
glasses to jin 1e. “ Why? Because that Clancy

. --that same lancy—is the kunk that, before a.
racked jury, half 0’ them yellar-bellied Mexi-

' in the town of Nacogdoches, swore I stoled

a horse from him. Not only wore it, but war
behaved; an’ get me—me, Jim Borlasse—tied
for twenty-four hours to a post, and whipped
,into the ' Yes, boys, whipped! An’ by
,2. low Mex’ nig 1', under the orders 0’ one
 0’ their constables, t 8 call algazeels. I’ve got
‘themarko’them eson me now,and can
,ehow them, if an 0’ ye hev’ a doubt about it. I
dln’t ’shimed to 11 you fellows; as ye all know
What it means, I guess. But I’m bumin’ mad to
think that Charley Clancy’s escaped clear 0’ the
. vengeance I’d sworn aguin’ him. I knew’d he
own comin’ back to Texas, him and his. That’s
[what took him out thar when-I met him in
gaucogdoches. I war waitin’ and watchin’ till
.;, , shed come this way. Now, it a pears, nome-
 ilt my plans—some y o‘ the name
A. of c Darke. An’ while I envy this Dick
' ke, I sa‘ curse him for doin’ i .”
» “Curse ick Darkel Curse him for doin’ itl”
rung out the chorus of roysterers, till the walls
., ,of t e Choctaw Chief re-ec oed' the bluphemous
,acclaim.
The drinkingldebauch was continued till a late
hoax, guantreospa shot for the whole part .
, as m 0 them had become, they
“wondered that a man so shabbin dressed could
icommand so much cash and coin. Some of them
were no little perplexed by it.

,Borlasse was perhaps, less so than any of his
imperious. 9 had noted certain circumstan-
‘.I t t gave himthe explanation; one, especial-
Efithat seemed to make everything clear. As
’ stranger, calling himsel P ' Quantrell,
gfiood by his side, cham cilass in hand, he
t-handkerc ie to wi the wine
ifrorn his lips. The handkerchief fe u n the
. floor, Borlaeee picking it up, but withou restor-

it to its owner. V
;’ edideo after a. time; but not till he had
made himself uainted with a name embroi-
'deredononeofi corners.
_When,at a late hour the twosat together,
.' making]: last cod-nigh: draught, Borlasse
 li one to stranger’s ear, and
I: in a w r:
“Your name is not Philip Quantrell: it 1.

Richard Darla!”

CHAPTER XXIX.
m utinnnrurn 0mm.

3.41) a rattlesnake sounded its harsh “ skin”
under the chair on which the stranger was sit-
ting, he could not have shown more alarmg:

. started up more abruptly, than he did w
Borlasse said:

“ Your name is NOT Philip Quantrell: it is
Richard Dark!!!”

For Richard Darke in reality it was.

He first half rose from his seat: then sat down
again; all the while trembling in such fashion
that the wine went over the edge of his glass,
wetting the sanded floor of the bar-room.

Fortunately for him, the rest of the com ny
, had retired to bed, it being new a very late our
of the night—near midnight. The drinking
“ saloon " of the Choctaw Chief was quite
emptied of its inebriated guests—the two prin-
cipal entertainers aloxxe staying. Even Johnny
the barkeeper, had gone kitchenward—in all
likelihood to look after his supper.

Otherwise the startled demeanor of the gen-
tleman hitherto figuring as Phil Quanth would
have attracted eyes u n and perhaps brought
around him an inquis tive crowd.

As it was, there was only Borlame to bear
switnees to the eflect of his awn speech: which,
\thotgh but whispered. had proved IO signifi-
oan y startling.

 

 

 

2‘3

 

 

The speaker, on his side, showed no surprise.
Throug out all the evenin he had been takinrr
the measure of his man, an had arrived at a full
comprehension of the case. He saw that he was
in t e company of Charles Clanc ’s murderer.
The disguise that Darke had adop d—the mere
shaving off his mustache and putting on a dress
of home-woven “ cottonade”—the common
wear of the Louisianian Creoles—with a broad-
brim palmetto hat to corr nd was too thin,
too flimsy, to deceive a man ike rlasse, him-
self accustomed to travesties and metamorpho-
ses far more ingenious. To have appeared in
keeping with his coarse garb, Darke s ould have
shown ess free of his golden coin. Though it
might not have much mattered. The man into
whose company he had chanced—like himself a
traveler staying at the Choctaw Chief———would
have seen througllr the thickest mask he could
have assumed. t was not the first time for
Jim Borlasso to meet a murderer fleeing from
the scene of his crime-stealthily, disguisedly
making his way toward the boundary line,
between the United States and Texas—toward
the Sabine river, then the limit of executive
justice.

“Come, Mr. Darke,” he said, extending his
arm in a. of reassurance, "don’t waste
the wine in that ' ' oust fashion. You and I
are alone, and I reckin we understand one an-
other. If not, we’ll soon come to do so—the
sooner by your .puttin’ on no nonsensical airs,
but tellen’ me the cl’ar and candid truth. First,
then, answer me the questyun: Air you, or air
ye not, Richard Darkel If ye air, don’t be
afeerd to say it. No humbuggery, now! That
mm; (mm trembling f

The di ' ° ' , our
moment hesitated to make reply.

Only for a moment. He saw it would be of
no use denying his identity.  man who had
questioned him—of colossal mze and ruflan as-
mt—notwithstanding the copious draught: be

swallowed during the mg _ cool as
atombstone, and stern as an tor.
bloodshot eyes, watery though they' were, looked
upon him with a. leer that said: ‘ Tell me a he,
and I’ll be your enemy, even to stabbing you,
some time,'1n the dark, or shooting you down,
now upon the t.”

Atthe same ‘ ethose horrido es spolneof
safety: if the truth were told o friendship;
such, friendshi as may be felt between two
criminals equa y stee in crime.

The dzssassinl' of hm arles, —nowwthf,or
man an nig , a
1' 't’ive y'from foiled justice, untrodden

hiding in holes and at last leek-
irg shelter under the roof of the octew Chief
becaueeof itereputeforhar suchashe—
seemedatlengthtohavereach thetxueha-

you of safety.

80 though: he himself, after listening
9. pealo ' boon compilinifiandgamnginto
t eeyee of the man, as c it.

The volunteered confemions of Earlene—the
tale of his hostrlr‘  to Charles Clancy and it:
cause—were enoxtig to give Darke confidence
about any revela on: he might make in return.
Beyond all doubt his new acquaintance Itood in
mud, deep as himself. Without further halite-
tio he said: .

“ am Richard Darke.”

“All right!” was the reply. “And nowlet
me tell you, I like your manly way of answerin’
the questionl put 8. Sametime, Imayu
wellremar ’twoul ’a’beenallcneif e’d
ea ed no!

life, ’count 0’ some little mistakes made at
the be 'nriin’ of it, not to know when a man’s
got in asim’lar fix. First da on showed
your face inside the Choctaw Chic I eee’d thar
war something amiss; tho', in course, I couldn’t
51:: the thing a name, much lea know ’twar

t ugl word which begins withaM. This
evenin, {acknowledge I war obit put out—
eeein’ you round thar by the hotel, Ipyin’ after
one of them Armstrong girls; which of them I
needn’t say.”

Darke started, muttering mechmically: “ You
saw me there?” ,

“In course: how could I help it—bein' there
myself, on the same errand, I suppose?”

‘ Well?” interrogated Darke, waiting for the
other to proceed.

“Well; that as I’ve said, some leetle bam-
boozled me. From your looks and ways since
you first came hyar Iguessed that some '
wrong must be different from a love scrape.
Besides, a man stayinflat the Choctaw Chief,
and sporting the cheap rig as you’ve got on wa’n’t
likely to be aspirin’ to eech daintydamsels as
them. You’ll give in, yourself, it looked a
leetle ueer, didn’t it?”

“I at know that it did,” was the reply,
pronounced doggedly, and in an assumed tone
of devil-my-careishness.

“ You don’t! Well, I thought so, up to the
time o’ gettin’ back to the tavern hvar—not
many minutes afore my meetm’ and in’ you
to jine us in drinks. If you’ve any curiosity to
know what changed my mind, cl’arin’ up the
Whole th , I'll tell ye.

“What asked Darke, scarcely reflecting on
lie words.

“ That ‘ero newspaper you war readin'when I

ischild hein’t been hidin’ f o’.

 

gave you the invite. I read it aforc you did,
and had ciphered out the whole thing. l‘uttin’
six and six thegithcr, I could eas make the
dozen. The same bein’, that one o the young
ladies stay in’ at the hotel is the Miss Helen A mi-
stron spoke of in the paper; and the man I (b-
serv watchin’ her is lit-hard Darke, who kill-
ed Charles Clancy—1101472901 f 1”

“1—1 am—I won’t, I don’t deny it to you.
Mr. Borlasse. I am Richard Darlze. I (Id 1:111
Charles Clancy, though I do deny having mur-
dered him."

“Never mind that. Between friends, as I
suppose we can now call ourselves, i‘rre need
be no nice distinguishin’ of terms. .‘ 'urilir or
manslaughter, it‘s all the same, v l;c:r a man
has a motive sech as yourn. An’ when he‘s Cruv
out o’ the pale. of what they call society, an’
hunted from the settlements, he’s not lilze to
lose the r 't of them who’s been served the
same way. ’eur bein’ Richard l‘crize an’ hav-
in‘ killed Charles Clancy,in no ways makes you an
enemy 0’ Jim DOI‘laSSC—(‘Itcclt in yourlxivin’
robbed me of a revenge I’d sworn to take my-
self. Let that go now. He’s dead: and burial,
I s’pose, by this time. I ain't angry, but only
envious 0’ you, for havin’the satisfaction of
sendin’ the skunk to kingdom come, without
givin’ me the chance. An’ now, blister Darhe,
what do you intend doin’?”

The question came upon the assassin with
asobering efi'ect. His copious potations lzad
hitherto kept him from rciiccting. It was only
on his boon companion clearly showing a lzncvx-
ledge of his identity, that 120 felt a renewal cf
his fears; thou b they were soon after tranquil-
ized by the “ hievcs’ confidence” with which
Borlasse now inspired him. i

The inte tory relating to his future again
brought its arkness, with all its dangers, be-
fore him; and he paused before making re-

sponse.
 waiting for it, his questioner con-

u . .

“ If you’ve t no fixad plan of action, and
will listen to e advice of a friend, I’d advise
you to become one 0’ us.”

“One of you! What does that mean, Mr.
Berlessei”

“Well: I can’t tell you here,” rejoined Bore
lasso, in a subdued tone. “ Deserted as this bar-
rooma tobe,it’egotearsfcrallthat I
see that curse, Johnn , creepin’ about, retcndv
in’ to be lookin’ after ‘ supper. If he, ew as
much about on as I do, end be in limbo
afore on get into your (1. I needn’t tell
you I a reward offered; for you see’d that
mmlf in the newspa r. Two thousand dol~

for you, an’ five undrcd dollars for the
fellow as I’ve see’d along wi’ '01: and who I’d
already figured up as bein’ j ' or ice Hardiness.
Johnn , an’ a. good many more, would be lad ,
to go vee With me for tellin’ them onlyialf
of what I now know. I ain’t in’ tobetray
you. I’ve :11 reasons for not ein’ so. After
what I’ve sai , I reckon you can trust me.”

“ I can,” answered the assassin, heavinga sigh
of relief.

“All right, then,” said Borlasse; “ we under-
stand one another. But it won’t do to sta
talkin’ here any longer. Let’s go up to m bed-
room. We’ll be safe there; and I’ve got a ttle
of brandy, the best stuff for a nightcap. Over
that we can talk things straight, without any-
onehavingthechanoetosetthemerooked.
Come along 1”

Duke, without dprotest, reaponded to the in-
vitation. He dare not do otherwise. It sounded
more like a command. The man exte ° it
had new full control over him—could at y
moment tgeliyeiri him up to justice-have, him

a a . i
. t another word, he followed Earlene
to his bedroom.

 

CHAPTER XXX.
"WILL YOU in: on or us?”

hisAzlloon as the stalwart nteifléan thad intend
ec' apartmentpoin on aciairto
his mviglggguest, and granted himself upon an-
other—with the prom bottle of brandy be-
tween them—he resumad speech.

“I’ve asked you, Mr. Darke, to be one 0’ us.
I’ve done it for your own food, as you ought to
know without my telhn’ ye. Well; you asked
me in return what. that means; didn‘t ye?”

“Yes, I did ” said Darke, answering without
any definite i ea or purpose.

It means, then ” continued Borlasse taking
a gulp out of his g. ass, ‘f that me, an‘ the others
you’ve been drinking With, air as good a set of
ellows as ever lived. That we‘re a ( hccrful
rty, you’ve seen for yourself. What's passcd
this night ain’t no“ hares to the merry times we
. nd upon the prairies out in Texas—for it's in
$5an we live.”

“ ’3" I ask, Mr. Borlasse, what business you
follow.

“Well, when we’re on . god in business, that’s
mostly home-cau‘hin‘. €30 rope wild homes, or
mustimgs. as they’re called, {111‘ sometimes them
that ain’t- jost so wild. We bring them into the
settlements for sale For that reason we go
under the name of ‘musiancers.’ Between
whilee. when business isn’t vcr',' Irish, we ape“

 

 

 

 

 

 

1‘

94

l

s..._.~7‘. ,

our time in some of the Texas towns—them
what’s well in to’rds the Grand river, Whar
there’s a good sprinklin’ of Mexikins in the po
ulation. We’ve some rare times among t e
Mexikin girls, I can assure you. You may take
Jim Borlasse‘s word for that, mayn’t you?”

“ I have no reason to doubt it,” answered
Darke.
“Well, I needn’t say more, need I? I know

ou‘re fond of a pretty face, with black eyes in

it. You’ll get both among the saynoritas, to
your heart’s content. Enough, maybe, to make
you for et the pair I saw glancin’ on you out of
the hote gallery.”
“Glancmg on me?” exclaimed Darke, show~

surprise, not unmixed with alarm.
‘ Glancng on you; right on ye.”
“ You mean—’
“I mean Miss Helen Armstrong’s eyes; the .
same that made you do that little bit of shootin’,
with Charles Clancy for a tar ret.”

“Do you think she saw me! asked the assas-

l

o

,v 

\l‘ \- -
1| WW"?

sin with evidently increasing uneasiness, and

without waiting for the conclusion of the other’s [ er a ain~this thought was more re

1
I knew he had the means to put an end to it. .A ,
‘ wiord would be sufficient; or, at the most, a 5111- l
. g e

speec .

“ Thinkl I’m sure of it. More than saw—she
reco ized ye. I could tell that from the way
she 8 0t back into the shadow. Did ye not no-
tice it yourself ‘1”

“ No,” answered Darke, the monosyllable issu-
ing mechanically from his lips, while a frefi
chill ran through his frame.

His uestioner, observing these si 3, said:

“Ta em advice, and come witi us fellows
to Texas. efore you’re long there, the Mexi-

The New York Library.

:’ lasso, “an’ you’ve made up your mind to keep

1 live long. As sure as you’re sittin’ thar, a ore ‘

 the Texan.

‘ wild, Wicked passion though it might be—was .

l strin
that fify

kin girls will make you stop moping about Miss '
Armstrong. After the first fandango you’ve 1

been at, you won’t care a straw for her.
have J an Borlasse, when he tells ye you’ll soon
for t her."

‘ ever!” exclaimed Darke in the fervor of
his ion—thwarted though it had been—for-
ge 'ng the danger he was in.

“ If that‘s your detannination," returned Bor-

a a man of your ’cuteness,
. you can never forget the o dest of that pair 0’ l

1
l
l

.gp.‘ - ‘

“'r ..

i done it—them blue eyes of hers' danged if they
 hain’tl Then, do you suppose that Im in’ to
' run away from, and lose sight 0’ her an them!
breakfast—time to—morrow mornin’ the town of ,‘ No; not till I’ve had her within these arms, and
N aketosh ’ll be too hot to hold 6.” ‘ tears out 0’ them same piifiem droppin’ on my

Darke started up from his 0 air, as if it had 3 cheeks. That is, if she e it in the weepin’
become too hot to remain seated on. l we .”

“Keep cool, Phil Quantrell!” apostrophized  ‘21 don’t understand,” stammered Darke.

l

Miss Armstrong in sight, you won’t be like] to

“No need for ye to be alarmed “You will in time,” re‘oined the ruflian;
now. There would be, if you were in that “that is, if you come wit us, and go where
chair, or this room, eiorht hours later. I won’t  we’re oin‘. Enou 11 now for you to be told
be in self not six. For I ma as well tell {ye i that, t are you wilvfind Ilclcn Armstron I”
that im horlasse, like yourselg: has reasons or 2 Without waiting to watch the effect of ' last
shiftin’ quarters from the Choctaw (Thief. He’ll words, the tempter continued:
be gone a. good hour afore sun up. An’ he gives  “ Now, Richard Darke, are you willing to be
'0‘ a friend’s advice, to make tracks along wi’ * one of us?”

im. \V ill you go?” , I “ am!”

Darke even et hesitated to give an affirma- 
tive answer. is love for Helen Armstrong—— ' It was late when Colonel Armstron returned
to his hotel, and Louis Du ire became iseng‘ag‘ed
fromhis (etc-(Hale with essie. Then theywere

the controlling power of his life. The thought
told of the specters seen in the street; but too

of leaving her behind—separating from the


if.

it‘ll" ,.
)l‘\ "N

J"\\

\
'l

l 

.l/

//////
i”,

H. j _.
I“. " - 3
'J

/ I‘liu’” I

III/

e ~ ‘.__I,,;;v

omcr u ms Herman’s onus—Page 96.

lace in which she stayed, perhaps never to see 1 late to take any ste
_ {>11 iant, , ture of Charles C ancy’s murderer.
more ( ominating, than that peril who 1 p aml ;
stared him in the face—the specter of a scaffol} I
The Texan rufilan guessed the cause of his 11'- ‘
resolution. More than this. he understood and

that night for the re—cap-
Neither
was personally concerned in the affair, beyond
the common duty of assistin justice. And,
after taking counsel together. t ey concluded to
let the matter remain over till mornin .
.Imprudent determination—fatal to t e end in
‘ View Before the mornin r sun rose over the
; roofs of the N atchitochcs, ichard Darke, alo
With several other guests of the Choctaw C
had taken departure from the place.

The assassin had a second time escaped.

H

s h. He spoke it thus:
i you’re deined to stick by the apron— 1
0’ Miss Helen Armstrongig},l you’ll not do
staying here in Naketo . Your best I
placfi to be near heri will be along with me." I
(t , 1’ l
0W 30» Mr- BOT we? g CHAPTER XXXI.
i A cassansss SETTLEMENT.
. SEVERAL weeks had ela since the 111qu
girls, I believe .you, and will be candid, too in l of Charles Clancy, and thhfizgca of the ma:
sayin ——no more is J an Borlasse likely to forget l accused of it from the jail in which he had been
$16301}:  Ithought notW’couldhk’a’lfetcflgd  10d .
a so 68 11’ over me._ a’n’t ' e y a r I though the excitement had to some extent
what I’ve gone thr’ough in my time. Britain’s subsided. the people of the neighborhbed. in

“ You ought to know without my tellin’ Y 011"

uantrell! You say

 

f

\

 

 

wmch these events had occurred, still continued E adopted this theory; but the weight of evidence

to talk of them. Not that either the crime, or i
the escape of the criminal, were any longer ,
4 ed as mysterious. About the death itself
there could be no uncertaint : the traces found 1
left no doubt of Clancy be ng dead. Almost 3
equally certain was it that he had been killed——
murdered; the same traces pointing out a mur- 1
derer. The circumstantial evidence of bullets, ‘
bullet-holes and boot—tracks. coupled with the .
strange behavior of Clanc ’8 dog, had been 1
reat strengthened—in act, confirmed—by 
he le ter of fielen Armstrong, with its inclo- i
sure. It was known that Darke had dropped it ‘
while retreating from the scene of his crime. j
He must have taken it from the bod of the mur- 1
dered man, or previously interce it. In either !
case his deed was all the dar er; though the 3
letter threw a clear, unmistakable light on its :‘
motive—making this comprehensible to every- !
one. ‘

These circumstances were not all known I
throughout the neighborhood. Some of them ‘
were still the secrets of Simeon Woodley, and a ;
few others to whom he had intrusted them. The '
hackwoodsman had reasons for keepin them— '
among others, his promise given to t e brave I
coon-hunter, who had risked so much for the "
sake of right and justice.

Woodley had loyallékept his word; and, as ;
Blue Bills generous havior, in volunteering i
his testimon , never reached the ears of Ephraim 1,
Darke, the s ave was not compromised with his ;
cruel master, and received no more than the cus- i
tomary‘ amount of castigation. Now. indeed, E
less. hedisgraced father, stricken with sorrow 
as with shame—it is to be hoped also with re- ‘
mtance—while concealing his face raised his

d less proudly among his sa le-skinned
helots; for a time, at least, treating them with ‘
nity. When the forest is on fire, or under ‘,
flood, the timid deer is safe beside the ravenous i,
wolf which has sought the same place of refu . 1

Woodley had less difficult in screening t e ;
coon-hunter, on account of t e turn events had !
taken. As no dead body had been found, there '
could be no inquest of coroner—no formal inves-
tigation as to whether Clancy had been foully
dealt with. And, as the door of the deed—or
he suspected of doing it—was no longer in the
handset justice, no trial oould take place; as ‘
none did. :

There was not any mystery about Darke’s es-
m. from the risen: not even about the mode
of making it. A few hours after his being
incarcerated his father had been permitted tosee
him in. his cell. To a planter of such standing—
an afflicted parent as well—this privilege could
not be refused.

But E hraim Darke was also a man of wealth;
and g3: ; at all times and in all countries, has
been own to make mysteries, or circumstances ‘
resembling them.

In- this case there was not even the resem-
blance. When the jury of Jud e Lynch entered
the cell and found it empty},d was explained.
It had alread been sus when they found
no gaoler at t e door. ost of them knew this
omcial to be a fellow of very indifferent repute;
his evil doings of late being so notorious that
than had .been talk of discharging him. Luckily
for Ephraim Darke, as for his son, this idea had
not been carried out.

The doubted officer dwelt in a cabin close to
the ail. Not finding him“ his post, his domi-
cil ad been Visited by the crowd, calling for
van nee. It, too was found withouta tenant!

e baffled lynchers at once rceived how
things stood. They scarce ed to be told
that, during the day, Ephraim Darhe had ob-
tained mission to enter the prison, At once
came the? conviction to all, that a golden key
Ind laid open its lock, and that keeper and pris.
one, had ne of? together. _

so far, here was nothing to cause surprise,
any more than about the most ordinary of mm.
do", and the sim lest of Jail-breakings.

The first coul only be regarded as a little
romantic on account of the motive made mani-
fest by glen Armstrong‘s love-letter and her
likeness. But even this cursory interest would
have ceased to be felt in a settlement, and among

0 is accustomed, as South—Western People my
g: startling occurrences.

In a short time the murder WC“1d have been
forgotten, or only slightly remembered..th for
one circumstance connected with it, Which Still
remained a mystery. This was the non-discov-
erv of the corpse.

No one had the slightest doubt about Clancy
being dead. What had me of his body?

Da had been spent in searching for it. The
force had been scoured—every thicket and
cane-brake penetrated and minutely explored-
The vi'atoni‘i both running and stagnant, were
dragged an sounded all round the place Wham
the death traces had been found; but without
finding the dead!

It was this circumstance, so inexplicable. “I?” ;
inept curiosity alive, and pemnm the aflair ,
from being forgotten. Af :- week, ind ne .
b , it was still a theme of interest throng out I
& plantation—intense and fresh as ever—a a

c of daily converse and conjecture, 
0 were fain to believe that Charles Clancy :
mizht still be alive. Many would have a ‘

The Death-Shot; or, Tracked to Death.

was against it.

For, if still living, he would have returned to
his home-even thou h wounded, badly injured.
The same stren h, t at must have taken him
from the spot w ere he had fallen, would have
brought him to the side of his sorrowing mother.
And there was no reason why he should not re-
turn to her. On the contrary, all said that this

I would havo been his first thought. They knew

him to be an affectionate son-—dutiful to devo~
tion.

It needed not for his neighbors to reflect, that
a living man would not be likely to leave hat
and gun behind him. This was atrivial circum-
stance compared with his well-known filial affec-
tion, certain to have sent him home, if able to
crawl thither.

No: he could not be alive.

Friends might wish it; some still having a
faint hope, but no one a firm faith, that it was
so

While speculations about the romantic episode
were still rife in the settlement, other incidents
occurred, claiming a share of attention. A new
owner had purchased, and entered into posses-
sion of, the plantation lately belonging to Archi-
bald Armstrong —- the mortgagee, Ephraim
Darke, having so dis of it. While the
humbler holding of the Clancys had also passed
into other hands.

It, too, had been held under a lien that cov-
ered land, house—even the chattels. And, after

the widow’s death, and the disap nee of
her son, the bill-of-sale man ste in—no one
to make opposition—and too possession of

everything. The scanty stock and few farm
utensils, as also the furniture, were disposed of
by ublic auction. The palates of the decayed
Iris entleman were knocked down tothe high-
est bidder, and scattered throughout the nei h-
borhood. Rare books, pictures, and ot er
articles that bespoke fine culture, with some
few remnants of bijouterie and oertu, became
distributed in log cabins, where they were
only appreciated according to the prices paid
for them.

In fine, the little frame cottage was cleared of
its plenishini, and for the time left empty, as
tenantless. ‘ven the dog, that had done such
service in disclosing the criminality of him who
had contributed to his ruin, was removed from
the desolate home—Simeon Woodlcy having
adopted the faithful animal and taken it to his
own house.

So stood thin in the neighborhood where
Colonel Archiba d Armstrong had once been
chief planter—his do. More cheering it with
about presence, and giving it grace by their

eau .

All in; chan now. The settlement seemed
like some ruine temple from which the support-
in columns had been abstracted—“ ' .”
if may be allowed Byron’s sarcastic explosion
—wrapped in a mantle of sadness, soon to fall
into decay.

The neighbors were im ressed with a thought
of this kind, when Colon Armstrong first he
i of leaving them. Still more after he had eft,
‘5 and the fair faces of his daughters were no more
seen at their doors.

The gloom became complete when they re-
flected hat they would never more behol the
handsome countenance of Charles Clancy; never
more limen to his frank, cheerful speech.

CHAPTER XXXII.
a oaos'r some rrs nouns.

h is about a month after Charles Clancy’s
disap ace, the hour of midnight—still and
voice ess in northern chines, but not so in the
lower region of the Mississippi Valley. There a
semi-tropical hast that keeps Nature alive, even
in the days of December.

It is not December, buts. date close '
sprin . Februaryis written upon the '
of let rs, and this is a spring month in 
pi. The buds have already burst, and leaves
are expanding upon the tees; some of the ear-
lier ones flinging out fragrant blossoms. Birds,
too, awaiting from a short winter‘s silence, pour
forth their amorous songs, filling glade and
gove with music, that does not end with the

y. The mimic thrush—the grand polyglot of
the feathered community—carries the strain on
throu h the hours of .night; so well counterfeit-
i ing tEe notes of his fellow-songsters asleep,
gist you might fancy them all awake, still sing-

 

on

The nocturnal sounds of the southern forest
are not all of this deli htful kind. Mingling
with them are hates nei or sweet nor harmoni-
ous. The “gluck” of the great swamp frog,
the “skirr” of tree-crickets, the screeching of
owls, the lugubrious cry of the quay-bird, and,
at intervals, the hoarse snortin of an alligator,
are none of them ble. till, the ear ac-
customed does not eel flawed by them. They
are but the base notes, h e those of the violon-
cello and trombone, needed to make complete
the symphon of Nature’s concert.

In the mi of this musical melange—mid-
night, as we have said, the hour. the place on
the Lower Mississippi, and the Stimulu- locality
the settlement re sued to in m
orangurobearingthesemblanceof Mia-Ilsa

 

 

25

 

I have been seen gliding along the edge of the

Swamp, already made mention of.

After skirting the mud-flat for a time, the
fl host or human, whichever it was——
turned ace toward the tract of lighter wood-
land, that extended between the dark 0 recs
forest and the cleared ground of the p ta-
tions.

Crossing this, the nocturnal wayfarer soon
came Within sight of the deserted cottage, lately
occupied by the Clancys.

The moonlight, falling upon his face, showed
that it was white. Also, that it was pallid, with
hollow eyes and checks sunken, as from sick-
ness; some malady long endured, and not yet
cured. As he strode across fallen logs, or
climbed fences occasionally coming in the way,
his totterin step told of a frame enfeebled.

When at ength clear of the woods, and with-
in sight of the unoccupied dwelling, he sto ped,
and remained contemplating it. That he w
of its being untenanted was evident, from the
glance with which he was regarding it.

His familiarity with the place was cquall
evident. On entering the grounds through thic
shrubbery at the back, he took the path leading
up to the house, without appearing to have any
doubt about its being the right one.

For all this he made approach with cautiui,
looking suspiciously around-either actually
afraid, or not desirin to be observed.

There was not muc likelihood of his being so.
It was midnight. At that hour all the settle-
ment would, or should, be asleep. The house
stood remote from its nearest neighbor, more
than a mile. It was empty; had been stripped
of its furniture, of eyeryt 'ng. What would
anyone want there?

hat was he doing there? This question
would have suggested itself to anyone who could
have seen him; the more so after making note of
his movements.

Therehwal: no one to do this: 8.11112 he continued
on to t e ouse, to carry out w teverpurpose
had brought him thither.

He entered by the back door, where there was
a little rch, as also a covered way, leading to
a log on in at the back—the kitchen.

Once within the rch, he. tried the handle of
the house door; w ich at a touch went open.
There was no lock, or if there was it had not
been thought worth while to turn the key in it.
There are no burglars in the backwoods. If
there were, nothing in that house could have
tem ted them. It had been socleared out at the
auc ion sale, that a “ rag bone. and bottle mer-
chant,” would have found no effects.

The nocturnal visitor entered the empty house.
The rin of his footsteps, though he still trod
cautio y. gave out a sad, solemn sound. It was
in unison With the sighs that came deep-drawn
from his breast; at times so sonorous as to seem
choking him. Y

He went from room to room. There were not
many—only three of them. In each he remained
a few moments, gang: dismally round. But in
one—that which n the widow’s sleeping
chamber—he tarried a little longer; iegardi a

icular t—the place formerly occupied y

be bed. T on was a sigh, louder than any that

had preceded it. It came. as if from the bottom

(t): 11118 breast, and with it the words, low mut-
rei :

“ ere she must have breathed her last!”

After this speech, more sighing. accompanied
by the surer signs of sorrow—sobs and wee
ing. As the moonbeams. figuring in through e
open window, fell upon ' face, their pale sil-
ve?’ light sparkled upon tears, starting thick
an fast from his hollow eyes, and coursing
down his emaciated cheeks.

ljanitor surrendering himselffsome mgutes at;
w t espoused a very n 0 ct turn
out of e sleeping chain r); pagd throughthe
narrow hall-way; and on out into the porch.
Not now the back one, but that facingtothe
front—to the highway.

On the other side of the road was an open
tract of ground, half cleared, half woodland; the
former sterile. the latter scraggy. It seemed to
belong to no one, as if not worth claimingor
cultivating. It hadbecn, in fact, snap of
Colonel Armstrong’s_estate, who had granted it
to the public as the site for a schoolhouse, and a
common buryin ground—free to all the settle—
ment. The sc oo_house had disap ared, butthe
cemetery was still_there—only istinguishable
from the surrounding surface by some oblong
elevations having the well-known configuration
of graves. There were in all about a score of
them; some few havmg a lain headboard—a

ieoe of painted plank, wi h lettering rudely
imned, recording the name and age of the in-

Time and the weather had turned most of
them grayish, With dates decayed, and the
names y legible. But there was one upon
which the painting showed fresh and white; in
the clear moonlight gleaming like a meteor.

He, who had explored the deserted dwelling,
stood for a moment with his eyes directed on
2h: mar; recefntly tell-ectedhutilemos'ial.t Then,

p own rom eporc , epeseed brush
theplwlilgket-gate; crossed the road: andvmt
mmm it, as though a hand had he.-
oaed thither.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

4

,he

v hun y
autumnal wi the
larger

_

26

 

 

 

When close up, he saw that it was over a
grave upon Which the herbage had not yet

wn.

The night was a cold one—chill for that south-
ern clime. The dew upon the withered grass
of the grave turf was almost congealed mto
hoar frost, adding to its gloomy aspect. _

The lettering upon the head-board was in
shadow, the moon being upon the opposite side.

But stooping forward, so as to bring his eyes
close to the slab, he was enabled to decipher the
inscription.

It was the simplest form of memento—only
a name, with a date painted underneath. The
name was-—

“ CAROLINE CLANCY. ”

After reading it, a fresh sob burst from his
bosom new tears started to his eyes, and he
flung himself prostrate u n‘ the grave. Dis-
regarding the dew, thin g naught of the
ni ht’s chillness, he threw his arms over the cold

, embracing it as though it were the warm
body of one dearly beloved!

For several minutes he remained thus. Then,
suddenly rising erect, as if impelled by some
strong urpose, there came from his lips, pour-
ed f0 h in wild, passionate accents, the

speech:-—

“Mother! Mother! I am still living! I am
here! And you, Oh God, dead! You can no
more know—no more hear me 1”

They were the words of one frantic with
grief, scarce knowing what he said.

Then sober reason seemed to assert itself, and
he spoke again' but with voice, expression of
features, attitude, everything so changed, that
no one, seeing him the moment before, would
have believed it the same ,man! ,

Upon his countenance sternness had re laced
sorrow; the soft lines had become rigi' ; the
sad melancholy late seen in his eyes had flared
up, and was burning in a steady flame. Now,
it was a glance that told of determination
to take revenge for some wrong deeply felt.
And a vengeance, too, already resolved upon.

more he looked down upon the grave;
then up to the sky, till the moon, coursing
across hi h heaven, fell dull upon his face.
With his y slightly leantiliag backward, the
arms down by his si es, s ' y extended, the
hapds closed in convulsive c utch, he cried
ou :-- '

“By the heavens above—by the shade of my
murdered mother, who lies beneath—I swear

to know rest, never more seek contentment,

11 I have found her murderer! Night and da
ethrough summer and winter—shall I searc
for him. Yes; search till I’ve found and pun-
ished this man, this monster, who has brought
blight on me, death to m mother, and desola-
hon to our house! Ah! hink not you can es-
cape me! Texas whither I know you have
gone, will not be large enough to hold—nor its

demess wide enough to screen on from my
vengeance. If not found there, shall follow
you to the end of the earth—to the end of the
earth Richard Darke!”

“ dharles Clancy!”

He turned as ifs shot had struck him. The
voice came from a man, standing within six
feet of him!

The man was Simeon Woodley.

 

CHAPTER XXXIII.
STALKING mono GRAVES.

Tmuenovr the settlement there had been

no one so zealous in the search after the body
of Charles Clancy, or determined upon tracking
ufinhis assassin. as Simeon Woodley. Between
h and Clancy had existed a stron feeling of
friendship; such as might be ex ted to spring
fr-tifiin a similarity of testes an community of
ca .
It i§ true the younger hunter was on] an
amateur in the profession, indu 'ng in it, for
the pleasure it afforded; while oodley fol-
lowed it as the means of gaining a livelihood.

Notwithstanding this dissimilarity of urpose
the two had often met in the woods, an joins
in the pursuit of game—assisting one another in
the chase and s aring its spoils. Otherwise,
Clancy, though poor, was educated, and, in
point of social status, acknowled ed to be a
mtleman; while Woodley was ut a rough

kwoodsman, and made no pretensions be-
ond. He livod in a log cabin; wore the coarse
omespun, and homewove cloth of the country;
and maintained himself b the )roduce of his
traps, snares, and gun. at; dea t in door and
beer meat, as well as their skins; which, along
with now and then, a batch of wild turkeys
found ready sale for in the markets 0
Nalthchea in .
us, was 'ng and huntin together the two
had become, if not intimategassociates’, at least
occasional comrades, with a ood‘will and fel-
low-f for one another. is was strength-
enedtbyt e fact,'that in every partition of a
ll Clanc was accustomed to
lesser share, leaving
the one to his more need comrade, to
more up his marketing account. acts of
ty—dontin Mamyaenottomake
proteuimal enter feel m of the ob-

 

The New ,_Y<>__r1< Librmr e

ligation—had won from him a friendship bor-
dering on affection—in short, devotion.

Moreover, Woodley himself, though of rough
almost uncouth, exterior, was of a true am
loyal disposition. He was, therefore, capable of
a lpreciating, as well as admiring, the same no-
ble qualities in his younger associate.

Yet another lien existed between the two.
They had met in Texas; \Voodlcy having been
a resident of the “ Lone Star State ’ at the time
Clancy paid his visit to it. The old hunter had
but lately returned to Mississippi—the settle—
ment near Natchez being his original place of
abode, and the river bottom adjaCent his former
hunting-ground. He and Clancy had not only
come together in Texas, but there hunted to-
gether. Still more, Woodley was one of the
men who had stood by Clancy at Nacogdoches,
in the scrape about the stolen horse, 8 ken of
by Borlasse in the Choctaw Chief. l 'hat the
horse-thief had confessed in his cups was most,
if not all, of it true. His detention, and whip—
ping at the post had taken place as he described
it; and Simeon YV 'oodley was one of that same
party, which (1 sentence upon him, and
saw it carried into execution. .

From all this it will be seen, that something
more than an ordinary bond of companionship
existed between Woodle and Clancy. Hence
the zeal displa ed by) e former in searching
for the dead y of is friend, as also to dis-
cover the assassin and bring him to justice.

From that day it had never fia ged. Al-
though the criminal had been e known,
captured, and afterward escaped unishment
for his crime, Simeon Woodley not given
up the hope of some day recapturing him. Nor
had he ceased his search for the remains of the
missing man. He knew the must be some-
where—if not the body itself, its bones. The
wolves and vultures would not eat these. Only
one creature was likely to have devoured, and
destroyed them so as to leave no traces. This
was the great saurian of the 0 press swamps.

But the hunter did not be ieve thatan alli-
gator had anything to do with the disa pear-
ance of the body. had been carried 0 soon
after the moment of the murder. The sign
showed this to him who could carefully interpret
it. Showed, also, that no crocodile could have
been the ravisher. The reptile would b ve left
a trail, with the marks of its handlike ws
easily discernible.

Still, to the old hunter himself the m' '
body, as also the absence of traces to tell why
it was so, were things that mystified him.

There were times when he had doubts about
Clanc being dead. 1f dead, he could not, for
the life of him, conceive what had become of
the body. A corpse gouId not carr itself awa ;
and who was there to have carri it? If Dar e
had himself removed it, then why his surprise
on finding it no, and only the hat and gun re-
maining? ore than mere surprise; he had
shown as if'stricken with awe. This Simeon
Woodle , closely observing him, had noticed
and me. e a note of. From it he now reasoned,
and correctly, too: that it was not Darke who
had taken the body away.

But who else could, or would? And whither
had it been conveved? Where was it?

The reason for the dog havin been tied tothe

metto he understood, or ought he did.

arke had done it to prevent the animal from
returning home. Though this theory was not
altogether satisfactory. Why had he not also
killed the dog?

In all his tracking experience—whether at
deer, bear. buffalo, nther, or Wild-cat—never
was Simeon W ey so baffled, puzzled, per-
plexed. He seemed, in short, completely thrown
off the trail. And. as every day the scent be-
came colder and the “ sign less discernible, he

began to (12s h ir of bein able eitger mglflve the
m tery o e missin or ring 0 crim~
mil to justice. g y,

Still did the determination to do both remain
stron as ever in his breast. For there, fresh as
ever ved the friendl feehng, and dear as ever
dwelt the memory 0 Charles Clancy. Every
time the old hunter started out on the chase
would his thought revert to his ounger asso-
ciate—now more than ever miss . _

In truth, Clancy’s and fate, connecting itself
with the scenes that now knew him no more—-
these recalling old souvenirs—produced such an
impression on the mind of the backwoodsman,
that he could not much lo r bear it, and was ‘
contemplatin a return to exas. ' .

On its far rontier he might find distraction
for his thoughts, by stalking deer, decoying an-
telopes, “ roping” mustan , domg battle With

ars: to say nothing of ‘ throw} ” bufi’alo.
Moreover, who could tell that he mig t not there
come across the mam—the murderer? .

. Of this very thin was Simeon Woodley think-
mg. as, bestnding Ins horse, he made his way
back from Natchez, whither he had been to dis-
sose of some pelts and deer-meat—a week’s pro-
11

cc of his The road to his own humble
domicil led im past the deserted dwelling of
the Clanc . On coming within sight of the
untenante he mere] glanced at it;
though not without a throb o inful reminis-

c‘e‘race,uhereealled the and fa of thosewho

momma“- ‘

 

 

 

The gang was short—lived. He had too often
felt it efore to dwell upon it now.

Making an effort to forget the gloomy record,
he was riding on, when a figure flitting across
the road, some fifty yards in advance, arrested
his attention, causm him to come to a stop.

The clear moonlig t showed the figure tabs
that of a man, and also one whose movements
betrayed absence of mind, if not actual aber-
ration. At all events, Simeon Woodley thought
so.
From the same mOVements he could tell the
man had not yet seen him; as he was ridin
under trees that shadowed the whole surface 0
the road. And the deep dust so deadened the
stroke of his home’s hoofs, that this could not
have been heard twent feet from the spot upon
which the animal was reading.

W'ith the habit of a hunter at first ' ht of
game “'Oodlcy at once tightened rein; eter-
mmed upon watchin the midnight wanderer,
whose eccentric gait given him some sur-

rise.

Still keeping in the saddle, he saw the latter
E0 on to the little woodland cemetery and stop

y the side of a grave. He saw him hend for-
ward, as if to read the e itaph on its painted
slab, and soon after fa prostrate upon the
earth, a parentlynm prayer.

W ey well ew the grave thus venerated.

He knew that under that sod reposed the re- .

mains of Caroline Clancy; for he had himself
assisted in carrying them thither, and after
ward smoothing the turf that covered them.
He had also been instrumental in erecting that
frail tablet to her memory.

N o wonder at his being able to  her

ve!

Who, then, was this man, at midnight—~in the
chill, silent hour of midnight—flinging himself
down upon it, in sorrow, or adoration? Who
could he be?

For a moment the backwoodsman surren-
dered himself to an emotion stronger than
curiosity! It did not overcome his resence of
mind. or hinder him from observing e caution.
habitual to him as a hunter. ‘

Instead of putting to the spur, and ridin
straight up to the s t, he slipped softly out o
the saddle, hastily ied his horse to a tree, then
advanced stealthily, and with as much provision
as if stalking: shy stag.

Without ing observed, or his presence in
any way made known to him recumbent u n
the grave, he succeeded in reaching the b0 er~
line of the little backwoods burying-ground.
There was no wall or fence around it—no incle-
sure of an kind—only some bushes, the
straggling se vid e of the adjacent woodland. -

Screened by t ese, the hunter crawled on
over the graves, until within leg than six 3
of the man whose movements mystified 
and who was still lying along the one latest
made, with arms stretched over, apparently

embracing it!

Woodley kept his crouching attitude until the
man arose to is feet, and, standi erect, gave
utterance to the oath alreadiy recor ed.

Hearing the strange, wil words, and seeing,
under the full moonbeam, a form well known to
him—but which he nevsr expected to have
looked upon again—the old hunter was spell-
bound w1th surprise.

It was some moments before he could recover
himself, and shake of! the fancy of its being all
a dream. ,

But the man’s face was now turned toward
him, the moonlight fell fair upon it, and he
could not be mistaken. Despite the allid skin
and features showin emaciation espite the
hollow cheek and ’ eye—he recognized
the face of his frie .

No longer doubting the identit , sure it was
no dream, he sprung forward Wi outstretched
arms, utterin the cry:

“ Charles C ancy!’

CHAPTER XXXIV.
A s'ran'rmn CANOE-IAN.

11' was no ghoa, then, Simeon Woodley had
come in contact with. The figure g' to.
ward the grave of Caroline Clanc —f 'ng
prostrate u n it, and afterward stan ' g erect
over it, wit 1 face turned heavenward and hands
clenched, in an attitude of adjuration—was not
of another world. No spirit had given utter-
ance to that stem vow of ven eance, but a mor-
tal man—he, whose name he leaped from the
agaiter‘s lips on the instant of his being identi-

For Charles Clancy it assuredl was—face,
figure, voxce, everything—Charles lancy in the
gash, as in the spirit—still living, speaking,

in .
Had he been dead and was now come to life
wfilnlffl Or only half-dead, and had recovered?
1c

_And where had he been during the days of
his disappearance? In what secret spot could
he havo hidden, to battle the keenest search for
him? And why had he hidden himself? Why
kept away?

hese and other like interrogatories had rushed
into Cthe minfii of the $11133? as he looked u&
on lancy . y , rted in
succession commit . p‘ “"

 

 

v....l"-‘.  A

 

 

 

.-———«M

, r s «.mmmnm....wv_..._W—éw-

m7. .- mmww'vkw—ldm -

l

 

 

The reader will be asking the same questions,
d expecting an answer to them.
t shall be given.

To one man there was nothin
about the disappearance of the —and onl
one. This was not Richard Darke, at an indi-
vidual who had as much reason to dislike the
latterifand also fear him, as Charles Clancy

himse .

In order to make things clear, it will be ne-
cessary to narrate an incident, that occurred
soon after Clancy was shot down, in which this
personavre bore a conspicuous part.

The ifiise-en-scene need not be described, as
this has been done already, and on] needs re-
calling. It was the same place un er the cy-

ress, where Darke delivered what he sup ed
to be, and triumphantly pronounced, the eath
shot of his hated rival.

After his hurried retreat from the spot, all
was silent there, as if he had succeeded in his
deadly des‘ .

The fore for some distance around was even
stiller than before. The repeated cracking of
the guns, and the noise of the scufile, had awed
its ordinary denizens—bird insect, reptile, and
quadruped, and all of them had suspended their
nocturnal concert.

The period of tranquillity1  emnded, on
their hearing a scan already
Magda? and which they knewjdid not natur-
ally belong to their wild-wood orchestra. 0n
the contrary, to most of them it proclaimed a
hostile note. This was the yelpmfi of a dog, or
rather the howlin of a hound. ey had heard
the same but a rt while before interrupted
between the shah; after the last, ior some mo-
ments again silent. Now had it recommenced,
and was continued in a prolonged note, with
tones more pluguhrious than zver. 1“ Cl

scarcenecessary tosay,i was Char an-
cy’s deer-hound that was making this unnatural
 sho tb Darke dhi

0 08, 1' being 150: y , an it
had not gone home. or it there was no home
without a master; and it know its master was
not there. In the breast of the dumb brute,
election had again the better of its fears;
md,oncemore ,ithadtrotted backto
thespotwherethelastsceneofthetragedyhad
been enacted.

This time it was not hindered from approach-
ing the lace. The assasin, having wound up
his‘c work, had hurriedlymade oil, and was
still continuing his retreat.

The dog drew up, at first cautiousl and with
crawl' t; then, more confiden y, when it
saw the. t e coast was clear.

Ongetting under the tree.where thedeadly
encounter hadterminated, itraised itsheadand
looked around‘. evidently astonished. It ex-
medtofindi mam whereithadlastseen

lying. There was no master there; ongyla
shock of moss strewn over the ground, thi y
piled on a particular spot.
' Giving a yelp, and lowering its snout, the dog

mysterious

trotted around the tree- onto and e loring
the between the ttressfs’s.

This roug tithacktotheplaceofbeg' ;
where it sto sniifed the air, and caught t e
scent of f blood steaming up from out the
mom-heap.

With a bound it threw itself u the has
and commenced scattering it e. Tossing o
the sticks with its snout, and scratchin aside
the loose to with its ws, it laid a

ion 0 tho. bOdYs “11 Charles Clancy’s
arms, and shoulders were uncov-
ered to the view. .
Then, cowering down alongside it, and gi
utterance to a low whimper, it
u”  from this, '

After a time t ' ii: low
whine c ' to a loud, plaintive howlhfi
““t “with Jim hm" ‘ Wm“

h o

It was heard b Richard Darke, ache me.

; him it further quicken his footsteps.
It was heard, too, by the coon-hunter, seated in
the tree-fork; makiryhimclln more tenacious-
lytohisperch. An it was and by a third
individual; who, if not as much as the former,
had more reason than the latter to feel frighten-
ed at the sound.

This was a man addling a canoe along the

hundred yards” distance, discharged its slow-
fiowing current into the more stagnant waters

of the swamp.
Coming from the latter, the canoe-man had
gust entered the channel of the stream when his
.ear ca ht thesounds, still distant, carried in
tempo reverberation thmghthethick-stand~
in tree-trunks.
8n hearing them he suspended the stroke of
the paddle, with a suddenness that told of his
being more than a. little alarmed. He was not
himself makin an noise, that could hinder
Mm [mu catch ng most indistinct wh'. r
ofthewoods. He had been cleaving his ay
' the water at a slow pace, and silently-t

I! if voyage was one of stealth, and raq
* movement

w ich, passing at some two .

l -The face and figure of its occupant merit a

The Death-Shot: or, Tracked to Dean

3 different description. Thou hthe double shadow i
I

of the foliage and twilig t scarce permitted
either to be seen, still there was light enough to
f trace in his figure the outlines o a Hercules;
‘ while the face, perfectly beardless, showed fea-
: tures of bold and not ill-favored expression.
; The color of his skin, closely approximating to

i that of newly-tanned leather, told him to be a l

i mulatto.

A coarse cotton shirt of “ cameras stripe,” and
, loose drawers of like materi , belted above the
1 hips, were all of body wear he appeared to
; have; while a battered wool hat of Penitentiaifi
1 fabric was the sole furnishing of his head. T

i last did not proclaim him a fugitive from jus- ‘
J tice; for it was then the wear‘o almost every ‘

‘ man of color in Mississippi. The cautious
1 stroke of his paddle, with the rapidity with
l which he had suspended it on hearing the sound,
was better proof of his being a fugitive from
something—perhaps injustice. One well ac-
: quainted With the country and its customs—
with the topography of the place—taking into ac-
count its remoteness from anyuhabitation; its
inaccessibility, silence, and soli de—connecting
these with the cautious movements of thecanoe-
man, would at once have pronounced him a 11m-
away slave.

And this in reality he was.

No wonder he had plucked his paddle from
the water, on h the bay of a hound. To

ficant—more awe-ins iri than that.
an attitude to listen, allowing the dug-out to
drift. There was not much current; for the

lagoon. Besides, going downward .would be
carrying him awa from the proximity of the
suspected ril. he plantation settlements In
above; from this direction came the scum;
that had stayed him in his course.

He was on hismwa hde 13
cypress swam . a rysting— oni edge;
where he mig t expect to fEid a
from one of the plantations; or, if not that, a sup—
pl ofhsecreteéi8 rovisiggs. . 1

nt esoun card recognd asignal o
danger—the danger of] ' liberty. More;
it might cause him to have
ttge cowhide, and undergo still other and greater

rture.

bending his ear low down, he continued to listen.
Had there been
3°" wand.ilcgmvestupidit twithstnnding 'ts

cow or y—no i
tawn h . Itisnotthetimid, or stolid, who
take way to escaum the cham‘ of slavery,
but the bold, intelligen and cunning.

Thecanoe-manwas of this stamp;and, after

dawn him, he once more plied his paddle and
im ed the craft u the creek. ’

ow on the ale , he continued on with in-
creased caution, and, if possible, more noiselessly
than ever.
broad-bladed car, that it did not hinder him

stirred amon the cypresses.
Above all, is ear was bent to catch the cries of

as his strokes were slow- had time
to reflect upon, and endeavor to make out, why
the animal was so lugubriousl ' '

y discoumng.

“Thar’s no dan r in the growl 0’ that dog,”
he said to . “I knowita’mostaswell
as my own voice. It’s the hound be ’ to
yang  1?; ain’t no  his

r ’ e exc med, age. suspending
stroke, andben ' his eartothecanoe’sedfi
“.Whatcanbe ematterwith the brui
Thar’s somethin’ amiss when Clancy’s dog fies
onthat wa. Hope’tain‘tnomischance p-
pened to young master. Come
will, I’ll steal higher the place an’ see.”

Pro the dug-out to increasedspeed, he
was soon op 'te the spotwheretheauimalwas
“111 swing netw- .

Shooting the canoe in shore, he leaped lightly
on the bank; and then moored the craft b ty-
ing it to the root of a tree that projec out
ovgr the wateg'i _ _ a th

autiousl nkmg o amon e cypu i898,
still guidedy b the yelps of tge dog, he came
ivc‘ithin sight the spot where the animal should

seen.

He approached it with extreme reserve.
crouching among the cypress “ knees,” and flit-
tin like a shadow {roan trunk to trout: h

tting near an seeing no si mum
being-g—eaily the bound standing hidden
among the moss—he became more confident,
and walked forward in an n right attitude.

The dog knew, and trot out to meet him;
for awhile suspending its pitiful note.

Then, with a low whimper, the creature ran
back and crouched down beside the half-con-
cealed body.

The canoe-man aw it now; saw that it was a
corpse!
CHAPTER XXXV.

ll Il‘ A convent
“Rum Cum Omar!” omelet-debs

 

from hi covert in the i

the hound still kept up in plaintive tone. And,.
measured, he

F

1

him there could have been no sound more  
With the blade be] 9.10 he placed himself in '

creek was a kind of “bayou,” or branch of a i

l
l

I

. now? What

back scored with such

Tilting the “ Penitentiary” to one side and i too late now. The devil has

i

httoshowhis countenance, go Min
useen in it nosigneither { loveJule orJule

l
l

l

for a short while to the sound that had 3 stood over the prostrate orm of Charles

I

I

80 light was the dip of his alert 1

 

mulatto, as soon as he set eyes on the face.
“ Dead—killed—more than that, murdered; for
sure, it’s been this Gorramityi what can it
mean?”

Fora moment he stood aghast, with arms up-
raised, and eyes staring.

Then something seemed to change his
thoughts, and he mutteri said:

“ Is he sure one dead? aybe not yet.”

To convince imself, he knelt down beside the
body, having first cleared away the loose cover-
let still partially shrouding it.

He saw the blood and the wound from which
it was welling. lie laid his hand over the
heart, to ascertain whether it might not still
be beating

Surely it was; or was be mistaken?

The pulse would be a better test; and be pro.
ceedcd to feel it, taking the smooth white wrist
between his rough brown-skinned fingers.

“It beats! I do b’lieve it beats!” were his
ho in] words. -

fir a while lonaier he retained his graspof
the wrist. To m e more sure, he tried the
artery at diflferent ints, with a touch as ten-
derasif hewashoding in his handthelifeof
an in! ant.

He became almw certain that the fig still
beat; that there was yet breath in the y.

What next? What was he to do?

Boston to the settlement, and bring a doctor
to the lace?

He ared not do this, nor fetch assistance of
an kind. He did not think of such a thing. If
no his life, his liberty was at stake. To show
himself toawhitemanwouldbetogobaok
into hated bondage—to the slavery from which
he had, with the utmost difficulty, escaped. It
would be an act of grand generosity-a self-
sacrifice—more than man, more than human
being was capable of. Could a poor runaway
slave be expected to make it?

Some sacrifice he intended making,.as might
be gathered from his muttered words:

‘ Breath in his body or no breath, it won‘t do

confederate, to leave it 1 ' ’ here. Poor yo gen’lemanl

What woul Miss Helen sa if e see’d him
will she sayw en she heardit!
I wonder who’s done it? No, I don’t wonder——
not a bit. There’s only one man likely to ’a’ left
ly work. From what Jule’s told megs;

though it would cometothis someda . W

I could ’a’ been about to warn him. ell, it’s
t the u r hand.
I what become

0 seems alwa s the way.
’ i S e loved him sure as I
e me. All goin’ away; all
Then what's to come 0’ m)
I don’t find some way to get there too?
shall do that, or die tryin’.”
For some moments the mulatto—who was no
other than Darke’s f

goin’ to Texas.

'tive slave, Jupiter—
gi’ tohi despod tth hahncy’
vmg wa s n en oug asex-
pressed in see disfointed ?eeches. '
Then, once more coking own uponthe bod ,
seeing the blood still oozing from the w
and remembe ‘ that the man might not yet

‘: be dead, his reso ve to act—to do something—
from noting every nmse—e' veu the slightest that ‘ back

came tohim;andheonlyremainedinac-
five from not knowing what was best to be
one.

“ Poor youmg gen’leman!” he said, in a
com 'cnating tone' “dead or 've it would-
n’t be t to leave him lyin’ there. he wolves
an' camon crows to help ’em—they’d soon make
bare bones of his body,so nioel shaped—ah!

il his handsome face, too. ey

e’s did me a kindness more ’n once. It’s my
turn now; an’, slave, mulatto, colored man as
they call me, I’ll show them that underayel’
low skin there can be gratitude, same as under
a white one—maybe more. Show them! Who?
Ha! ha! ha! That’s good. Lucky for me there’s

’nobody to see, or knowof it. If

therewas—
What ought I to do ’bout
this?

For a while he stood silently considering.
'Ihen, seemingly having resolved upon a course
of action, he opened his arms and stooped down
—u if intendingto take up the body, andaarry
it clear away from the spot. I

This was what he intended. But just at that

Well 3 no matter

moment the hound—hitherto pacified by his ,

presence. and for a time quiet—again gave out
its mournful monotone, continuing the dirge
“Gram deadtynigsmrlaimed th r t feeling

u 0mm .’ are e ugi ive '
fresh alarm as he listened. “ What's to’be done
with the dog? If I take him along he'd be sure,
some time or other, to make noise. and guide
the ' arcatchcrs to my hidin’-place. Sure to
do it. f I leave him here it’ll be worse still.
He can’t follow me all the way through the
water; but he’d show them where the (1 -out
lay; an’ then they’d know enough to— I ve
it!’

The last speech pointed to some plan. It was
followedby others addressed to the dog. and
couched in coaxmg tone. “ Hem! come up, ole
fella! Don’t be afeardi It‘s Jupe, your mas-
ter’s friend. You know Jupe? Ahl that‘s a
good dog: I thought vou wouldn’t be ’fraid o'

ow, stand still; letzme slip this mung
u how elk-Olly
Ml" y. '

me. N
neck. Pianos
graduate!“

 

 

 

28

While talking in this strain, he pulled a piece
of cord out of his pocket, and, soon after sa ‘ng
“ steady,” hid it knotted around the ncc oi’
the animal. To this the latter made no resist-
ance; yielding to the manipulation as if know-
ing it was done by a friendly hand, and for its
good.

Close by was a thicket of palmettoes, these
forming the only underwood of the cypress
forest. Their broad fan-shaped leaves, growin r
with short stalks directly out of the ground, and
rising to some three feet in hight, covered the
surface as with a mantle of Lincoln green.

Into their midst he conducted the dog, the
animal followin freely, without making stop
or show of unwil ingness.

When well in among the palmettoes, the mu-
latto stooped down, tied the cord to one of their
shanks—securing it with a safe knot.

He remained not a moment after' not even to
say a arting word to the betrayed quadruped,
nor ta e note of the convulsive struggles it was
making toset itself free. He did not so much

y

Re
a >.

/,

,
Y ‘ «

Ur;  ,
‘//.
5—" .u 5/ -
f, r. r

. r ,.//////f»‘ /

as hearken to the yelps that accompanied them, I

as a protest against such unexpected and ill-
deserved captivity.

The canoe—man had other things to do—other
thoughts to occuiy him. Fears were in his
min , dangers be ore him, alongside which the
act of leaving a dog tied to a palmetto stalk,
perha )s to perish, was not worth a moment’s
‘consi oration.

Nor did he stay a moment to consider it. As
soon as he had secured the creature—~aml thus
completing his precautions against its following
him—he returned hastily to the tree under
which Clancy lay.

Once more bending down beside him, he took
hold of his pulse, at the same time )lacing his

car over the heart. He was under t e impres- ‘

lion that both still beat, though not sure!

For all this he extended his arms around the
bodv, lifted it from the ground—raising it up
to the hight of his breast. His herculean

".41  . («"",/ I?“
3‘ ?  “:\\\_\\\'~ .1: ii.“ -' / w’ 7"
’ w V~  ‘

the body of the grown man had been that of a
new—born babe.

Having brought his burden to a balance, he
carried it toward the creek, and laid it gently
down, along the bottom of his du ’—out.

Then, enterinr after, he undi¢ the slip—knot
that had kept t e canoe from drifting; pushed
the craft clear of its mooring, and propelled it
back down the stream, as silently as he had
ascended.

He had taken care to leave no trace behind
him—no footprint or mark of any kind—not a
scratch. The dugout had been brought to
among the straggling roots of a sycamore that
projected well out into the water. Upon these,
serving as a wharf, he had debarked; and from
them he made embarkation—bearing his burden
lightly over them. And between the place of
anchorage and the blood-stained spot, the
ground, thickly bedded with the fallen foliage
of the cypresses, would scarce have diSclosed
the tracks of a shod horse to the eyes of the
most skillful tracker.

r: 
v. c

. , /
 //

.rf" ’1;
5’ // >7
,,/

K
I r _  \
K  (/76
C/"i'  L ' ' '
////l '. ‘ ’ l
' I " .

, l

.  a.“

\~

‘ ‘.
.\\ ‘ ‘
‘:\\

.
“\“
s L.
\‘

.u
‘\

ALONG m noes—Page 28.
one coming after him.
(1 he was right; for it did not.

CHAPTER XXXVI.
rm: HOME or THE Homo SLAVE.

an

He felt sure it would show no trace of his to

The New York Library.

1

nothingncss, had left a hollow space—a huge
cavernous void, such as may often be obscrv
in a forest of the deciduous cypress, and not un-
frequently of such dimensions as to be capable
of giving shelter to the traveler with his home.
I have myself spent a night in such lodgin —
sleeping soundly at full stretch, my steed l g
alongside of me.

No horse could have reached the hollow tree
in which Darke’s runaway had taken refuge,
from what be far more feared than either rain
or storm. Man himself could not approach it,
except by skiff or canoe—somethin ' to make
way through water that could not )e waded.
Even these could not at all times be taken up to
the little islet on which the hollow cypress stood.
Around it for two hundred 'ards extended a
quagmire of mud, so soft an deep as to make
passage by a pedestrian difficult—1n places im-
poss1b e. This, in season of inundation, was
covered with water, and a canoe might cross it.
At other times it was impassable, except by
snake, turtle, or alligator.

,/;»:j' 1‘,
7"{// '1 ‘
. 2‘

.://I

1/:

Still there was a we of traversing this un-
steady track for one w o knew it—for Jupiter.
Nature had here, again, lent her aid to the o
pressed fleeing from oppression. In her wrat
presed by tern )est and tornado, she had lai
prostrate severa trees; whose trunks, lying up-

DEEP in the heart of the cypress swamp, in a on the mud and lapping on one another, formed

, spot only up roachable by water craft, was the
l home and hi( ing-place of Ephraim Darke's ab-
! sconded slave.

In a lair, not much better than that of a hunt-
I ed beast. he had found an asylum—beyond the
_ keen scent of savage dogs, and the astute trail-
; mg of their inhuman master. There Nature
‘ had provided him with a shelter from the storm;
a house, if rude, ready built for him, and strong
as if constructed by human hands.

It was inside a tree, still standin and in vi -
orous growth; a gi ntid cypress, guttrcssed a 1
round the base and8 very similar to that under
which Clancyhad been shot. The heart-wood

l

1
y

1

l

a continuous causeway across the slimy substra.
tum. Where there chanced to be a break, a lit-
tle human 1n :enuity—madc to look as much as
possiblelike l ature‘s own work—supplied the
connectm I link.

It was a ong this singular causeway the mu—
latto had carried the insensible form of Charles
Clancy; it being at that season of the year when
the waters were low, and the mud-bank
the passa of his dug-out beyond the place
where he iad secreted it.

The very difficulty of reachin it by such a
fith, rendered doubl ' safe the s ave's asvlum.

approaching it, is feet made no tell-tale

strength enabled him to do “unlike”! | how flnt decayed, and than crumbled to printandleftnotraceavailable furthequ

 

sum.

 

-nm'—_..W:~.M..~ .: . “as.

‘J ter andmadeno

~1 his sweetheart. He had alread

._._

 

 

of the cruel pursuer. More than a month had  if living, to take steps for restoring it to health
ce from Ephraim z and strength.

on since his disa
Darke’s plantation; and although suspected of
harboring in the swam

st negro-catcher in the settlement, Eph-
raim Darke’s own son—and by him

ousl sought for—the mulatto had managed to j

6 all search.

Meanwhile he had neither much starved, nor
much suffered—except from solitude. In his
domicil, thouvrh rudo, he had contrived to sur-
round himse]? with something of comfort. The
S 11th moss, hanging from the branches
a ve, could be collected in cartloads. Armfuls
were sufficient to furnish a soft couch, on Which
he could repose himself. For food he was never
hard up—never a whole day deficient. If it
came to that, he could easil entrap a young al-
ligator, and make a meal 0 the tenderest part
0 its tail; which yields a steak, if not equal to
beef, at all events, eatable.

But J upe was not often driven to this diet, too
much of a musky flavor. His usual fare was
roast pork; now and then broiled chicken; at
times a fricassee of ’coon. or a barbecue of ’pos-
Along with these he had bread—com-
bread—m the various shapes of “ pone,” “ hoe-
cake,” and “ dodger.” And sometimes, too,

h more rare y, “ Virginia biscuit,” of the
sw th asgdlwhifiesthgclmr, mggcilit be seen stag:
upon 9 e ves e scoo out agamst'
walls of  tree-(ave. Only on very rare occa-
sions had his larder been em ty.

Whence came the pork, the broiled chicken,
and bread? The ’coon and ’pomum might be
secoimted for; these being wild-wood game,
which it was pomible for him to rocure him-
self. But the other viands were omestic pro-
duce, and must be got from the plantations.

And the were got from aplantation—that of
Ephraim arkei Had the fugitive slave stolen
them? Not likel . Theft such as that would
have been too of risk, even under the stimu-
lm of keen hunger; too us, with Eph-
raim Darke's sharp son prowling arcimd the
premises. The provisions may have been stolbn
—some of them were—but not by Jupiter him-
self. Blue Bill had been the thief, as he was
also the confederate of his fugitive fellow-

slave.

F‘ithfuuy had he preserved the secret of his
friend’s hiding-Shoo. even from his better half.
Phoebe was y so far privy to it, that she
knew Jupe was stowed away somewhere—in
the swamp or the woods. She knew this by the
repeated draughts on her own meat-safe, and
thejeeflracallupon her  skill. Show
no ous clan, that provisions a
now and thgsgkan from her scanty stone,
«triedofl byherhusband ashewentcooning,
were for Brown Bet. Sigsl‘Emw they were for
pro .

eifectively had the coon-hunter can-led out
the trust of friendship, that the runaway had
never been intreat strait during his sojourn in
the. swamp. . ue Bill’s noted penchant for the
chase gave hnn plausible excuse for prolonged
absences from the uarter; while its products,
the coon-skins, e ed him to supply Jupiter
with some of theluxuries, aswell asnecessarles
of life., At- times, under his coat-skirt, might
have been discovered a gourd filled with corn-
whisky. beside a plug of tobacco; both of which
afterward appeared in a corner of the tree-cave.

It was no lack of food or drink, that had
tempted the runaway from his lair on that even-
lng when he found Clancy under the cypress.
He had ventured forth toappease an appetite, in
men of African race almost as strong as that of
hunger or thirst. Thiswas a hanker' after
news—a longing to hear them. Had he n a
voluntary hermit, it mifilli: have been different.
But he was nothing of kind. In the
bodied and well-proportioned mulstto, there was
not the inklin of an inclination to imitate the
life of Simon tylites. His sohtude was a thing
altogether involuntary.

' On that evening he had homof tting no
ordinary news, but tidings to 11 t 0 heart.—
even his, under a coarse cotton shirt and a yel-
low skin. He expected to learn somethm about
heard 3 e was
soon to leave the neighborhoo ; taken _nolens
volens along with her master—gang Willineg
with her youn mistress. He knew all about
their movemen , plans, and p s; when
they were :0 go, gm dwhither 13011:: . I-{B had a
hope—asiwasisesi—o ingaesoon
to follow them to theirgriiew home, and there
once more rejoin his beloved Jule.

But he had a Wish, 0180, to see her before their
departure. And it was to arrange a meeting,
throagh the intervention of Blue Bill, he was
making that silent excursion u the creek.

The spot where he ex to find the coon-
hunter, was the same w ere he had debarked
from his dug-out, going on to where Clancfr
lay. For reasons already known, Blue Bi 1
came not to the trysting-place: and the after in-
cidents drove all idea of meeting the mulatto
out of his mind. .

The same was it with Jupiter; for the time for-

' g Jule. His only thought was of befriend-
the young gentleman, who had more than
once befriended him. If . to save his body
tram being mutilated by wrl cats and wolves;

, too, zeal- ‘

i

The Death-Shot; or, Tracked to Death.

With this intent had he taken it up, carried it

pected by the I to his dug-out, and then headed toward his r not 0 y having

home, in the darkest recesses of the swamp. _
Gliding on for more than a mile, all the while

 

1 in silence, most of the track tortuous, now

, across reaches of clear water, anon through nar- ;

1 row channels and around thickly standing trees,
y whose branches drooped down till their twigs
‘ brushed the Penitentiary hatu n his head—the

 

fugitive slave pushed forward ' canoe.

He did not succeed in thus taking it all the
way to his place of abode.
prostrate trunks was the only means of reach-
ing this, and he knew it. He knew also the spot
at which to suspend the stroke of his ddle. It
was the accustomed mooring-place 0 his canoe
——among the tops of a fallen tree, whose leaves,
still clinging to the branches, along with a fes-
toonery of moss, would effectually screen the
craft from observation.

After docking the dug-out, as he had often ,
done and making it fast with the tie-cord, he .

lif the body in his arms, and step up on
the rounded edge of the nearest tree-

’ghen’ paging 1. “Pp the lfel 
an more secure mg p arm,
hesethisfaeet’ow tthathadfor
weeks afforded him shelter an a sleeping-place.

Along the difficult path he continued to make
way, carrying Charles Clancy, still unconscious;
himself not sure whether he bore a living man
or a dead  . _

Whichever is burden mi t be, it needed all
the mulatto’s stre to ° it. There were
timeswhen heh to  breath;
other times, that he had cult . in preserving
his balance on the convex and ppery surface
of the logs. .

Once he came near toppling over With his
load. Had he done so, w would have been
the result? Only a fell upon soft mud, and per-
haps into it! Far more _ ; for
there woul have been fatal disaster
in such a slip. Through the k ooae crawled
hideous, horrid re tiles—among them the largest
of lizards, the 'gator. The monster’s teeth

learning white in the somber
shadow, while

esna ping of itsjawssounded
terribl f(lismt‘imntit amiifthe
magpie . .
A dof brutes followedoneachflank,as

stillness of the sub-
he made hisway along the logs. No doubt,
theirinstinct admonishedthem, that thething
can'iedmtheman’sarmswnsworth watching
andmighterelongfurnishthsmwithafeasti.

Ifso,theirinstinctwasforcnceatfault,
theirconcupiscence foiled. They
quet on the body he was bearing; for
ceededin gettingit safe to hiscov
d teditonhisownsoftcouchofmom.

once more stoo over it, with listen-
ingearsand touch of he eagerly sought
ananswertothe question:

“ Is Charles Clancy alive?"

{0&0}? b ‘ fth heart:e
— y 0 P Yboundfligo 0 Y
 heard. at only w
thebodybefantomoveasifreleased
t1gird, that, hitherto passing upon,

m H ,
lifted' his eye-

firs
Etta .

Clanc ’8 arms were slowly up
“‘3 T5 “mismmd‘uwah‘m 9.2m: ' m
a , wn,‘ as v very
bot‘gnn gals breast.
This was followed by some words ken in a
> w r; but so indistmctly uttered, mulatto

oni animOtnguisii fut their 111% H1333
wo names, we own
Dfilgy were Helen Armstrong and waard‘
7‘ .
He often heard them after-Ward; more clear-
ly, if not more coherently, pronounced. Often

the days of delirious raving that sac-
ceed , while, with sympathizing he sat
y nurs-

by the side of the wounded man,
him

d he at length nursed him into convalesn
cence. The shot, d to have hem ’s
death shot, had fail of its effect. The et
had but broken a rib and lanced 03, without
entering the lungs. The shoe had stunned him;
and this, with t e co ions hemorrhage, from a
cut artery, had caused fainting, afterw
ceeded by fever and delirium. _ _

With unwearying watchfulness his kind host
tended, and sawcliim safe thsrgriggh all. 31;:
When, at len , ancy w rig enou
think and tefigif lans gthe future, as are.
Ward for his se cos, the slave received from
his lips a. promise, to be aided bg'ohim in 
from the swam from the adage that
forced him to ee to it. .

Clanc ke of Texas; of his determination
to go thither, and take Jupiter along with him.
At the same time, he cant oned the runaway to
say na t of his intention to Blue Bill—know-
in the utter to be his sole means of communi-
ca ion with the settlement. This caution was
indeed unnecessary, since he had already warned
Jupiter a inst maki known the fact of his
being stil alive. And his had been so strictly
attended to, that the coon-hunter himself fully
behaved Clancyto bedead; nor had he a susv

The pathway of i

ardsuc- ‘

29

..._._.i-.___,. . _ _ .____

 

i .' H .
s icion, that he was all alo finding food for
I  He only wondered atn§upiter of late he-

, co such a gourmand and gourmet, from his
, drawn more ampl upon his
: store of provisions, but shown himse more ex~

' acting as to their quality.
, Clancy had his own reasons for enjoining J u-
: piter to secrecy. He had received a full account
of all that occurred in the settlement since that
unhappy, and to him so near fatal, day. The
i false belief in his own death—that too true.
‘ alas! of his mother—the arrest of barke—his
‘ escape—the departure of the Armstrong's from
‘, the place—in short, everything that had sine!
taken place was now known to him. Every cir-
\ cumstance in detail had been communicated to
1 Jupiter by the coon-hunter—unsuspicious of the
i ear it was eventually to reach.
i One only had been omitted. Strange to say.
, the very one that might have most comforted
Charles Clancy in his distress, given joy to him
in his solitude, and perhaps changed, or, at all
events, modified his plans of future action. The
coon-hunter had said nothing to Jupiter about
the letter dropped by Darke. No more had he
spoken of the picture.

It may have been forgetfulness. More likely
the-omission was for want of time, as well as
thought. For after the da of the supposed as-

samination, a 'cion entered the mind of
Ephraim Darke, t Blue Bill could, if he liked,
throw some light on the matter.

As a consequence, the coon-hunter was
under surveillance' and in provisioning his -
'tive fellow-slave e had to actwith more than
e ordinarzhmution. For this reason, his in-
te 'ews wi Jupiter had been rarer and short-
er than before. Hence might it be, that are
sto%of the intercepted letter remained untold.
ether for this, or whatever other
itwasunknowntoCharlesClanc onthe ' 1;,
when, from the swamp ge—to which,
in his dug-out, Jupiter had conveyed him—he
revisited his own deserted home, stood over the
grave of his mother, and proclaimed that vow
of vengeance, overheard by the hunter.

. CHAPTER XXXVI].
a momma norm

Billion Woonm saw a man, he had reason
to believe dead, apparently risen from the tomb.
Saw him in a place appropriate to resurrection
—by the side of a recentl -made grave—in the
heart of a -groun i
.dtéCharleémhncy ” he first sixtclaimed. Then

“ y 0y, is you, or your
host ‘5‘“

The backwoodsman was not above believing
inghosm,andfora ‘menttheaweotflis
mtpassedof’flmgupon h it real

assoonas esaw was

fleshandbloodthatstoodbefomhim—Charlss
 notthiswraith. Heieached
this conclusion the sooner, fromhishavin'g en-
tertained alatent belief that Clancywas alive.
Thishehadheld fromtheflrst;orsincethe

Max:031”? yMdm'mregi’ooclleen.opener!

e terrogatory

widehisarmsmndthenclodedthemasramdhis
oldhuntingamociate.
liJoyatseein‘gdthelattes-stillinofthelaridoffise

ving expdl every trace m
thmghaaitiiiiihegavewaytoanemced

on.
OnClancy’ssidetheonlyreturnwas smile.
with a few confused words, that seemed to
more of  than satisfafi‘tione 'lhs
ressionupon acewasrather chagrin,
Spit sorry at the encounter havingocoarnd.
Hiswordsgaveproofofit.
“Simeon Woodley.” he said, “I shouldhave
beenhappytomeetyouatmyfutureflmbut
notnow. Ihavereasonsfm-regrettingtlntwe

havecometogether.” v
rehunedtheold hunter,
y astonished at the cash. with
hiswann advanceshadbeaireosived.
“CharleyClancyi,&irslyyouknowI‘my’ur

t”
“BightwellIknowit.”‘

“WaLthenl believln’zou to be dead—tho’I
for one never elt sure 0’ ill thinkin’ it might
, be—didn‘t I do all my possrble to git justice
‘ done for ye?”
i “You did. I’ve heard all—eve ' that
‘ has happened. Too much I’ve Oh God!
i look there! Her grave—my murdered mother !”
' “That’s true. It killed the poor lady, sure
, enou h.”
i “ es; he killed her.”
, “ I needn‘t ax who you refar to. I heerd you
‘ mention the name as I got up. We all know
3 that Dick Darke  done whatever hez been
‘i done. We hed put him in prison but the skunk
‘ ot away from us by the bribin’ 0’ another
8 nk like hisself. The two went off thegither,
i an’ no word’s ever been since heerd ’bout eyther.
I guea thermt for Texas, whar every scann-
i drel no ya.”
' “ oun’iaybesumhehasgonethere,8imeon

Woodley.

“ Sure! You know it than?”

“I do not know it for certain; but I’ve
reason to think so. No nutter about
now.

v

 

1....--mM,

‘  sol—v8 .3». a... ....‘. 1

we“.
Y‘r

If... ~n.

 

 

30

,_..n.., m. ._ . _ ,

“ Wal, Lord ! I’m so gled to see ye still alive.
Won’t you te me how it’s all kim about? But
fust say, why are ye despleezed at meetin’ me
—-me that mayent be the grandest, but sartinly
one o’ the truest an’ fastest 0’ your friends?”

“I believe you are, Woodley—am sure of it.
And, now that I think more of the matter, I’m
not sorry at havin met you. Rather should I
be glad of it; for feel that I can depend upon
you.

“Ye may stake y’ur life on that. But why
had on any misdoubts about me?”
“ one about you in particular. No, nothing

of that.”

“ Then there’s some mystery 0’ a general kar-
ackter. Trust ole Sime Woodley. Don’t be
afeerd to tell him the hul thing. Maybe, he kin
be a help to ye.”

For a moment Clanc seemed as if consider-
ing. They had steppe off some paces from the
grave, and now stood under the shadow of a
tree. Clancy had made this movement. con-
ducting the other into the darkness, the moment

after their meeting. He had re tted the en-
counter with VVoodley, not wishing to be seen
by any one.

This was his first thought which after a mo-
ment’s reflection, became c an ed; and he Was
now satisfied at seeing Woodley by his side.
The latter’s presence suggested an idea that had
not before occurred to him. This man’s friend-
ship, already tested and proved, might be made
subservnent to a pur so engrossing his Whole
thoughts, as it had one, ever since the hour of
his return to consciousness, after that long hor—
riC}v dreamttfif delirium h had

t was 6 purpose 0 so solemnl r0.
claimed, while standing over his mother’s grgve,
without thought of any one being near.

This threat against Darke was due to three
di§tinct passions, an One of them sufficient to
impel to its execution. First, ealousy in its
(lirest form—the sting from a ovo promised,
and unbestowed. For he still believed Helen

 

 

The New York Library.

Armstrong false to him, and having favored his
rival. As yet, Darke’s possession of her picture
was to him unexplained. Second, there was the
revenge for his own wrongs—for the attempt at
assassmating him. No matter of its having
failed, the criminality was the same.

But it had not failed in regard to his mother.
There lay she in the cold grave close by; and
this was his third, and strongest motive for
making that vow of vengeance the hunter had
overheard.

To Woodley he now communicated his deter-
mination after giving a brief detail of what had
happened to him since they had last seen each
other. He declared it to be his fixed intention
to roceed to Texas in nest of the man who

so gfievously injur him. In fine, he a -
pealed to the brave backwoodsman to be t e
companion of his pursuit—and assist him in
searching for the assassin.

“ The poor old place i” he said, pointing to the
deserted dwelling. “ It’s no more mine. Everg-
thing sold off, as I’ve heard. Fortunately, e

 

 

. V‘- ‘ .V ........._

Texas it is different. There, if I can meet

him— But we only lose time in talking. You
say, Woodley. on will 0 with me i”
“In course ’ve say it and I’ll do as I’ve

sayed. There’s no backing out in this child.
Besides, I war jest thinkin’ 0’ a return to Texas,
afore I see’d you. An’ thar’s another ’11 go
along wi’ us; that’s young Ned He wood, a
friend 0’ youm most as much as myse . N ed’s
been wantin’ bad to steer torst the Lone Star 1
State for some time. So, thar’ll be three 0’ no '
on the trail 0’ Dick Darke. ’

“ There will be four of us.”

“ Four! Who’s the t’other may I ax?”

.“A man I’ve sworn to take to Texas along
w1th me. A brave, noble man, though his skin
be— But never mind now. I’ll tell you all
about it by and by. Meahwhile we must get
ready. There’s not a moment to lose. A sin 13
day wasted, and I may be too late to se 6
scores with Richard Darke. There’s some one
else in danger from him; one I would still save,
notwithstanding—”

\\.

\\\
\\\\\\

 

 

A RETREAT Pnnvnnrnn.——Page 82.

who thought he had killed, did not also think of
robbing me. There were two or three hundred
dollars on my person, at the time he shot me
down. They are on it still. Thatwnll take
both of us to Texas. Once there, it Will go hard
With hunters such as we if we can’t support
ourselves by our ins. Simeon Woodley, Will
you 0 with me to exas?”

“ 0 Texas, or the devil, in a cause such as
yourn, Charley Clancy! Sime Woodie wouldn’t
deserve the name 0 man, to hang _ k on a
trail like that. But, say! don’t ye think we’d
be more likely o’ findin’ the game by stayin’
h .ar? Ef ye make it known that you’re still
a we, then thar ain’t been no murder done, an’
Dick Burke ’11 be sure to kum back to the set-
tlement.”

“If he did come back, what could I do?
Shoot him down like a dog, as he thou ht he
had moil That would make me a mur erer,
with good chance of being hanged for it. In

 

Here Clancy’s utterance became indistinct as
if his voice was stifled by some strong emot on.

Woodley suspected the cause, but refrained
from asking for an explanation.

“V’Val,” e said “I reckon you’ll have a good
chance to meet bick Darke thar, an’ then—"

‘thfeet him!” exclaimed Clancy, without
waitmg for the backwoodsman to finish his
speech. “ I’m sure of meeting him. I know
t e spot where he will be found, and from which
he W111 not willingly part. Ah, Simeon Wood-
ley! ’tis a wicked world! Murderer as that man
is, or supposed to be, there’s a woman one to
Texas who will welcome him, and race ve him
red-handed, as he is, with open arms; a ,will-
gigéylz’fling them around his neck. Oh I oh

0

“ What woman? Who do ye speak 0’, Clan ?”
“ Of her who has been the cause of all—He

Axmstron .
“Wal; gye speak the truth unwise—out

?\

 

-neiflierdoi

onl partwise. Thar can be no doubt 0’ Miss!
Ari’nstrong’s bein’ the innercent cause of most 0’
what’s been dud. But as to her hevin’ a likin’
for Dick Darke, or puttin’ them soft, white arms ‘
o’ hern aroun’ him, thar you’re cl’ar off 0’ the
track—a millions 0’ miles of! it. That ’ere gurl ;
hates the Very sight 0’ the man, as Sime Wood- 1
ley hev’ reason to know. An’ I know, too,
that shes nuts on another man—leastWise, has
been afore all this happened and I reck’n, still
continue to be W’eemen— t air, weenien 0’
her kidney—ain’t so changeable as ople sup-
. ’Bout Miss Helen Armstrong evin’ once
en inclined to’ardst this other man, an’ ready
to freeze to him, I hev’ the proof in my pocket. ’
“The proof! What are you ng of?”
“A dockyment, Charley Clancy, that shed
hev reached you lon ago, seein’ that it’s got your
name on it. Thar’sgboth a letter and a picter’.
To examine ’em, we must have a cl’arer ' ht
than what’s unner this tree, or kin be got on 0’
that ’ere moon. S’pose we adjern to m shanty.
Thar we kin set the logs a—bleezin’. hen they
thmw thar glint on the bit 0’ paper I’ve s ke
about, I’ll take long odds you won’t be so own
in the mouth. Come alon , Charley Clancy!
Ye’ve had a durned dodrot (1 deal both 0’ suf-
ferin' an’ sorrow. Cheer up, now! Sime Wood-
]ey’s grit somethin’ thet’s likely to put ye straight
uni-g! t on your pins. It’s only a bit 0’ paste-
boa an’ a sheet 0’ paper—both inside what, in
Natchez, they calls a envelope. Come wi’ me to
the ole cabin, an’ thar you kin take a squint at

1m”
Clancy’s heart was full to make rejoinder
mysterious 

 

 

 

-—-full. of guesses 
The words of Woodley had inspired him an
new hope. Health. long doubtful, seemed sud-
denlyto be restored to him. The color came
bad: to his cheeks; and as he followed the
hunter to his but, his stride exhibited all its old
vigpfr and elasticity.
hen the burnin logs were kicked intoa
blaze; when, by its  he read Helen Arm- ‘
stro ’8 letter, and 100 upon her photogra h
'°” “122°” “will tflfi‘q’ Fifi“?
he was no 381‘ , mv ut
-taoe. and figure both showing ig—the pr ,
triumphant lover. -

CHAF'I‘ER xxxvm.
“ncnoss run ssnmn.”

In the days when Texas was an inde ndent
moblic, and not as now, a State of e Fed«
Union, the ass, “ Across the Sabine,”
was one of tpeculiar signification. The river so
called was ebonndary between the Lone Star
Re blicyand that of the United States; as it
' ishetween thepreosnt States of Texasand
The significance lay in the fact, that fugitives
from States’ justice, once ovor the Sabine, felt
themselves safe“ extradition luvs being some-
what loose in t e letter, and still looser in the
hit, when anyattempt was made to carry
gan'into execution. - . _ -
As s-consequence, the escaped crinunal, after
crossing the Sabine river could breathe freely
however compromidng the character of his
crime. Even the murderer might almost im-
that the weight of guilt was lifted from
o hissmil,assoonashe setfootonitswestern,
or Texas, bank. '
Some twenty-four hours after the Choctaw
Chief had witnessed the ure of Borlasse
with the half score loose to owe whoappeared
o be his confederates, a party‘of horsemen, of
about the same number, was seen crossing the
.dsibine toward the Texan side.

ace where they were rims-e
agofihe usual ford taken b tra mums
of flaccid S ' military road. between Natch-

.toches an Nacogdoches—but at a point sev-
irai miles above the latter where the stream,
steertain seasons, was forda c. This crossing
' be was approached through a track of 31m-
?orest, along a trail little used by tray ers;
still less by those who entered Texas With an
aonest intent, or left behind them, in the States,
arableh' edrt fthnon. n spoken of was
t t e o omeme

' pznezrnor the other, could have been
told at a nee. They had no w one, or
other wh ed vehicles, to give them t e sem-
blance of ' ts; no of any lurid
to mm mlon their marc . ul‘nVithOlit 113
the mi htbe e landspec tors, an

surzeyoigs, or buggers. nliSut, no. They had not
the look of men who belonged to any of these
re e ‘ ; no resemblance to aught .
sit or honest, or onorable. In all there were }
twelve of thGIII' and among the twelve there ‘,
was not I. face that did not s of the Peni- {
tentiary—not one that did not ' hten u , and
show" more cheerful, when the hoofs o their
horas struck the Texan bank of the‘Sabine. |

When still the terrain of Louisiana, they
had been riding fast and hard: silent. and {

 

The Death-Shot; or, Tracked to Death.

I
here. We’re now on Texan ground, inside the ;
boundary 0’ the Lone Star State whar freemen .
needn’t feel afeard. If thar’s been any fools I
followin’ us, I guess they’ll take good care to ;
keep on t’other side 0’ the river. Therefor’, let’s
dismount and have a na under the shadder o’ E
these trees. After we’ve one that, we can talk '
about what’s to be our next move. For my

art, I feel as slee as a ’possum. That ar
'ckcr o’ the Choctaw Chief allers knocked me
up for a da or two. This time, our young

friend Phil ntrell, here, has given me a
double dose. I guess lwon’t get over it for ‘
a week.” i

It is scarcely necessary to say the speaker was i
Borlasse, or that the men spoken to were his
fellow-roysterers in the low hostelry of Natchi-
toches.

To a man. they all made affirmative .
Like himself they too were fatigued; de done
up by nearly twenty hours in the saddle, to say
nothin about the debilitating effects of their
debauc , or that they had been riding with their
beards upon their shoulders, under_the appre-
hension of a sheriff and posse being behind
th

em.

During the period of their sojourn in Natchi-
toches, near] every one of them had committed
some crime that rendered him amenable to the

ws.
Their object in having paid a visit to the place
might have been innocent enough; or, at all
events, appeared so, notwithstanding their rough
exterior and boisterous behavior. At that time
Natchitoches was a true frontier town: and
almost ever day it witnessed an arrival and
departure 0 characters that might well be called
“ queer ” both asto dress and disc1pline. Among
these e guests of the Choctaw Chief woul
not have attracted particular attention. Like
the sailor in port, when 'd OE and with full
pockets—making every e ort to deplete them—-
so is the trapper during his sta at a fort, or
frontier town. He does things t at. seem odd;
are odd, to the extreme of eccentriCIty.
Borlasse and his band had done all this in
Natchitoches, and somethin more. As already
said nearly every one 0 them _had been
 of a deed that endangered his personal

Their leader alone had kept cleai' of such en-
tanglements; and it was to save his confederates
rather than himself, he had so hasto decamped
from the place. -

His viSit to Natchitoches had not been made
for mere pleasure. It was business that had
taken him thither; to concoct a scheme of scann-
drelisinAsucli 3 might bio sup tiinlcrlnogivn
mo 0- xon oe,an praciceoy
by  {(15 Latinic It“l(3(z.s}c)ent, who dwell on the
southern side of the Rio Grande.

But robbery is not confined to any race; and
on the far frontier of western civilization may
be found brigandage as rife, and as ruthless, as
it; the Sierra Moreno, or the mountains of the

i.

It was a scheme of this kind Captain Box-lame
cpntemplated, and the planning of which had
taken him to the town 0 Natchitoches.

That he had succeeded in arranging things to
his satisfaction might be told from his hilarious
demeanor.

He sin opened converse with his confede-
rates, a ter they had awakened from their siesta
under the trees. .

“Boys!” he said,_calling them around him,
“we’ve ot a big thingdnow, that’ll beat horse-
man’ to shucks. 0st 0’ ye, I reckin knew
w t I mean' ’ceptin’ggerhaps, our new friends
here, who’ve late jom us.” .

The speaker looked toward Phil
alias Dick Darke, and another man of about 1
same age, ssing under the assumed name 0
Walsh- bu whom Darke mm-S, address-
ed as Harlmess. He was doe cos, the ex-
jailer.

After resting his glance upon the two for an
instant, Borlasse continued: . ‘

“ I’ll take charge 0’ tellin’ them in good time;
an’ I think, can answer for their standin’ b us .
in the bizness. Thar’s fifty thousand do
cl’ar cash, at the bottom of it; besides sundries
in the clothin’ an’ trinket hne. _

“The question then is ” he continued,
“whether we’d best wait, till this nice assort- ;
ment 0’ property conveyed to the lace in-
tended for its estination; or who er we ,
oughter make a try to ick it while on the 5
way. What say e, ellars? t every man ,
speak his mind on esubject; then I’ll give you
mine.”

“ You’re sure 0’ whar they’re goin’, ca ting?”
88de one of the band of freebooters, who ap- ;
peared to understand something about the pro. :
fifietfll‘ship of the booty described. “You know ’

e lace?’

“ fiett’r’n I know the spot we’re now campin’ 4,
on. Ye needn’t let that trouble ye. An’ most all 
0’ ye know it yourselves. As good luck has i 1

 

 

‘ fording place of the old Spanish mili

31

ye, it may appear only a question 0’ time

 

and patience.
more.”

“ But so. , capting? Why should we wait till
they t a the way there? Are you quite cer-
tain t ey’re bound for the place you speak of?"

These uestions were put simultaneously, by
several 0 the men.

“ Boys! Jim Borlasse ain’t no jackass, is he?
I reck’n (you’ll acknowledge that?’

6‘  0. fl

“ Well: I‘ll answer all you’ve asked, in a
lump. First place, I am sure about the destina-
tion 0’ that party 0’ travelers. I did’nt leave
N aketosh, spite the way we war hurried off, till
I’d fixed the bearin’s 0’ this bizness. As I’ve
told you we’ll find the whole plunder safe out
thar—sa e as if we’d ourselves conveyed
it. Now, as to our bein’ patient and waitin’ till
it arrives, thar’s something more to be said. It’s

In my opinion, it’s somethin’

' jest a question whether we could ca ter it on

the mad. Thar’s only twelve 0’ us, counted
—twelve good and dependible men, it’s true.
But this emigratin’ party ain’t o’ the ordi'
kind. Thar’s a whole colony 0’ them comin’ o
The twelve 0’ us ain’t strong enough to attack
them—that is, with a sartinty o’ succeedin’.
We might manage, havin’ a run of good luck;
but we might t rubbed out by the uck goin’
against us. e Mississippi planter, broken
down th he be, her. seen campaignin’ tim
wi’ Gener Jackson. He’s got a good deal 0’
Old Hickory grit in him, and ain’t likely to g
to sl ’ithout keepin’ one 0’ his eyes open.
sides, e’s engaged a big crowd to go a] wi’
him—some 0 them as I know that won (1 be
ugly customers in a skrimmage. I tell ye, boys,
there’d be no chance for us to touch them on the
way. We’d only make a durned mess of it;
lose our opportunity; and like enough Tget our
necks into the 100 nd 0’ a laryette. arfor’
to conclude, say , let’s get on ahead 0’ them
Ether our fellows as we go further south. I
ow 0’ six now sportin’ themselves in San An-
tone. When we’ve enou h thegither, then let’s
look out for the fifty t ousand shiners. It’ll
give a tol’able good divide; and among the colo-
nisers, as they wai: callin’ themselves when we
left Naketosh, I reckon we’ll all 0’ us find a part-
ner spices. Thar’s boun’ to be a grist o’
sheemales among ’em. I can sa , or our $21113
friend here, Mr. Quanta-ell, than a bit 0’ i
in that crowd he’s willin‘ to folle'r, wherever
mar lead—if need be, to the end 0’ etc ' .”
’ithout wai for Quentrell’s rejoin er to
this coarse sally, e brigand continued:
“Well, boys, what say you! Shall we first
a) straight on to San Antone? After that, to
e lace where we are to pick up the shinersf‘
“ or San Antone first ’ responded his fol.
lowing, in chorus; “ then for the shinersl”

’
o

 

CHAPTER XXXIX.
IHIGBANTS am noon. ,
Comm Aansrnono was not long in conic
pleting his plans of colonization. His resourcu
as an old soldier—an officer of note in the
Creek and Cherokee war—with his good '
tion generally, induced many first-class t-
ing-men as well as first-class families, to in
him. Dupro’s great wealth smoothed oval-yd!!-

ficulty, and rendered the preparations easy. So .

that soon after the scenes described as occurring
in Natchitoches, a grand wagon-train, with an
the phernalia required to establish a new

ement, filed off from this frontier town,
head turned toward Texas.

P ' through the pine forests of Nerfli-‘
western ' 'ana, it crossed the Sabine at the
which rims between the towns of Natchitodses
and Nacogdochcs.

. Once upon the soil of Texas, the trainwait
journeying on: for it had a far distance to go:
ysvand Weeks of travel, toward what was
en wildest west—the furthest border-Jam of
Texan colonization.

There was much toil to be endured and some

$11 encountered before reachin . 0 goal of

ir journey. But no thought 0 either daunt-
ed the hearts of the emigrants. were on
their we. to a new home, having lo the old

;one beh nd. And along with it a thousand

cankering cares—perhaps the half of a life
spent in severe struggles and painful disappoints
merits.

In the untried field before them there was
hope, and, it might be, success and endor.
It was like renewin their lease of ' e—the

| youngest to find f ‘ joys, and the oldest to
grow young .
All seemed appy; and as the long row of

whith wagons weimd its way thro h

shadowy to or over sunlit prairies, thro .
out resounded 6 gay goke and jovial laugh;
while nrotmd the fires 0 the ni t camp cheer

ful faces reflected the blaze of urnin logs, or
in terpsichorean movement, feet k time to

with naup thoughts, as if pursuers were be- t ’tain’t over twenty mile from our old stampin ‘ the lugging strains of trumpet and violin.
“d gem. c

On touching Texan soil all seemed 

to heat!» freely; as if conscious they had at . whar thet is. Thar, if we let’em alone, eve - circled by a dark-skinned crowd,

reacheda haven of safe .
,hewho ap tobet eleaderof the ‘

pang- raining n his horse. broke silence thus:
“ ’ys' I reck‘bn we may take a spell 0’ rest I

mun, 0’ last year. I needn’t tell any 0’ ye about

thin' air sure to be lod yc ’ithin less’n 9. mon ,
from now. Thar, we (1 the 'e steel:1
trinkets, an’ other fixin’s, not fo'i'ge ‘ng the pet- I
ticoats—sure as eggs is eggs. 0 some among

\

.. ....- ..i.,. .H -.. . .

Th jo, too, might be bard, its en~

d 1
even more so than their masters. Strange M}:
.a life-time of bondage does not stifle men-hunt
in the heart of the Ethioglan. Grace of God,
grand. glorious compensa on

for .

 

w...
rfi'

.. . a, ..
“Ha”...-

 

 

 

’fliedtostreamsha

32

a. M 7- 77 "77 I
endured from the day when that fatal curse was ,
renounced on Canaan—as it were from the j

oom of creation!
As I have said, all in Colonel Armstrong’s

' it has a topographical

emigrant party appeared happy. And were so, I

with perhaps only one exception. This was his
own daughter.

Not the younger one: for Jessie had no cause
to do otherwise than share the general jay, as
she did. She had reason to be more mi hful
than any, and she was. Her Creole lover—her

Louis—was ever by her side; scarce for a mo- ‘

nknt forsaking her. He was now her fiancee,
his troth plighted, his truthfulness beyond suspi-
cion. The were all but man and wife, which
they won] soon be—es soon, as the new home
ahgulq betati hedf D l
mvi ‘on o upre, a c er accom-
ed the party, ostensibly to Mr to the
iritual wants of the colonists, but in realit to
e the knot that would unite him to his gol en-
haired sweetheart. It was to be done soon after
the day of arrival. So that the goal of their
{:urney, wastobealso the climax of his lifes’

mess.
ftpwas not, then, Colonel Armstron ’s younger
daughter who was an exception to t e general
but Helen, the elder one. She was indeed
Her heart, that had received so many
shocks, was now a prey to the supremest suffer-
ing human heart can endure. It was that called
melancholic; although this word can convey
but a slight idea of its in . Only they
who have known it—fortunately but. few—can
understand the terror—the wan—wasting misery
felt by those whose nerves have been unstrung
by some terrible misfortune. It is the story 0
a broken heart.

Byron has told us, that “ the heart ma break,
and brokenly live on.” He means that _ e body
ma live on. But the heart—can this, once
bro en, ever be restored to wholeness? .Yes;
it can. And how? By a new hope ins iring it.
By the knowledge that what caused i to sue-
cumb was a fanciful, not a real woe, This may
bring it back to its old ways, to its pleasant

ine

prist beatings.

But Helen Armstrong had no such hope to
sustain, or restore hers. Her lover—he who had
become sole lord of her heart—the noble, hand-
some fellow, whose image filled every outline of
her fancy ; a man, whom in her romantic ima-
ginings, no woman could look upon without
oving—he was dead: had been shot down,
murdered, inthemudofac ressswampl

She knew not, that Char es Clancy was still
living.l She could not know; for, on leaving
Nate 'toches, the latest news told onl of his
death,andtheescapeofthecriminalw okilled

About the latter she had later news ; but none
to cheer her. That she had since seen the assas—
sin, who for the second time had got awe. from

justice, was no balm to the bi an
t was now making a burden of her life.
Traveling with the t train she and
occupiedacarn'o ,‘asortofhalfcar—
riage, half sp -w n, in use in the Southern
States. It had a leat er cover, with loose cur-
tains of the same. When these were uplifted,
which they rarely were, and only by intimate
,thereco d be seen inside twowo

both youngéaboth beautiful ; though of diflere
st les of uty: the one Spanish dark; the
ot er Saxon, or Scandinavian,  In yet
ter contrast, the expremion on their faces.

11 the one, the fair one, jo that kled as
sunriseena rairiebedeck with owers;on
heathen-ashes, thatseemedlikeadesert
over which the storm had primed—was
still kly passing.

joy ;
sad.

 

CHAPTER XL.

TH! HAND 0" 001).

Turns is no province in Spanish America
without its “ Colorado” river. The word signi-
fies“colored with a tinge of red,” and is ag

exican territo —or w t was once Me —
there are seve such streams. There is the
great Colorado of the West, celebrated for its
oanened channel, with banks rising a mile ver-
tically above its bed; the Colorado, or Red
Fork of the Arkansas; and the Colorado of
Texas ; with several others less known to general

h .

“egg-3g Xmarica has also, in one place or ano-
ther, half a score of streams hearing this syno-
nym, so little distinctive.

In the case of the Texan Colorado the title is
a somewhat ludicrous misnomer, bestowed by
the A lo«American settlers t h a misap-
prehens on of the old Spanish  he stream,

was

so called by the Spaniards, resent Bra-
zos—more proper y “ Brazos do ios”—while
this, in turamwas the “Colorado.” The mis-
concepti t mud; have led to thistransposal
of names all the more remarkable from the
fact, that the Texan Colorado is in reality a
chamater stream, times of freshet excepted:
while the Brazos is a muddy river, with the red-
ocher tint usually termed ‘ Colorado. ”

Regarding the river now the latter
harness the real Brasos damaging-enam-

O

_fl__'_1‘he New York” Library,

 

l
mantic chapter of history connected with its

bestowal. cite the episode, since

may briefi
' on certain inci-
dents soon to recounted.
b It 11121 vgell biog: thathTexa:11 was first edging
t e paniar out 0 “ ssonarysy m.
llbnks were sent into this province, carryin the
cross in one hand, with soldiers at their k
bearing the sword. Missions were founded in a
sort of monasterial s
dres who founded t em and churches for the
dians to be Chris '
barrack, or “ cuartel,” was also establish ,
bearing the title presidio, or garrison. Both

. mission and presidio were generally fortified ;

 

and with that keen look-out toward temporal

‘1'

protect him. It was done in a fashion some-
what difilcult to give credence to though easy
enough for believers in the Holy F’aith. It was

' a mere miracle; not stranger or more apocryphal

le, with dwellings for the ,
Near by a  ‘

enjoymenthwhich at all times, and in all coun- ‘

tries, has 0
:lhieir lace of abode was chosen with an eye to

e u
esque. The mission buildings were on a magnifi-

aracteriaed these spiritual teachers, .
e and comfortable, as also the pictur- ;

cent scale—mansions, in short—with grand,

-halls, snug sitting and sleeping-chambers,
well- ved courts, and often spacious gardens
attac ed.

There was no diflculty in the holy fathers
thus handsomel housing themselves. Their
new-made neop ytes did all the work, for the
sake and in the name of “ Sante Fe,” into which
they had been inducted.

he toil of the red-skinned converts did not
cease when they had finished building the church

and mission house. It was then transferred to '

the mafioof the surroun land; and con-
tinued ughou-t their who e lives—not for
their own benefit, but to enrich these idle and
lazy friars who were in man cases men of the
most pro te character. t was, in fact
system of veggbased upon and sustained by
religious fanati . Instead of oi

the more, by eradica

ever of savage virtue ey had and implanting

in its place the most debasing bigotry and super- ; ruin.

stition.

Most American writers, who speak of these
missio establishments, have formed an erro-
neous to of them. And, what is worse,
have given it to the world. Man of these
writers are, or were, oflcers in t e United
States army, sent to explore the wild territories
in which the mimions existed. Having received
their education in Roman Catholic seminar-lee;
they have been inducted into a lenien
view of the dggitfilof the “ old S .”
tI‘Iaence their any too favorable to the sys-

m.

The facts are all against them. These show
that it was a scheme of villeinage, more 0 res-
sive than the Euro serfdom of the ddle
A . Its imueissufilcient proof of this. Rwas
“fix to esieoes long before the Anglo-Saxon
race ow itself on he territory where it had
once flourished. The missions are now in a state
of decadence their buil going to decay;
while the red-man, a the attem t to
Enslave, under the if] “of C hi;

returned or rap returning,

idolatry, as to his sa y life. .

One of these missions been established on
the San Saba river, a beautiful stream, tribu
to the Colorado of Texas. For a considerabe
time it had held a p rous existence, and
numbered among its neogeytes many Indians of
the Li no and Comanc tribes.

But e tyranny of the monkish missionaries
by their exactions of tenths and almost continual
toil—themselves living in luxurious ease, and
without much regard to that continence they
inculcated—at le h revoked their red-skinned
converts to revol . n which they were aided
b those Indians who had remained unconvert-
bo, and still heretically roamed around the neigh-

r
» The consequence was: that, on a certain day,
when the hunters of the micron were abroad,
and the soldiers of the acidic alike absent on

some expedition a ban of the outside idolaters,
in 9 with the discontented neophytes, en-
tered e mimion building, with arms concealed

under their ample cloaks of buflalo-skin. After
prowling about for a while in an insolent man-
nfif,ftheyucatfigggttg, at a given signal from thgtllll'
c'e,a erose 'ngpadreswi
those converts who aiheredytb‘ztihem; tomaliawk-
ed and seal all who came in their way.

It is but 0 old story of Indian retaliation to
say that the women and children were massa-
cred along with the men. I

One of the monks esca b steahng of! at
the commencement of the slang ter—a man of
great repute in those early times of Texas. He
succeeded in making his way down the valley
of the San Saba, keeping the right bank of the
river. But to reach an asylum of safety it was
necessary for him to cross the greater stream,
to which the San Saba is tributary—the Colora—
do. In this there was a freshet at the time; and
its current was so swollen that neither man nor
horse could have forded it.

The padre stood u 11 its bank, looking cove-
torilel across and isteriing in terror to the
scan heard behind. These were the war-cries
of the pursuing

ches.
For a moment the monk believad himself lost.
But, justthen,the armofGodwasextendedto

f lated, is slightly different.

than we hear of every day in France, Spain, or
Italy. The only singularity about the Texan
miracle was the fact of its not being ori ' al;
for it was a ure pira from Sacred 
itil-amt go o it which escribes the crossing of

e

The Spanish monk stood on the river’s bank,
his eyes fixed despairinily on its deep, rapid”
running current which e knew he could not
cross without the danger of being drowned.
But just at this crisis he saw the waters se -
ate. The current was suddenly stayed, an the
pebblillged became dry!

. Tuc ' g his gown under his rdle, he struck
into the channel; and, no don t, making
time—thou h the legend does not k of this
—he succ ed in planting his sari ed feet dry
shod on the op to shore!

So far the exan sto closely co nds
with the Mosaic. Beyon , the incident, as re-
Pharaoh’s following
host was overwhelmed b the closing waters.
The ursuing Comanches 'd not so much as en-
ter t e charmed stream, whose channel had filled
up and was again running rapidly on. They
were found next mornin , upon the mine shore

. where they had arrived it, all dead all
a Lying at full stretch along mm, with their

l

1 arm of God.” Hence also the histo
. . the ' fable, intended to awe the minds 0
aborigines of America, it but brutalised hem g lions conve
from their hearts what- , or serfdom.

l
|

 

turned in the same direction, like trees
struck down by a tornado!
Only the Omnipotent could have done this.
No mortal band could have made such a coup.
Hence the name which the Spaniards bestowed

a ' upon the river, Brazos dc Duos—literally, “ the

, or rather
the rebel-
and restore them to Christianity
ch it did not: since from that
daythe mission of San Saba has remained a

It was to this desolate spot—which had no
"°°“ “sharks 3%“ “agim‘h’ifim'
esque, g e van 1! for

prosperous settlement—that 0033.31 Arm-
m intended conductm' g his colony. His fu-
son-in-law—a sort of Croesus, as described
—had based a large tract of territor around
one of the deserted mufoncs' which, sti stand-
ing, only needed some to convert it into
a comfortable dwelling-p

There, more than a century before, the monks
had made halt, with the cross held conspicuously
mone hand, and the sword secretly can-led inl
thg‘gther. sh

are are nowapproaching e same spots
new invasion—that of the axe and rifle—neither

ostentatioust paraded, but neither perfidiously
concealed.

CHAPTER XLI.
A warm snrm

Asou'rthreeweeksafterBorlssseand hisbrl‘

dshadcrossedtheSabine,continuingonfor

e math-Xmm settlemme Tensile seeing!
party ve been seen v a
same :5] through the forests of m —
their faces set toward the same fording- lace.

_In number they were but a third of that com-
prising the band of Borlasse ; as there were only

our of them. Three were on horseback, the
fourth bestriding a mule.

The three horsemen were white ; the mule
rider a mulatto.

The latter rode a little behind ; the distance,
asalsoacertainairofdefemnoe—tosayn '
of his com lemon—showing him to be a slave.

Still higher rearward, and seemingly careful
to kee beyond kicking reach of the hybrid’s
heels, a dog—a eerhonnd.

rising seco ,
dog hat aocom ed it. e three white men
were Charles C , Simeon Woodley, and Ned
He ood. He wi the tawnyskinwss Jupiter,
(film Darke’s absconded slave. The dog was
c s thesamehehad with himwhensh'
down y 'chard Darke.

Havin reached the river and crossed it, the
made h t on the Texan side. Their movemen
showed caution, coupled with some signs of
anxiety ; as if they, too, were troubled with an
apprehension of being pursued. It was, how-
ever unlike that portrayed by Borlasse and his
band —the reason he altogether different.
None of the white men reason to fear for

. Their anxiety was about the mulatto ;
a fugitive slave whom they were  in his

escape from slave b hhi 0 With
them to the far trig; frosiy $3“ beyon? reach
of the most enterpris' negro-ca .

Not for this reason, one, were they entering
Texas by a route described as rsrelyhken by
this; honest traveler. They had thanother and

r one. They were on track of
Elem Darke.

e M115 through Natchitoches, the too
t up at e Choctaw Chief. Their glans
redprlvacy; and for this the suburban

Sea by Moses and his Israelites. I ~

1
I
l
l
I
l
l

 

 

. "0"i‘fimflh1w.lleflmum.wr '

._ wad.-.“ .
.Ar.‘:m;.-’...;‘...‘ ‘7: 2": ‘.

"‘ W" "O"? .‘xs‘rrf:

' «Mr. Myfiu‘éW’

he!

 

v—vw u wwwmflufifl“ ’

-»~_——-————~— —-:v

ZLL'T'”. CT “"77 ~7"”"“ .T.‘

 

734‘...“ " u-.&'" -_.

 

 

:jifl

“" s; . 4 “Wnaslimnum—‘~ —

i3

........ -5...» .... ..

:3.” a3“ w  e U h

:wivrw

vi...“ “was. wag-1wm _.~,

~vw~_ wj‘ “a an.

.  ,h‘m'“
~«wwvnm‘W

 

 

 

that he still lived. It was as yet only known
to those who were his traveling com ions.
Besides, there was Jupiter to be thought of ; and
the fu tive slave’s freedom would not have con-
tinu long, had he been paraded conspicuously
in the streets of Natchitoches, or seen at any
hotel patronized' by lanters.

At he Choctaw C ief they had stayed only a
ring: night ; but during that time was obtained
all 0 information they needed.

As chance would have it, Johnny, the bar—
keeper of doubtful nationality, had been insult-
ed y Borlasse, 'ust as the latter was leaving.
Whether Hibernian or not, he wielded a ton 6
free as that of any Irishman. This, furt er
loosened by the rancor that remained, was
Wagged close to the ear of Simeon Woodley—
who chanced to be an old customer of the tavern
—until the hunter was fully informed of all that
had taken place under the roof of the Choctaw
Chief, in connection with Borlasse and his band.
What had occurred outside the hostelry every-
body in Natchitoches knew. The grand colon-
izing scheme of Colonel Armstrong, in company
with the young planter, Du re—its or anization
and departure or Texas a ut a wee before—
had been the events of the time. just then ceas-
ing to be talked of in hotels, taverns, restau-
ragta, anld streets. ,

one Armstrong 3 wagon train had as b
the main road into Texas. This evgybod;
know. But only Johnny could tell the route
taken by the band of Borlasse. He overheard
them speaking of it before starting.

- He had further informed Woodley, that a
sting: calling ' Quantrell, ve free
with money, had gone with them. also
, whose name Johnny-had not heard.
He gave Quantrell’s descri on. Notwithstand-
certain discre ncies, oodley could iden-
him as Dick arke. The other should be
Harkness.

This was enough to determine the route Clancy
and his traveling cempanions were to take.
And they had taken it.

Just as Borlame and his fellows, on reaching
the Texan side, sought relaxation under the
shadowofthetrees,sodidthe .

And there, as they sat toget or on the trunk
of a prostrate pine, smo ' their pi , after a
mfoction of corn-bread an cold bailed bacon,
Simeon Woodley unburdened himself of the
scents he had drawn from the barkeeper.

“Fellursl” said be, addressing his 5 h to
his two traveling companions of white com-
plexion—the mulatto still keeping respectfully

“ we’nenow on a spot whar ’bout three
weeks ago not, or stood, two 0’ the darndest
rascals to be foun’eyther in the States or Texas.
You know one o’ ’ea‘lzed Heywood, but not the

Charley cys hev akwaintance wi’
a ugly reccoloc him 0‘ them inter the
Thar names air Jim Borlasse an’ Dick

“ But are sure they’ve been here?” asked
,_ wit t waiting for the hunter to con-

ode

“Satin. From what that fox Johnny tolt
me, they must’a’tnk thlstrail. An’astheyhad
to make nick tracks arter leevin’ Naketosh,
’dbe ongettin’thisfur,an’goodas
to la up a bit. Look! thar’s the ashes o’
, w I s’p’ose they cooked somethin’.
’t been a critter crossed the river
ra else we’d ’a‘ see‘d boss-tracks
ey started jest the day afore
that ’ere tire was put out by it.
by the way them chunks show only
consoomed. Yis, by the Eturnal! Roun’
bios-e 0’ them sticks has not seven, 0 ht,
rmaybeadoaemo’themostp us
drols as ever made crossin’ 0’ the Sabine;
that’s sayin’ a goodish deal. Two 0’ them
I kin 9 ’ar to boin’scoundrels an’I reckons.
rest my be counted the same from
hump’ny—that kump‘ny bein’ Jim Bor-
99

“Who bthe third man you speak about?”

askedClanc .

“ Him as {at Dick Darke out o' the ail—Joe
Harkness. Johnn ’3 description 0’ t 9 man
wara’t very cl’ar; at I know ’twar. Harkness,
forall that. It‘s bound to ’a’ been him. Arter

iii?

0

2.

f d?
55 Edi?
Egg

5.

iii

in coons, he must ’a‘ dud—Jim Bor
soon case him 0’ it.”
For a short interval the conversation was sus-
pended; the three who took part in it separately
on what was before them.

Then oodley, after taking a pull from the
whisky-flask, with which Clancy had presented
resumed speech in the interrogative:

“ ow, boys, what’s to be our next move?
That’s the on.” .
The others refrained from making answer.
The trusted to the old hunter to direct them.
at, understood their complimentary silence,
“gin a“: best 1 ill be to
. my nvun our p an w ' go
t on whar kurnel Armstrong intends
plan ‘ his sticks. I know the place ’most as
well as the public upsur’ 0' Natchez. This chile

intends joinin’ the 0 Rune] anyhow; an' so do

dismounted, and on his

 

The Death-Shot; or. Tracked to Death.

you, Ned Heywood. As for you, Charley
Clancy, we know whar you want to go, an“ the
game ye intend trackin’ up. “'al, ef you’ll ut
trust in what Sime VVoodley say, he sez t is:
ye’ll find that game in the neighborhood 0’
Helen Armstrong; nigh to her as it may dar'
ventiir’.”

The hunter's )ech had an inflammatory effect
upon Clancy. e sprung up from the 10 , and
strode over the ground, with a wild loo and
strangely excited air. He seemed impatient to
get back into the saddle.

VVoodley continued:

“ 1n coorse we’ll foller the trail 0’ Borlasse an’
his lot. It air sure to lead to the same place.
What they’re artei' ’tain’t eezy to tell. Some
deviltry, for sartin. Jim Borlasse iirteiid to
make a livin’ by ropin’ wild horses? guess be
'its more by takin‘ them as air tame: as you an’
l, Clancy. hev reesun to; know. I harii‘t no
doubt he‘d do wuss than that, of opportunity
offered. Thar’s been morc’ii one case 0 hi ghway
robbery out thar in West Texas, on emigrant
people goin’ that way; an’ I don’t know any—

ody likelier than him to take a hand in that
sort 0’ thing. Ef Kurncl Arms-tron ‘s party
wa’n’t so strong as ’tis, an‘ the kumel isself a’
old cam yner, I mout ’a’ had fear for ’em. I

reckin t e ’re safe enuf. Borlasse and his fel- ,'
ses thar '

lurs won’ dar‘ to tech ’em. Johnny
war but ten or twelve in all. Still, tho’ the
moutn’t openly attack the wagon train, thars
jest a chance 0' their hangin’ on its skirts, an’
stealin’ somethin’ out o’ it. Ye heerd in Nake-
tosh that a young Creole
ray, is gone wi’ Kurnel rm::trong. an‘s tuk a
gig count 0’ dollars ’lon wi' him. Thet ’u’d be

ick Darke, thar’s somethin’ else to temp’ him.
80—”

“ Woodle l” exclaimed Clancy, without wait-
ing for the unter to conclude, “let us be off.
Sims, for God’s sake, let us go!”

His comrades could divine the cause of
Clancy’s impatience. They made no attempt to
restrain him. They had rested and refreshed
themselves. There was no reason for remaining
any longer on the ground; and they were ready
to resume their journey.

Rising simultaneously, each unhitched his‘

horse, and stood by the stirrup, taking in the
slack of their bridle-reins.

Before they could mount into their saddles,
the deer-hound spnmg from their midst, at the
same time giving out a growl that told of some
one approaching. , -

The stroke of a hoof proclaimed him on horm-
back; and the next moment he was seen coming
through the trees. ‘

Apparently undannted, he rode on toward
their camp ground; but when near 611(me to
have a fair view of their faces, he su only
rained u , and showed signs of a desire to re-
treat. f this was his intention, he was too late.

Before he could turn his horse a rifle was
leveled, its barrel bearing straight upon his

y; while a voice soun ed threatenineg in
his ear, in a clear tone, pronouncing the words:

“ Kee your und arkness! If you ride
back I’l at a list through you—suns as my
name's O my.”

This threagoavas sufficient. hElsarlrnew—for it
was e—cea tugging u ' rein, and r-
mitted his horse to stand still? pe

Then, at a second command from Woodley,
accompanied by a similar menace, be his

into motion, and came on to the p of
bivouac. '

Intwominutes more ewas in their midst,

pitebusly appeal-
ing for mercy.

The ex-jailer’s sto ' was soon told, and told
without much reserva on. The man who had
connived at Richard Darke’s escape, and made
mone by the connivance, was now more than
repen nt for his dereliction of do . 1:300:
weak-wi fellow, as Simeon W ey de-
scribed him, he had not onl been bullied by
Borlasse’s band, but strip , of his ill-gotten
gains. Still more, he had been beaten, and
otherwise so roughly handled, that he was glad
to get clear of their company. At the first
chance, he had stolen away from their camp—
while the scoundrels were asleep—and was now
returnin along the same trail they had taken
through exas. He was on his way back to the
States, with not much left him, except a very
sorry horse, and a sorrowful heart.

His captors soon discovered that, alon with
his sorrow, there was a strong comming of
spite against his late associates. Against Darke,
in particular. who had proved ungrateful for
th service done him.

11 this did Harkness communicate to them
With somethingmbeSides.

Something t t drove Charles Clancy well-
nigh mad; andmade a very vivid impression
upon his traveling companions.

After hearing it. all sprung instantly to their
saddles, and spurred of! 9.10 the trail into
Texas; Harkness, as comman ed, following at
their horses’ heels. This he did without daring
to disobey; trotting after, in company with the
dog, seemingly less cur than himself. '

lanter, by name Du- ;

fies the thing to temp’ im Borlasse; an’ as for 1

vthe

tr
3.5
Clancy had no fear of his fallin back. That
rifle, whose barrel had been alre yborne upon
him, could be again brought to the level in an
instant of time.
The thought held Harkness as secure, as if a
grail-rope attached him to the tail of Clancy‘s
orse.

CHAPTER XLII.
ran PRAIRIE SEA.

A RIVER running through meadows, onwhich
scythe of mower has never cut sward, nor hay-
maker set foot; meadows loaded with such lux-
uriance of verdure—greenest, tallest gram—
that tens of hay might be garnered of! a single
acre; meadows of such extent, that in speaking
of them you may not use the words acres, but
miles; and even this will but faintly convey an
idea of their immensity.

To the seeming they have no boundary save
the blue sky—no limit nearer than the horizon.
And since to the eye of the traveler this has
continually changing, he may well believe they
have no limit at all, and fancy himself moving
in the midst of a green sea, boundless as ocean
itself, his horse being the boatin which he has
embarked.

In places this extended surface presents a
somewhat monotonous aspect, though it is not
so everywhere. Here and there it may be seen
pleasantly interspersed with trees, some stand-
ing solitary but mostly in tgroves, co or
be ts, these looking, for all 0 world, ike is-
lands in the ocean. 80 perfect is the resem-
blance, that this very name has been given
them, by men of Norman and Saxon race;
whose ancestors, after  the Atlantic,
carried into the colonies many i eas of the mar-
iner, with much of his nomenclature. To than
. the isolated groves are “islands,” largertracts
i of timber, seen afar, are “land" narrow spaces
2 between are “straits,” and ‘ tations along

their edges “ bays.”

Tocarrytheanal further,thoherdsof
buffalo With bodies buried in the tall gram,
might be likened to “schools” of whales; the
w' d horses to porpoises at play; the deer to dol-
phins; and the fleet antelopes to flying~flsh.

Completing the figure, we have the

soarin above, performing the artof preda
8.5, P “'12

i
|

; sca- ; the eagle representing the
gate-bird, or albatross.

In the midst of this verdant expanse, le-
than a uarter of 9. 0811311le ago man was rarely
met- sti more rarely ci 'ize man; and rarer
yet is dwelling-place. If at times he appeared
among the prairie groves, he was not there as a
sojournerT-only a traveler, passing from place
to place. The herds of cattle, with shaggy
frontlets and humped shoulders—the droves oi
horses, lon -tailed and with full flowing maria
—the prou antlered sta , and prongfiorned
antelopes were not his. e had no con lover
them. The turf he trod was free to them for
pasture, asto him for pass 0; and, ashemado
way h their midst ' presence scarce
affrighted em. He an his might boast of
being “ war’s arbiters,” and lords of the great
ocean. They .were not lords of that em
sea extending between the Sabine river and the
Rio Grande. Civilized man had as yet hm
shown himself it its shores.

Since then he s entered upon, and scratched
a portion of its surface; though not much, com-
pared with its immensity. There are still grand
expanses of the Texan rairie unfurrowedb
owshare of the co onist—almost un -
den y the foot of the explorer. Even at this
hour, the traveler may ourney for (lg on
gram-grown plains, ami groves of . her,
without seeing house, or so much as a
peering above the tree-tops. If he perceive a
solitary oke, curlin skyward, he knows that
it is over the cam of some one, who is a

wagarer like himself.

(1 itmaybe abovethobivouacof thouho
would do well to shun. For upon the green
surface of the prairie, as upon the blue

of the ocean all men met withare not honest.
There he land-sharks, as well as water-sharks—
prairie-pirates, as well as census of the sea.

Something bear-inglresemblance to a band of
i such freebooters mig t have been seen mo
3 over one of the prairies of Western Texas, abou
i a month after (.olonel Armstron and his colon-
! izin e ition took departure in the town
\ of hatc 'toches.

There were about twenty of them, mounted
upon mustangs—the wild horses of Texas;
though two or three rode larger and better
stock—the breed of the States.

Theya tobeallIndians. Or,ifthero
was aw to man amo them,he musthave
been sun-tanned beyon anythingmcommonly
seen. litihaeddition tzuthelir natural t of burn”;
umber, were g aringl ted; '

. faces strong and escutcheoy with chalk-
» white, charcoal—black, and vermilion-rod. As
ifor bodies, not much of them could be
3 seen. Blankets of blue and scarlet, with buffalo-
‘ robes and buckskin shrouded their shoul-
‘ den; while breaches l of tin last-

 

 

incasmg
their dram, they wore the WW

I

l

 

n» .4» a...

r9-
.. -.~...._.,..

 

34:

menti. Stained eagle—plumes stood, tuft-like,
ut of their raven-black hair; which, fallim1r in
1011:; trestes, swept back to the hips of tieir
horses; while strings of pecearics teeth, or
claws of the grizzly bear, were suspended
around their necks in bountiful profusion.

I t is true, tnlS was not a correct fighting cos-
tum”. Nor would their toilet have bctokcned
them on the “ war—trail.” But the Texan Indian
does not always dress warrior-fashion, when he
(“DOS forth upon a predatory excursion. More
rarely when it is a more pilfering maraud, di-
rected againt some frontier settlement, or
traveling party of whites. On such occasions
he does not intend fighting, but would rather
shun it. And, as thieving is; more congenial to
him, he can steal as adroitly in a buckskin hunt-
big-shirt as with bare arms.

The Indians i.i Ruestion numbered too few
for a war-party. t the same time, their being
without women bespoke them on no errand of

ace, nor honesty. But for the arms carried,
{hey might have been mistaken for hunters.
They

 

 

had spears and guns, some of them

I
r

i

 

The New York Library.

 

sterile, tract; which, rising terrace-like above
the river valley, presents a steep facade toward
it, almost throughout its whole course.

On each side of almost every Texan stream
there is one or more of these cliff-like escarp-
ments; their crests bciirr but the termination of
table plains, that extend back to an indefinite
distance, or until they reach a similar stair
descending into the valley of some other water~
course.

Thus is it with the San Saba; the bluff-like
elevation on its left or northern bank being but
the abrupt ending of a plateau, that stretches
across the angle between it and the Colorado.

Along the edge of this the Indian band was
moving ; for, as already said, the men compos-
ing it were mounted, and in motion. They were
gomg at a slow pace, and keeping at some dis-
tance back from the crest of the escarpment.
So far, that they could not have been seen from
an part of the river bottom below.

no of them was on foot pursuing a parallel
line, and closer in to the edge. He was making
his way, crouchingly, keeping among the dwarf

 

“ bowie ”- mich and pistols. But the Indian
hunter still believes in the efllcacy of the Silent
arrow: and not any of these carried either bow
or quiver. _

There were other signs about them which the
ordinary traveler might not understand ; but
which to the eye of an old irairie man would be
regarded a; suspicious. uch a one would at
once have pronounced them a band of prairie

irate-r, and of the most dangerous kind encoun-
red on the plains of Texas.

The place where this painted cohort was seen
was near the confluence of the two famed Texan
rivers —- San Saba. and Colorado ; where the
former, after meandering through verdant mea-
dows—one of the most beautiful prairie .ex-

uses in Texas—glides softly like a shy bride,
into the arms- of the stron r—ilowing stream.

The Indians were upon t 8 left side of the San
Saba, some miles above its mouth. But not on
the river’s bank, nor in any part of its Wide
“ bottom-land.” _

They were moving along an upland, and more

 

. I l 411:. “\I
, 
{IQ/fl

' .\‘\ \. Z‘_.$vi&\‘n\‘»>3..n\m“y

"X‘...

 

THE SKULKERS.

cedars, that formed a crim'ere on the cliff. He
thus commanded a view of the valley below,
Without danger of being himself seen. _

At short intervals—every twenty minutes or
so~he passed out, and made some communica-
tion to the others who made halt to hear. Then
he would return to the Cliff’s edge, and continue
on as before. . .

This odd movement was of itself sufficient to
throw sus icion on the character of his com-
rades—agnost declaring their design. They
could only be wfiphing a party of travelers—
perhaps, with the intention of waylaying them.

Whatever their intention a party of travel-
ers it was. Below, in the Saba. bottom—
afar off, thou h still on the nether side of the
stream—con] be seen a number. of whiteob-
joctfi, resembling tents set in a row. It required
a prolonged observation to tell they were not
tents, as also that they were in motion. For
the were so; though moving as slowly as a
train of siege artillery.

It could Just be seen, that they were wheeled

 

 

 

i vehicles; distinguishable as wagons 17y their

white canvas tilts—the latter contrasting with
the surface of vivid green over which they were
making way. Slowly crawling along, they bore
similitude to a string of gigantic termites bent
on some industrial excursion.

There could be- no mistakin the spectacle.
They who viewed it from the ilufls evidently
understood what it was. A train of emigrant
settlers, en route to the place of intended settle-
ment.

It was a train unusually large, twenty wag-
ons or more, with its proportion of people—
men, women, and children. The forms of at
least fort‘ mounted men could be made out,
riding in rent in rear, and alonnside of it.

N o wonder the twenty savage lhorsemen, who
pursued the parallel line along the cliff, were
taking care not to approach it too nearly.

One would suppose that from such a strong
traveling party, their chance of obtaining plun-
der would be but a slight one.

And yet they did not appear to think so. Fox
as the emigrant train tardin crept on up the

 

. \N

valley, they, too, moved along the upper plain
at alike rate of speed, their scout keeping the
wagons in sight, and at intervals, as before, ad-
monishing them of every movement made.

At certain points, where a thicker growth of
timber favored their coming nearer to the cliff.
the whole band would ride up to its edge and
take a look at the wagon-train, surveying it
with eyes in which could be read a hungry con-
cu iscence.

ow clustered u n the cliff, now moving on-
ward, again to ma e halt, the dusky savages re-
sembled a flock of vultures hovering above a
herd of deer, as if expecting some weak indi-
vidual to be by chance disab ed, and so become
easy prey.

At a point where the wagon-train was com
pelled to make crossing of the river—the only

ordin —place for many miles -— the Indians.
seeme to watch it with increased eagerness, as
if with some thought of there attacking it.

If so, they allowed the opportunity to pan.
One after another of the wagons went across

be for atime lost to view among the trees I

that rdered both banks. Soon after they re-
ap red on the opposite side, in line extended
as fore, continuing on up the valley.

And the skulkers also kept on; now not only
the hint! and half the river bottom, but the
river itself separating them from the caravan,
on whose skirts they had been hanging since the
earliest hour of dawn.

And they still kept on, watching the emigrant
we us until the sun sunk low—almost to the
horizon.“ Then they halted upon a spot thickly
beset With cedar-trees; a sort of promontory of
the upper plain that projected over the river
valley, command a view of it for miles.

On its opposite si e the Could see the wagons
slowly crawling along; t ough now not all of
them were in motion. Those in the lead had
stopped, the others doing likewise, as, succes-
sive y, they arrived at the stopping-place.

This was in front of a building, fust discerni-
ble in the distance, and only a f visible, the
other half screened by surrounding trees. The
part seen was a mass of mason-work, dark in

us, quadran lar in shape, almost windowless,
with. a crene led parapet cresting its facade.
Contigmus rose a tower, surmounted by what
resem led a belfry. About both there was that
look betokemng neglect, or non-habitation; in
short, the aspect of a ruin.

For it was a min—that of one of the old San
Saba missiomhouses.

And the men making halt before its walls
were Colonel Armstrong and his fellowcolo-

Whowere theysos iciousl watching them?
The sequel will showfmp y

The emigrants as they approached the lace,
gommgu 0:611 ranother, were fulfil 0 high

opes. earns were '0 one, t eir voices
gleeful. They had reached

Journey.

For weeks thefian Saba mission had been the
topic of their discourse, the theme of almost
hourl converse. , They would re-people the de-
serted dwelling; restore it to its ori nal s len-
der; once more bring its long-neg ected elds
into the tillage; and make fortunes out of them
by the cultivation of cotton. I

There was now no cloud to darken the horizon
of their hopes. The long, dimcult journey had
been accom and rejoicineg they hailed
its-termina on. e head of their wagon-train
had dread made halt in front of the dilapi—
dated buil , soon to be restored to the com-
fort, if not the uses, of Effie. _

So reflected they, in confidence of their

While thus reflecting, the who eyed them
to indulge in a different
t future. If looks might count
use of that harpy-like band boded
lonel Armstrong and his colony.

CHAPTER XLIII.
m sax sass mssios HOUSE.

Tn ancient mimion of San Saba, erst the
abode of Spanish monks,

of the ci-devant Mississippi planter,
for same words of descri tion.

It wood on the ht side 0 the river, several
hundred yards from the bank, on a plat-
fm'm slight! elevated above the general level of
the W”

The site

line
the

a‘
?

mumhry; the second, for the
of mama

flood. .
marchitectm‘sl style the mimion house itself !

didnotdiifergrestlyfromwhatma beseenin
mostlexicauhaciendas ‘y

Itwas a grand qnadningular structure with
anunooveredcourtinthe center,me the
uameofpatio. Around thisranacove 3.1.
[mar corridor, upon which Opened the doom
0

MWents.

But a few ows looked outside ; these being
easements, lased, but protected against jn.
grep by a 9:330: strongiron barssetverticall
-'-the latter termed reja. In the center of i
facade was a double door, of jail-like aspect,
,when it giving admittance to the passage-
way, ed saguan. Both doorway andpassage
were of sufficient capacity to adm1t a wagon
with its load, being intended only
grand old coaches such as lumbered along our
own highways in the da 8 of Dick Turpin, and
in which Sir Charles randison used to ride.
Vehicles of the exact_ size and pattern ma be
seen to this day rolling, or rather craw 'ng,

along the country reads of what was once New ‘
Spain—relics of luxurious grandeur elsewhere 4.

Behind the patio a second passage-way gave

anti-once to another and larger courtyard, de- .

voted to stables, store-rooms, and other domestic
oflees. Still further back an inclosure of nearly
an acre in extent was the huerta or garden.
l’l"“hli3 surrounded by a high wall of adobes, or

bricks created with a chevaux-de—

g3. of spinous ,cactus plants, was filled with .
t and

owering trees. These, once carefully
cultivated‘whut for long time negl
covered walk in wild luxuriance.
their shade. silenfly treading with 

DOW

____..._._ -4 4—. W

The Death-Shot;

he goal of their ,

wof jubilee, to eclipse anyt

now become the dWell- g

beenchosen forthreedistincti

orded ;and the third,to avoid a
onwheu the riverwasin‘

___. _._ _._... -

for those 3

nder |
(get, i the nabd eye they ensign/0t hhve hem known

 

or, T

or reclining on rustic benches, the padres used
to 8 nd their idle hours—perhaps as pleasantly
as t cir British brethren of Tintern and Tewkes-
' bur . Often did the mission walls echo their
“ a, ha I” as they qualified the choicest vintage
of Xeres, and laughed “Ha, ha I” at jests less
innocent than Texas, with its red-skinned abo-
ri ines, afforded them.

he mission dwelling—house was but one story
in hight, with a flat roof and parapet runningr
around its outer edge ; the latter giving it greater
ap arent elevation.

car by stood the capilla, or chapel, a struc-
ture of more imposing appearance from having
a tower and belfry—both lezarde from long
neglect—while at some distance off was a collec-
tion of mud huts, formerly inhabited by the In-
dian converts attached to the establishment.
This, called the rancheria, was screened from
view of the miSSion-house by a thick grove of
evergreen trees; the padres not relishing a too
close contact with their half—naked neopliytes,
who were but their peons, laborers and slaves.
In point of fact, it was but the feudal system of
the Old \Vorld transported to the New, with the
exception that the manorial lords were monks,
and the villeins savage men. And the pretense
at prose] ting, with its mo 1 mixture of

Christiamty and superstition, did not make this '

Transatlantic villemage a whit less severe or }
less irksome to endure. Proof of this ' ht be .

found in a presfdio, or soldier’s barrac —the l

remains of which were still seen atsome distance
beyond the rancheria. They who had been
conquered by the cross, still uired the sword I
dtorestrain them; which, it y failed in;
0mg.
Several of the huts still standing, and in a I
tolerable state of repair, offered a shelter to the
new settlers: most of whom had taken up abode :_
in them. They were Only to serve as tempo i
may residences, with better homes could be i
b 't. There was no time for this now. The l
sprin was on, and the cotton-seed must be got 5
into t e ground, without thought of anything I

else.

Colonel Armstrong himself, with his family
and house servants, occupied the old missio
which also gave lodgment to Louis Dupre

 

looked u n as a member the Armstrong
family. t only wanted a word from one in
holy orders to make him really so;

ready said, there was sue a one, who
out with the colonists. marriage
was but deferred until the cotton-seed
safe under the soil. Then

COM’

everseenupon

25$%%%$n pad celb tedf Inch
e m' era or

exhibitions, had ever got up, or attain

'ven to rest, with the arran

mm

racked to Death.

1
his belongings. The young planter was now .
o

ceremony I
should be v have been mistaken or a mule
ere would be a day I

lendor to exceed the grand— 

v mestizo—half 8

But business before pleasure was adage v
I adopted for the hour; and, afteradayor twol
ment of house- 1

 

35

as men. It would have been diflicult to tell
that, even with a glass. They had no fear of
being observed.

And not much of any settler straying that
way. Though less than five miles from the
mission-buildin , it would take a detour of
twenty to reac the place they occupied. A
deep, rapid river ran between, forda 1e only
ten miles below, and about as many above.
Besides, the bluff was a precipice, running
parallel to the stream, and for a like distance
unscalable. - i

The savages in their camp felt safe from being
intruded upon by any idle saunterer from thl
settlement, or even any of the hunters
to it. The place was beyond the limit, either 01
promenading, or the chase.

But what was their purpose? To attack the
new colony, plunder, and destroy it?

Regarding their numbers, this would seem
absurd. They were in all only twenty; while
the colonists counted at least fifty fighting men.
No common men either; but most of them so-
customod to the use of arms, many of them
backwoodsmcn, some born borderers, and
staunch as steel. Against such, twenty Indian
-—though the picked warriors of the warlike Oo-
manche tribe—would stand no chance in fair
2pm fight. But they might not mean this; and

eir intent might be only ' .

Or the might be but a pionee party—the
van of a stron er force?

In any case, their ehavior was su icious. It
told of some design, which, if carri into exe-
cution, the old mission of San Saba might still
remain a min.

CHAPTER XLI'V.
IYSTERIOUS PYBOTECHNY.

ON the third night after Colonel
had been installed in his newhome, amen °
have been seen going out from the mision- -
ing and making way for some distance fran h
w 8.

He was not seen, perhaps. For it wasthe hour
of mi ' ht, when all were asleep—the colanl
himself is dau htc Dupre, the servant—hi
sthrt, the W112}? ouse old. t f

oreover, e man wen orth stealthfly
through the back-door; thence across the 
courtyard, and along the passage lea ' into
the garden. Traversing this, he scrambl out
through

 

ssal- x a wall separating it from the woods,

which there was a breach.

There was moonli ht, and b this he might
0. But, thosfih
colored, he was not of this kind. The
hue of his skin showed a slight tinge of
which told that the shading came from Indian,
' of African blood. He was, in short, l
niard or Mexican, the atlas
half of the aboriginal race of America.

It is a breed not slugs evil-disposed, and still
more rarel ill-featur . So far as looks went,

old affairs the real work 0 colonizing corn- : the iniivi ual in uestion might claim to be

1 menced. The little
from the State
by turning up e fertile clod of
valley which had solo
seed of the famed glean/mum still showing some
of the staple attac ed, despite the “ ' ” it
had received was scattered far an
hundreds and thousands of acres. .

Around the ancient mission of San abs was
inaugurated a new life, with scenes of industgé
quite as stirring as those presided over by
‘ wnks of old. I being

as it as sure 0 prosperous. and more
‘- likely to be permanent?

One conflnin his view to the valley—regard-
inglonly the ol mission~house, and the vigorous
so on displayed upon the plain around it,
md have answered this question in the ear—

ve

But he who looked further off—raising his
1 eyes to the blufl on the opposite side of theriver
bottom where-the Inians had made halt,-
would have hesitated before use osiicat-
t have read,

ing. In that duskycohorthem
lormspecteda threateningthenewsst:
AJ-

, tlement.

; True, the savages were no longer there.

1» ter watching the wagons as one after another
moved up, and became stations?' in front of
the mission walls, like vultures eprived of a

painted lows brought

E away. But not ar. Only about five miles
from the clifls’ edge, where, in 9. ve of thick
timber, they dismounted and 9 camp.
Two alone were left; evidently to act as
l vedettes. They kept watch ni ht and day, one
alwa 8 remaining awake: an one going every
day communicate with those in camp. Espe-
ciall during the night hours did they ap r
g on t e alert—keeping their eyes constantly gilt
on the far-off ion—buildmgs—watching the
. window-lights that steadily shone. or the torch-
; es that flitted to and fro. Certainly watching
I for something not et seen. What could it be?
There was no anger of their being them-
, selves seen, either by night or by da . By
night they were shrouded in darkness; by day
. screened by the cedars under which they
. crouched or stood. Besides, their post of obser-
vation was beyond view of the colonists: With

were set to so' their paint, ‘
San Saba r common.
lain fallow; while the .

i cent of e ebrow over each.

wide over ; were teet

l lar serrature
jet-black mustache that lay alo

carrion repast, the had remounted, and ridden ‘

called handsome. e had a good shock of dark
curled hair, framing a countenance by no means
A face of oval form, regular fear
tures, the nose and chin markedly-Prominent, a
pair of coal-black eyes, with a we -deflned cres-
Between his lip
sound and ivory white, set in $-
, showing whiter in contrast a

his upper lip.

Taking his features—any of em shaggy—it
could not be caviled at—indeed, m' ht 11'0—
nounced of classic type. And yet e tout en.
semble was not pleasing. Despite its physiml
been there was something the face M

' be termed repulsive—a cast that
shnnkifi in the heart of the beholder. .
was it eyes that seemed to produce this -
.fect; their fiance  fear, such as an
'feelswhile inggaaed atbythe orbsofan

adder.
Itwas not always that this glance could be
For the mestizo when face to fees
with his superiors, had the habit of .keepinflh
eyes averted—(met down, as if conscious of v-
‘ing committed crime, or having the design b
commit it. .

Most people with whom he came in contact
were impressed with the idea, that he either had
sinned, or intended shining“ and all were char-y

' of giving him confidence. 1l\'o—-not all. There

A was one exce tion, and this a notable one: one

I man’ who t him. .

i It was the yloung lanter, Louis Dupre. Solar

i trusted, that e be made him his man of confl-

‘ denoe—head—servant over all the rest of his house-
hold. For it need scarce be told that the real

, master of the misswn mansion, was he who had

, made it habitable, by filling it with furniture ‘

, and giving it its stafl‘ of servants. Colonel Ann-

; strong was but head through courtesy, and the

3 t due to a future father-in—law.

‘, fiy the creole put such trust in Ferdand—

. this was the mesttzo’s name—no one couldun-
derstand. The. man was not one of these do-

. mesti whose integgittyilhad been tested by

two semce. econtrary,aswas

: meiiprehailnevcrseenhimtilljustbe-

‘ fore leavmg Natchitpchas; 15 the

Whfleorgsnizing or e expedl on, half—

: blood badprescnted himself,_and ofl .

as  acquaintance With

 

 

 

36

 

The New York Library.

 

 

_\

_,_-. .—_e—~

 

section of Texas whither the colony was to be
conducted. He was not exacting as to the na-
ture of the ofiice. He would go in any ea city
required, and on these general terms waslli: en-
g)aged. But long before reaching the San Saba,

upre had promoted him to a higher and more
lucrative post—in short, made him “major
dome ” of his establishment. Now, in the new
mansion he was honune des afl’aires, house stew-
ard, and chef of everything.

Colonel Armstrong could not object. He had
not the right. Still less, an body else. Out-
siders only wondered and s ook their heads;
saying, in whispers, that the thing was strange,
and adding, no good can come from it.

Had any of them observed the mestizo at that
midnight hour, skulkinrr away from his house,
had they followed and watched his further
movements, they would have indul ed in some-
thing more than surmises about is fidelity.
They would have seen enough to convince them
that he was a traitor—supposing them to under-
stand what thess movements meant.

To say the truth, they were somewhat strange,
and to those unaequainted with the pyrotechnic
telegraphy of the prairies, quite incompre—
hensible.

After getting some half mile or so from the
mission walls, so that a broad belt of thick wood-
land was between him and them, he made sto .

Then, crouching down over a flat stone, 6

ed gun wder upon it from a horn held
his han . The quantity was about what
would make the charge of an ordinary gun.

This done, he drew‘ forth a box of lucifer
matches; scraped one across the surface of the
stone, and set the owder ablaze.

It flashed up in road bright glare, illumining
a large space around.

A second time be repeated the maneuver, just
as before; and then a third; and a fourth; and
on, till, fontlie tenth time, the powder flashed.

Then turning away from the spot, he made
nack to the mission building, and entered it by
the way he had gone out, stealthin as before.

 

 

No one there was witness to the pyrotechnic
display. As already said, there was thick tim-

‘ ber between, and no one could have seen it from
t the house.

For all that, it was not unobserved. The In-
dian vedettes stationed on the far—off blufl, saw
it. Saw, and furthermore, seemed to compre-
hend accepting it as a signal. What but it
could have given them their cue, to leap upon
the backs of their horses, forsake their post of
observation, and ride off to the biveuac of their
comrades? Which they did, after taking note
that the tenth flash was not followed by an-
other. And what but that could have caused
the savages to break up their camp; which they
did next day. at an early hour of the after-
noon?

Had they gone south, or westward, the move-
ment mi 1: not have had much s1 ificance.
Instead, he turned north, along 1; 6 line of
cliffs, goin ack upon the same trail they had

en w 'e watching the wagons of Colonel
Armstrong. Then, when opposite the place

CONTRABTED mums.
where these had crossed the San Saba, they de-
scended into the river bottom throuvh a ravine
at that point splitting the clifl, and continued
on to the same crossing. .

Just as da was darkenin into night, they
forded the s ream: and set in their horses’
heads for the mission continu on toward it.
Not so far as its walls; on] to the wood, by
Whose ed 6 Fernand had flas ed the powder.

They dgid not stay outside the timber; but
mingbm among the trees, drew bridle in a glade
near .

J ustis they entered this, the old mission clock
Tttlzit day restored to striking—tolled the hour
0 n.

It was exactly this number of puffs the mes-
tz'zo had made with his powder: and the com-
cidence was not accidental.

The who saw them had no such thought.
They ew it to be a pre-concerted signal; the
same that had brought them thither. For the
prairie pirates the ten flashes of fire meant ten

 

 

o’clock of the night: the hour for them to be
near the mission-walls.

What was to come after, only their chief could
tell—he and his confederate, Bernand.

CHAPTER XLV.
IN HOT HASTE.

ABOUT the time that the plumed riders were
descending into the valley of the San Saba from
the upper plain, a second party of horsemen
entered the same valley coming from the Cole-
rado below. They were evidently travelers;
though without wagons, or other impediments,
to retard the course of their 'ourney. They ap-
peared to be traveling in ot haste, mounted
upon roadsters that made good time, and had
the look of having done so for days. One of
them was riding a mule.

There were five in the party. Four being
white men. The fifth, who bestrode the hybrid,
was of color resembling that of a new saddle.
hiIiltddog of deer-hound breed, was trotting be-

 

 

It is scarcely necessary to tell who they were.
The reader Will have surmised, that the white
men were Clancy, Woodley, Heywood, and
Harkness; while he of the tan-leather complex
ion was Jupiter.

Soon after crossing the Colorado, they struck
the tributary stream; u which they continued,

upon the trail that h been taken by Colonel
Armstrong’s emigrant train. It was easily fol-
lowed; as no rain had fallen since, and the long
grass still lay as when crushed by the wagon
wheels. Although riding as rapidly as their
Jaded horses co (1 o, it was mm 1; before they
came near the crossing lace of t 10 San Saba.
The moon would not up for an hour or two;
and it was so dark, that only one well used to
the way could have made further progress along
the river’s bank or discovered the ford. '
Still, Simeon oodley could haVe done this.
He had been there before, and was intimately
acquainted with the crossmg, as also with the
trail that led up the valley, on the right side of

 

 

The Death-Shot; or, Tracked to, Death.

/

37

 

 

the river. This, so lately tracked by Arm-
strong’s emigranthrain, would be all the easier
to travel; so easy, that the old hunter  in his
forcible phraseology, “ he ked grope his way
along it ef the sk war kivered wi’ a coat 0’ tar. ’

He did not m
in Clancy’s eager im atience or him to do so,—
this due to what Har ess had told him on the
Way. Besides some information which the re-

. creant 'ail-keeper had hastily imparted to them
on the nks of the Sabine, he had since made
other disclosures of a like startling character.
thile along with Borlasse and his band, he had
heard hints of a diabolical scheme that not only
cempromised the safety of Colonel Armstron
and his family, but the whole colony he
taken beyond the Colorado.

It was not of the colony Charles Clancy was
now thinking. He could have borne the thought
of its getting scattered to the four corners of
Texas, if he were but sure of saving Helen Arm-
strong from a terrible fate which he had reason
to fear was impending.

Over the head of his sweetheart, late doubted,
now more than ever believed, hung a den r
worse than death. He was hurrying forwar in
the hope of bein able‘ to avert it. N o wonder
at his wishing oodley to make haste, and the
nervous excitement he displayed while urging
his com anion onward.

been the same with him all the way
since parting from the Sabine. For weeks they
had been iollo wing the wagon-trail of Arm-
strong’s expedition; every day, as the si told
them, getting nearer it. But new they ad ar—
rived on the banks of the San Saba, and it was
still not overtaken.

Clancy’s anxiety but increased as they up;

ed the spot where the colonists were
inate their journey. And above all, as they
drew near to the crossmg-plaee of the San Saba.
For by what Harkness had heard, this was a
place of danger to be especially apprehended.

Had the emigrants succeeded reaching a
haven of safety? This was his thought, his all-
absorbing thought; and the action he asked,
as for a moment they had ed up, and sat in
their saddles contemplatin the wheel-tracks.

It was to Simeon W ey he addressed it.
Heywood, h0wever true his heart, was but a
novice on the prairies; Harkness still only a
prisoner on parole, and Jupiter a protege.

“ Keep y or patience, (.harley Clancy ” was
the backwoodsman’s reply. “ Take Sime ood-
ley’s word for’t, things 11 be all ri ht. Ye don’t

THIOW planter Armstrong as well’sfi do; though’I
admit you may have a better unnerstannin’ o’
the ways 0’ one as bears the same name. As for
the old kurnel himself, this coon’s campaigned
’long wi’ him in the Creek 2111’ Cherokee war, and
kin say for sartin he won’t go to sleep ’ithout
keepin one 0’ his eyes open—an’ that the one as

f sees cl’arest. Tharfor’, don’t you be unner any
foolich belief ’bout thar bein’ attackted on thar

ourney—eyther by Injuns or any other sort 0’
anditsi as b’lon to the Texan purairas. His
war too rong, an’ the men composin’ it
mparieuced, tovbe in any danger o’ trouble on
the way. That sir more likely to come arterwards
when thlesi’re settled down, an’ ain't thmki' n’ o
my susp' un. Then thar mout be a chancé c’
circumventin’ them. An’ then we’ll be thar to
meat it. Laastwise, Sime Woodley think so.
g‘harfor’, as we’re all tired down, our houses
more’n ourselves, I say let’s pass the night h or,
an’ gi’e the anymals a rest. In the mornin, by
early sun-up, we kin purceed on ’in. Afore
mid-day we shell sight the walls 0’ t e ole mish-
in’; whar I reckin you’ll find the thing you’ve
been so long trackin’ arter, all sound an’ safe.
More kumpny I won’t say a word about what
that thing air. ’.

This comforting assurance tranquilized Clan-

c s fears and checked his nr tience. He, with
trave ‘ g com 'ons an their horses, had
allnecd of rest. hey had been ourneyi for
over two Weeks, ate. rate of speed owno yto

‘ rsuers.
puln Woodley’s opinion, such haste was no lou-
ger necessary; and re] mg upon it, Clancy, the
acimcwledged leader 0 the party, gave his con-
sent to make stay for the mght, near thespot
where they had halted. . .

He did so reluctantl , and against his will.
But his habitual belie in Woodley’s superior
'udgment, silenced all scruples; and after 
in aniongi flip trees whey reached tlhgenzfir 3
bank, an terescc sprcperp , 6y
dismounted and made'csmp.

 

CHAPTER XLVI.
A sues-norm ssavm.

IN the former refectory of the missiod, which
had been converted into a very decent dining-
room, Colonel Armstrong was seated, in com-
pan with his future scum-law, and some four
or ve of their fellow-colonists of the better
class. It was on an eve
taking on of the place.

The hour was not late; only paulo-post-prsn-

disl,ifImaybesllowedtheuseof ssomewhdt
‘ ' tic ‘

expression.
‘ were still around the dinner-table, after
in bad withdrawn—drinking some (1 the
co clanUnd munching the well-preservel

e the attem t, notwithstand- :

ning shortly after their ‘

l
j olives which the young Louisianian planter had
> brought to Texas along with him. It did not
f need either the red wine of Bordeaux, or the
* fruit of Southern France, to render tne party
I hilarious.
The colonel himself, being of Scotch ancestry,
j had a penchant for whisky-punch, and atumbler
of this beverage was before him. His glass had
; been alrea‘iiig’Y emptied, refilled, and was near to
. bei em again.
i Hueg pleasant thoughts to elate him. His
‘ leaving Mississippi had been a good move. So
1 far things had ne well; and wore a promising
, aspect. His co onizing scheme, conjointly with
i the young Creole, looked in every way as if it
could not fail to have a successful issue. The
star of the Armstggn , of  egrs rathii:
waning, was again ginning 00 right.
would, rhaps, ascend higher, and shine more
glorious y than ever.

There was but one cloud to darken the horizon
of his hopes. This was the sad state in which
he saw his elder daughter. He could not help
observing it; since the somber melancholy that
had late settled over her spirit, was almost con-
stantly visible upon her brow. Indeed, he
knew all about it, even to its cause. For she
had confessed everyth' in waiver to his
rental solicitation. .. She , moreover, bangs:
made known to him the circumstances of her
clandestine correspondence with Charles Clancy
——even to the contents of that letter intercepted
bly the assassin. For the people of the new set-
t ement were ignorant of what had actual]
ha pened, and still behaved Clancy to be deal
an Richard Darke a murderer. _

The daughter’s frank confessmn caused the
father pain, with some self-reproach. It was
his own aristocratic pride-or, perha rather
cupidity—that had stood in the way 0 an o n
and honorable courtship between her and er
lover. Had Clancy’s addresses been 
the and might have been less disastrous. I
could not have been more.

Thus repentantly the father reflected, as, day
b dady, he saw his child do in spirits-as
alga eclining in health. e seemed destined
for an early| tomb—in truth fast hasteningto it.

At first e had h that the changc new
scenes in Texas mig t do something tothrow
oblivion over the past, and bring peace back to
her mind if not her former buoyancy of spirit.
He had also a holpe that another love might take
the lace of the out one.

A in vain; and Colonel , soon

be ntoseeit. It thavebeon erent
theb tedheart nthatof his

da hter, essie. With her the '3 pro-

ve , “un claw saca otro claw,” might have
had a meaning.

NotsowithHelen. Inherheartnosecond
love was likesguto have existence. The first was
still living, homing, there; though its ob-
ject no longer lived to nom'ish or keep‘it warm.

Helen Armstrong was of a nature, alas! too
rare am her‘sex-s-a woman of one love.
That won \ e would keep it all her life. 'Lost,
she would n t, could not, love again. Like an
eagle’s mate, deprived of her put-cud lord, she
would prefer to live her after- e in lone soli-
tude, or die.

Conscious of this, Colonel was at
times, himself sad. But fortime there
was a balance on the 0 er side—many cir-
cumstances to compensate and cheer him. The
Joy of his second child, Jessie; her exuberance
of spirits; the hopes that scented to halo her
young life, were ung over the future of all.

An then, t re was the excitementattendant
on the ind es of the hour, the enact the
cotton husba dry, with speculations as to the
success of the crop—these, and a hundred other
pleasant things kept him from dwe ' either
often or long on themes that m 'le but

There was no to distr '
ashesatattheh of the Jtabieinthc
old mission rcfectory. With the of steam-
ing ch before him, and a good cigar between
histhe th, he was conversing with his guesin, guy
as

For in 9 their conversation had beenon
ral subjects. Then it became diverted to a
’ifercnt topic—to a man who had waited upon
them at dinner, but who was no longer seen
within the room.

He was‘ Dupre’s confidential servant, Fernand
—who, as we have alread said, was house-
srtfifvard, butler, and facto um of affairs gene-

A’s’is usual with such grand dignitaries he
had disappeared shortlyan the rem of
the table-c oth, lowing a depu to look to the
glasses and decanters. There ore, there was
nothing remarkable about hisdefection from the
dining-room.

Nor would there have been aught observable
in it, but for a. circumstance communicated by
one of the guests during the course of the con—
versation. A young surgeon, late of Hatchi—
toches, who had cast in his lot with the new
colon , was he who made reference to the mat,
ter. It was introduced thus:

“FriendDu me. where did yon get that fol.
low who is set ng as your majordomo! I don’t
remember to have seen him on your
plantation.”

 

 

“ You mean Fernand? Well, I picked him up in
Natchitoches, while we were organizingazthem.
You know I lost my old right-hand man fall
by the yellow fever. It took him of! while I
was down in New Orleans. Fernand, however,
is superior to him in every way. The fellow can
keep plantation accounts, wait at table, drive a
coach, or help in a hunt. He’s a genius of won~
gerhful ,versatility; and, above all, devoted tohis

u es.

“ What breed is he?” asked another of Colonel
Armstrong’s guests. “ He looks to be a cross
between Spaniard and Indian.”

“ That‘s just what he is—at least, he has told
me so. He says his father was a S aniard, or
rather a Mexican, and his mother an dian wo-
man ‘of the Seminole tribe. His name is For
unclear but for convenience I usually drop the
final syllable.”

“ It s a bad sort of cross, that between Span-
iard and Seminole not improved by the Span-
iard being of the exican sort,” remarked the
second in uirer.

“ I don’ like his looks ” observed a third.

Then all around the table waited to hear what
the first speaker had to say about him. It was
clear, from the way he had originated the dis-
course, that?i the young  fingitilher knew
or suspec something‘ pre u 'c t ems
demo of mixed blood. He continued the of;
vemation by uttin a'seeond interrogam:

“Y

“Me. I M. upre whether on
characér with him!” ’ y

“No indeed ” admitted the young 
“ He chine to inc just before we 1e etchi-
toches, asking for an en ment. He profes-

ed to known deal a at Texas, and offend
toactas a de. As I had en guides, I
didn’t want ' for this; and then he said any

place would do for him. Seeing him to be a
smart sort of fellow, which he certainly has
raved, I ed him to look after my personal
. - ' I have found him useful in
was“ and  is m.“ memes:
e mg—even guar ago my
money-chest; which, it is true, has t inside of
it some thousand dollars, or t ereabouis.”
“ In ng himso,”pursued the surgeon, "do
you not think you are acting somewhat
dentl ? I hope you will excuse me for ‘ '
the o rvation.’ ,
“ Oh, certain] ,"wnsthe you planter’sfrank
 I‘I‘uButw ydo yout ' tolso,Mr. -
' ve you any reason suspect
nadd’s honesty!" ‘ '
“I have more thanone reason.”
“ Indeed! Ietus hear them.”
“Well; in  I don’t like the look
oftheman. Inevcr d sincethedayof start
ing out. Since 'I never saw or heard of him be

meat seteyesonhim, thoughIcu’ttellw .
In reading Iphysifiicmy anyone may be
taken; an shoal ’t have myself to
be led~by that. In this matter. however, a cer-
tain circumstance has contributed to the slap
ing of my judgment; in fact, decided me that
yourservant is not only dishonest, but that he
ma be something worse than a thief.”

“ orse than a thief!” was the simultaneous
echo from all sides of ' the table, succeeded by a
universal demand for explanation. '

“ Your words have a weighty sound, doctor ”
was Colonel Armstron ’3 way of gtfiit
“‘Wearenllenxiousto rw y " ”

“ Well,” the 0?an ween, “I’ll
tell you why makeuse them, what has
caused mete come to such sinister coch
about Fernand. You can all, of course;de

your own deductions, when I make known‘to ~

the cix'cmnstance I’ve spoken of. It is'this.

night at a late hour—indeed, midnight—I -

took a fancy into my head to have a strol upon
the prairie. Lightingaweed, IstArted out. I
can’t say exactly how far I may‘lhave gone; but

Iknowthattheci long Cls ’—
wasburnttonear 9 end before IR 011%”?
I

' back. As sts about do“ so
3% ymsdewttobethlzgootstepsof
amen,

the lower  of the river, where as you
all know, thereis nosettlement of an hind. I
might not have thought much of  had I
notnoticcd,sshepamedme going ortho
house her-egg“ he 1(ljlgnl’twk erectorcnthe
open crouc ' among”
mm’m it. g y’ “ping

“filming sway the stump of my ci I
after him, treading as stealtth ugh:
“Instead of entering by the front, he kept
round the garden, all the wayto the rear; when
suddenly I get sight of him.
“ On getting. up to the ripot where he had so
in nously P

course,he must have

ande

"msssim-buil atthe Nowwhstmwe
tomekecf m

i”
“What do you makecf it, WWW-ha

 

.E.‘

peered, sawthatthcewas.
wall. -

“m“m: m1; ._..'- —. ' ' - “‘

 

 

..,

m..- “mat-«A: «03.1w. nu o :.« .a »

 

7 I

 ._ . "an..."

 
 

-r w fl--«~,-.—...~-... ~.... .. n ._ ,r. ...... .. _...

. “Continue on, and give us your de-
ductions.” V

“ To say the truth, I don’t know what deduc-
tions to draw.

all of you will acknowledge were a little odd.
As I’ve said, I didn’t from the first like your

man of versatile talents; but I’m now more i

than ever distrustt'ul of him. For all that I
can’t think of what he was after last night.
Can any of you?"

No one could. The strange behavior of Fer-
nand, as witnessed by Wharton, was a puzzle to
all present. At the same time, and under the
circumstances, it had a reall serious aspect.

Several attem ts were e to explain it; all
conjectures an none of them having much ap-
pearance o probability.

Had there been any nei hboring settlement
of civilized men, Dupre’s omestic might have

been su returning from a visit to it: en-
terin g thily, from being out late, under fear
of rebuke b his master. As there were no such

-' hbors, his theory could not be entertained.

the other hand, had there been any report

of hostile savages seen in proximity to the

lace, the man’s strange conduct might then

ve been accounted for, upon an hypothesis

that would, no doubt, have carried apprehen-
sion to those dis ' it.

As no savages been seen or heard of,
either on their way to the San Saba or since
their arrival; as it was known that the South-
ern Comanches—the only Indians likely to be
there encountered—were then in treaty of peace
with the Texan Government, the nocturnal ex-
cursion and stealthy movements of the half-
blood could not be connected with anything of
this kind.

.In fine, while a 112116 to the guests around
the dining-table, t e eccentric conduct of the
servant remained for the time an unsolved
problem

Amidst the free quafiing of claret, the gnaw-
ing of olives, and the cracking of walnuts—
these last of native growth, gathered out of the
neglected mission garden—the subject was
mp“; the conversation reverting to other

pleasanter themes.

 

CHAPTER XLVII.
cosms'rnn Enemies.

Amn leaving the dinner-table, Helen Arm-
lh'on and her sister at first retired to the sala,
a sitging-room. This, though large, was not a

,very pleasant apartment, and little used by the
'monks, who in their postprandial hours pre-
terred sticking to the refectory. As yet but
scantil furnished, and not very brilliantly lit
up, it ooked somewhat dismal. More so, that
on this evening the two yxoung ladies were with-
out any compan of the own sex. The guests
at dinner were ut a few gentlemen, who had
in uninvited; by the customs of Texan
tality, not the less welcome for that.

room was too dismal for Jessie, who soon

made this known.
. “Come, sisterl” said she, “let us go outside.
Better than eta ' in this gloomy cavern.
There’s a beaut' ul moonlight. and we may en-
jolg it What say you to a stroll through the
0 en? A queer place it is, and there may
be , there. You’re not afraid of them. are

you

‘ . “. No,” answered Helen, in a tone that told of

sad mbrances. “I might have been once-

I was, when a child. But no ghost could

boaremenow. IfeelasifIcoulddareboththe
and the dead.” .

“, me, then! Let us out to the garden; and
if;we meet a monk in his hood and cowl—ah
theuI shallcertainlyrun inasfast as myfeet
cancarry me. Come along!” ,

Keeping up this jesting bravado, Jessie led
the way out.
oonrty thatw‘d’ ke tin thro h tlgmmnd

ar , an p on ug passage
that gave entrance to the garden.

Once inside it, the unhooked their arms, and
strolled on thro he inclosure.

For a time bot remained silent, lookin at
the objects around. The southern moo ht
fell with soft eifulgence upon flowers that gave
forth a fragrance teful to the sense of smell;
while that of hearin was tified by the music
of the ozenzontle—t ie m g-bird of Mexico.
As they entered the garden, one that sat perch-
ed upon the top of a China tree, was pouring
forth its mimic song, in loud onate strains.

Itceased (m seeing the intru ers, though it had
noth to fear from them. The silence that

was broken b Jessie, as the girl con-
tinued on down the gar en. She said:

“ What sybarites the old res must have
been! Look at the way they

ndsl See the seats placed under shade trees.
how pretty that fountain must have looked
when it was playing! Whatever may be alle
about tolgair (fistula, it Regcadmitted t ey
Y 8 W150 ape-sawmills,
they had an eye to good li as well.”

“ Y ” responded Ellen; “ he certainly
a taste, or fruit; and a remai- fondness for
it, I should say. They appear to have relished

‘ every mum it.” .

She said glancing around at the trees.

The New York L'

I confess myself unable to ae— F
count for the fellow’s movements; which I think ,

ve laid out these 3

l
I They were fruit-trees of most species that send
i their products to market. Among them oranges,
, limes, and shaddocks; mangos, guavas, and gren-
adines; peaches, and quinces; with the repre-
‘ sentatives of a more northern cliine, as pears,
i apples, apricots, lums, pome anates, cherries,
and nectarines. ere and t ere a cocoa-palm
raised its luined head, towering far above the
l tops of tie exogenous species; and in warm,
“ shady 8 ts could be seen the broad shining
1 leaves 0 the plantain and banana. Not all were
g observable at that hour; but the girls had been
in the garden before and knew they were there.
But few of the a ve-nained fruit-trees are
indigenous to Texas. They had been introduced
into the mission garden by the men who, “ lead-
ing a good life,” also took care to “ live well.”
‘So much the better for us,” gleefully re-
marked Jessie. “ From so many sweet-scented
flowers we shall be sure to obtain some savory
fruit when the time comes. Ahl won’t it be a

and the fountains restored? Louis has promise

is planted. It will then be a perfect paradise of
a place.”

‘I like it better as it is, in the wild state.
There’s something in its very desolation that
suits in irit.”

“Sis r.’returned Jessie, “I’m rised to
hear you speak in that way. Our ing in
Texas is no reason for our becoming savages;
leav' everything uncultivated, and living in
a wil emess. No. And I’m determined on
making Louis have this old garden and grounds
laid out anew; in as good style as the were
ever in, perhaps better. Yes; he shall do it
when he monies me—if not before.”

To this pretty bit of bante ' Helen’s only
answer was another sigh, as eep-heaved as
that which had preceded it, and et more ex-

e could not

ressive of pain. For, once again
help contrasting her own poor position with the
read one now attained by her sister. In reali-
fy, Louis Du re was master of all around, being
owner of ; though, to do him justice, he
fully conceded to his future father-in-law
e conduct, as also the leadership, in eve —
thing. But there was a master above boxth,
whom the young planter dared not disobey;
one who led him in a silken leash, stro
any chain of iron. This was his ,
whose golden tresses were dearer to him than
all the gold he had t rted into Texas.
At thou ht of all this, elen Armstrong, once

r than

proud, r ps felt some humiliation. She could
not w hel it. But in her crushed heart there
was no i ousy, no. even envy, at her sister’s

ortunes. Could Charles Clanc have

smiling0

come life again, now that she knew e had
been true; even to share with her the humblest
hut in Texas—all the splendors awarded to her
sister, all the grandeurs of earth, would not
have 'ven her one emotion more; nor could
they, any way, have excited her thoughts to
en

She made no reply to her sister's enthusiastic
h; who, givin way to the pleasant fancies

0 the future, w ed on to the bottom of the
garden, playfully striking at the flowers as she

Helen followed in silence; and not 2’ Jther
word was till theyhed reached tl’ lower
end. Then Jessie stopping, turned round, and
the two were face to face.

BilIt was iln tge fitnh moonlight; and. 
very an or e oun rsawan p -
ly de ic on the cogntenience of the elder.

Wi h a sudden fear that her words ust spoken
might have somethihg to do with t she was

about to 3 other words intended to give
c'fimfort, w n a gesture from Helen kept her
, out.

In the spot where they stood, two trees o’er-
‘owed the walk, their leaf-laden boughs
arcading over it. Both were emblematic trees;

one mbolizin the most joyous our of life
the 0 er its dest. They were an orange and
a c rose. The former was in full bloom, as, in

sou ern latitudes, it nearly alwa s is; the latter
in leaf, with not a blossom upon ts branches.

Helen Armstrong, standin between the two,
extended an arm to each, an plucked from the
one a sprig, from the other a flower. .

Holding the latter in her snow-w te fingers,
more attenuated than of yore, she exterously
placed it amid Jessie’s golden tresses' at the
same time setting the other behind a plait of her
own raven hair; as she did so, saying:

“That for you, sister; this for me. We are
now decked out as befits us—as we shall both
soon be on for the bridal, I for the tomb!”

The words, seeming but too rophetic;
the wan cheek and somber, shadowy row seen
under the pale moonlight, all went to the heart
of Jessie Armstrong like an arrow With poisoned
point. In an instant her own joy was gone—
sunk into the sorrow of her sister. '

And she herself sunk upon that sister’s bosom,
with arms extended around her neck, and tears
:gigkling thick and fast over the swan-white

rs.

ulde .
It was not the first time that Jessie’s heart
had overfiowed with compassion for her sister.
And never more than now did she seem to need

 

. __ .i‘ w~£./_..__.~-

brary.

grand garden when we get these walks gravcledi 

this shall be all done as soon as the cotton crop ,

 

‘ by her, holding in one hand the symbol of t
and hapipg' life, in the other the emblem of daug-
ness an oath, she looked the personification of
sorrow. With her 8 lendid cast of features and
magnificent form— th superb, grand, com-
manding—she might have been regarded as its
goddess. The ancient 8013.1me would have
given much for such a m el, from which to

‘ mold the Deity of Despair.

l
CHAPTER XLVIII.
A SUSPICIOUS exams.

FOR a time the two sisters stood with entwined
' arms their cheeks in contact, their tears com-
‘ mingling. Jessie’s sobs were louder than the
t sighs she had essayed to change into smiles; her
[ grief greater than that she was trying to as-

fielen, perceiving this, rose su rior to the oc-
‘casion: and, as many times be ore, in turnbe.
‘ came the comforter.
Thus often do the scales of happiness and mis
ery vibrate upon the bee
l ‘ Don’t sob so, J c.
3 You’re a little simpleton, and I a big one. Come,
1 let us both dry u our tears. It was wron of
3 me to so what ’ve said. Let it be forgo ,
g then. e may at both be hap .”
' “Oh, Helen, i I could but that!”
Y “ Think it, then. You are happ , and I~l
, shall try to be. Who knows wha ti‘hie may do
I
l
\

 

—that and Texas?”

She was not sincere in her speech, and knew
it. She but counterfeited hope to restore cheer—
fulness to her sister.

She had well-ni h succeeded, when a third

,  appeared upon the scene, causing them
I o cease their caresses, at
' the thoughts of both into_a new channel.
' He whose appearance produced this quick
5 change—for it wasa man—seemed wholly un-
; conscious of the influence he had exerted; and,
‘ indeed, was so.

When first see he was coming fromtheback
of the mission b ’ ding, down the main central
walk, which, though of great width, was par-
tially shadowed by trees.

He was not stepping out with the air of one
who goes regardless of observation. On the con-
trary, he came along skulkingly, with catlike
trea , keeping in the shadow, eve now and
thencastinga lance overhisshoul er,as if in
fear of being fo owed.

It was this that hindered him from seeing
those who were observing him. The twogir
were close together, with arms still entwined,
on one of the side walks; they, too, in shadow.
On first hearing the footsteps they were about
to se ate. To essie they were sounds of joy;
for s e supposed it might be Dupre coming to
join them.

Only for a moment. The tread was too ht
for a man marching with honest intent, and e
impewtooshufiiingtobethoseoftheyoung

n r.

Soon they saw it was not be, but his major
domo, Fernand.

The first thought of both was one of irritatim.
at bein intruded upon. At such a time, in the
midst o sacred emotions, and by a man they
. instinctivel disliked—for Fernand was not a
favorite wi either.

Thought the second was, that the major—
domo was seeking them, sent with some

 

I from the house, which would of course be ex-,

, cuse sufficient.
; Concluding his errand to be this, they waited
' to receive him, both observing silence.

When nearly op ‘te the spot where they
stood, they saw the he was movingns‘tealthily;
and noticed other signs which on parthe-
trayed a prehension.

‘ Who. can it mean?” whispered Jamie into
her sister’s ear; who replied by placing a finger
on her lips, to admonish silence.

They remained motionless as before and
without further exchange of speech, till the
half-blood, still skulking on, came out on the
bottom walk.

Where the two paths met there was an
space, on which the moonbeams fell; ado}:
op 'te, in the adobe wall, a place broken down
-- he mud brick, that had crumbled into cl
forming a talus on each side, with a slope the
made it easy to pass over.

For a moment, Fernand halted in front of it.
Then scrambhiig up the s10 , he remainedin
crouching attitude in the reach—just long
enough to ve a e(glance up the en.

Agparen y satisfi that he was neither fol-
low nor observed he

. . down the op
site tingle, Xhegguhe was lost so the Zifw of El:
siste w o stood em; a.“ .
sibl trembling. won an

“ toneaithisthatcreatiueafterf’asked
Helen whose speech came first.

“ What, indeed?” echoed Jessie.

“ A question you, Jessie, should be better able
ti) abnswer thag 1. He is the trusted servant of

.uprezan sure ourLouisinust ve
told on all about himyl‘y h'.

“1(otaword hashe. Heknowsthatldeu‘t

iglkethgeidnan,andmrlilev&rdidftr$thefirst. I’ve
am as in in H

him—more than once.” y M an

 

it. For as Helen stood in the attitude assumed ,

“That ought to have got'thd fellowhfidb.

m.
Like a good girl, don’t. _

the same time turning .

 



 

\

 

 

p._.4_...__~_.. ..__... __

he knows it’s ' greeable to you?”
“Well, perhaps he would not if I were to put

it in that we . I haven't done so as yet.

'Fernand wasn‘t altogether to m

cially to be made so much of as iuis seems to

make of him. You know, dear Helen, that my 1
future lord and master is of a very generous and

- trusting nature; far too much, I fear, for some
of the people now around him. Louis has been
brought up like Creoles, without thou ht for the
morrow; perha )S a little too fond o pleasure,
'lhough not wit mat a good stock of ambition.
A sprinkling of Yankee cuteness wouldn‘t do
him any harm. As for this Fernand, he has in-
‘sinuatcd himself into Louis’ confidence in some
way that appears quite mysterious. As you
know, it puzzles our father; though he says
nothin to Louis about it. So far ehasbeen
latisfle’ ,because the man has proved very capa-
ble, and useful to them in their affairs. It ap-

rs he knows all about this part of the coun-

y, having been in it before. He is ver sub-
servient both to father and Louis: which other
.don’t like, I know. For my rt I’m mystified
about that fellow. Above , I can’t make out
what he’s after new.”

Such was the conclusion of J essie’s somewhat
golonged response to her sister’s searching in-

rrogator .

“I co ess to a like quandary,” rejoined
Helen. “His conduct, all alo , but more es-
pecially M. Du re‘s behavior to im, quite per-
,plexes me; as think it does most of our peo-
ple. Mr. Wharton, who is a sensible sort of r-
son in his way, does not hesitate to say hat
Louis act‘s very imprudently in trusting him.
That, however, is al mere suspicion, and might
arise m lookin" in Fernand‘s face. I don’t
think anyone could scrutinize his countenance
without coming to the conclusion that it belongs
toa villain—one capable of almost an crime.

There is something so animal—like a )ut his 3

e es—that Spanish expression suggestin the
etto, with a readiness to make use gf it.
Like yourself, I had a bad opinion of
him from the first judging him only by
his looks. Now, if I mistake not, we
have proof of guilt in his actions, or are soon
likely to have. From the way he went he
is evidently on some errand not bones . Can
you not give some guess as to what it is?”
“ No! Not the slightest.”
“Can it be theft, think you? Is there an -
thing he could be carrying away from the
‘ house, with the intention of secreting it outside?
Some of your Louie’s gold for instance, or the

pretiy jewels he has 'ven you?”
“ jewels! No: ey are safe intheircase;
100 u in my room, too, of which I’ve here

got the ey. As for Louis’ gold, he hasn’t
. much of that, as I know most of the money he
—more than fifty thousand dollars, I
Egheve—is in silver. I wondered athis brin -
,ing it out here in that heav sharpe,
a whole wagon-load of itse f. 0
reason, however. It appears that, among In-
dians and men trading upon this far frontier,
gold is not held in such esteem as silver is.”
“ It can scarcely be
out—if it be thcf he’s en in. He woul
look more loaded, and coul not have leaped so

for it ma 6

‘lightl' over that wall. He did not appear to be ,

anything, did he?”
"‘ saw nothing. And sure
was ski ping along like a op r.
“Ratersagdingll a e.
saw a man w ose movements more resembled
'the devil in serpent shape—except one.”

as you, say, he

The thought of that one, who was Richard “

Darke, caused Helen_ Armstrong to 3113 nd
speech; at the same time evoking
her bosom, 'ven to the memory 0
—Charles C ancy.

"Shall we go
Jessie. hat 1"

or w urpose.

“ To tell this of”what we‘ve seen; to warn
him about Fernand.

“If we did the warnin would be unheeded.
I fear Monsieur Dupre w' remain unconvmced
of an intended treachery of his trusted servant

' -—unt{l something unpleasant occur. After all
we' have as yet only suspicions. I propose that
we stay here a litt e lo ver, and see what comes
of it. No doubt, he wi soon return from his
stealthy prornenade; and is sure to enter a . in
this way. By remaining, and watching im,
we may find out what he’s scheming after.
Shall we wait for him, then? You're not afraid,

' Jessie?”

“ I am a little, I confess. Do you know

, Helen, this Fenland gives me the same sort 0
feeling I had when I used to meet that big fel-
low in the streets of Natchitoches. At times he

lares at me ust in the same way. And yet the
wo are so (I ercnt.”

"wen, since no harm came of your Natchi-
toches bogie it’s to be hoped there won’t come
any from th one. If you have an fear to re«
main, let as o in. Only my curios: y is greatly

by w t we’ve ust seen, and I’d like to

' ow the end of it. f we don’t discover any-

"t . it can do us no harm. What say you?

we go, or stay?" -

back into the house!" asked

The Dee.

I :
only hinted t at, for a confidential servant, ‘
liking; espe- I

told me the ,

silver Fernand is taking I

I never ,

asifih rem
ano eronel

th-Shot; or, Tracked to Death. 39

 

sister. Beside, we may find out something Louis
ought to know.”

Then,” said Helen, “let us stay.”

CHAPTER XLIX.

WAITING THE WORD.
WHILE Colonel Armstrong and his fellow-
calonists were enjoying themselves in the refec-
tory of the ancient mission, a band of men,

 

nearly three times their number, might have .

been seen at less than an English mile’s distance
from the place, though for a time not moving

l an nearer to it.
’ hey were halted in a circular spot of lade-
ground, one-half its circumference incl ‘ by a

cliff, the other shut in b a wood of heavy tim- l
8‘6 appeared almost as ;

ber, whose thick selv
impassable as the facade of rugged rock oppo-
site to it.

They were all horsemen, though not at the
moment in their saddles. They were standing

or movinglover the open ground of the glade, ,

em collected in a you near its cen-
ter; while their animals were ied here and
there to the trees. By the bridle-reins were
these attached and they still carried their sad-
dles, with such caparison as belonged to them;
showing that their riders had no intention to
encamp on that spot though it was ' ht and
the hour a late one. They were eviden y using
it but as a temporar stopping-place. More-
over, they ap’peared impatient to part from
it, and were at wait’ the word from one
havin authority to give it.
Suc a one there was; a man of large stature,
I who stood in the midst of the central group,
I nearly the head higher than any of those around
him. He, too, a to be waiting for some
. one—as if a scou sent out to reconnOiter.
l Clearly was it something, of this kind that
: kept them at rest. For, every now and then the
J eyes of the colossal chief, as also of the others
were directed toward the timber’s edge, as '
' e -ting some one to ap .
g efore reaching the p where they now
5 were, they had ridden a long way—ahnost the
‘, distance of a day’s ourney. The had started
‘; from a camp on t e opposite si eof theSan
i Saba; to which they had retired after watch'
Colonel Armstrong 3 emigrant train u the -
le ', and witnessing its safe arrival at eancient
m on. For it was the same band of prairie
Bylaws that was now an bivouac within less than
f a mile of its walls.

As alrcad stated, the had returned from this
camp, and eecended in the San Saba bottom,
from the bluffs beyond. They had passed across
the valley and over the river at the same place
where Co one! Armstrong’s w train went
over—the only ford available without ferry-
boats for nigh twenty miles. All this on the day
afteisFernand tlied giganthis exhigition of fire-
wor ,aparen m on specta rs.

N ‘ght gas darlXing down as they made cross-
: ing of the stream. Once over they kept on up
the other side, taking the road toward the mis-
‘ sion. But before reaching it, they struck into a
, thick wood, and ri ' silently and in single
‘ file, entered a glade— e same in which they
were new tarrying.

All these movements have been already made
known. It remains to reveal their motive—the
purpoaa of their silent, mysterious march, and

heir halt not intended for a continued encamp-
ment.

As yet this could bebut imperfectlysurmised.
For no one would suppose hat they intended
! attacking Colonel Armstrong’s colony.
plumed warriors in all counted onl twenty.
‘ All, it is true, stalwart and formidab e-looking
1» fellows—perhaps the picked braves of a tribe.

Still, there could be no chance for them in a
collision with the colonists, who could muster of
fighting men at least thrice their number. Were

most of t

 

 

ithey re‘p’aringas rise,and ' tea

panic? ho could lthisl No one, w owns
not of their party;

And many of t emselves might not have been

 

, able to answer the question For despite their
‘ savage garb, and bandit bearing, an air of dis-
cipline ap to pervade their ranks, while
: the giant acting as their chief seemed to exact
i from them a 1i e or death obedience.
‘ Perhaps as yet, he alone ,knew the exact
nature of the maraud they were aboutto make.
1 For certame was it something of this kind.
: No one acquainted with their movements for
l several days past, could have come to any other

conclusion.
them within the glade ob-

And now seein
serving their ex ted air—though at rest, look.
"118 “Don my

ing like panthers prean
‘ —no one, a witness to t ' , ut would ve
foretold trouble to the new 001mm and that
l the conviviality of Colonel Armstrong and his
E 31192:! was in danger of being rudely inter-
I I'll .
fie forecast would have been still more easy
to make, at sight of a man who soon after ar-
rived ln their midst, coming from the direction
of the mission-house. He came akul under
the shadow of the trees; but as he entered the

o n ound of the glade, and the nought
trill upgn his face. it could be recognized as t
of Dupre’s doubted servant, Fenland.

' I
charge. Dup 0 will surely not keep him, when  “ I’m not afraid now. You make me brave, I In less than twenty minutes after pal '

‘ through the breach in the broken wall, the b -
I Mexican, half-Indian made a pearance among
those who seemed of purer In ian blood.

’ On his arrival they crowded eagerly around
, him, as if expecting to receive some intelligence
I of interest to all.

This he imparted, but only in sotto woe, to
; their chief; with whom for some time he stood
‘ apart, conversing.

Whatever the nature of the communication, it
caused the latter to issue an order for instant
, degrture from the place.

p less than five minutes after, they were all
i on [horseback and in motion—moving toward
, the mission walls.

Fernand alone kept on foot, heading the caval-
cade, and gliding in advance of it with the
l agility of a squirrel—evidently acting as it:

guide

l One who could have witnessed the approalh
: of that plumed cohort—who could have seen
their savage faces, grim and ghostlike under the
horrid heraldry of paint—who had been told
where they were going and with what intent—-
would have sent up to Heaven a fervr-nt Er: er
for the safety of Colonel Armstrong and ' el-
low-colonists.

If still further informed about the men who
cons-posed the band of freebooters, the prayer
wo d have ended with the reflection:

“ Heaven help Colonel Armstrong’s daughters!

IfGod doesnot , afearful fateisinstore
for them—a destiny worse than death!”

CHAPTER L.
HORNE OFF.

Iristimetoreturntothe ' lsinthe fiden.
Having resolved to await t e commg k of
Fernand, and watch his further movements, the
sisters now bethought them of seeking a safer

of observation; one where there would be
as danger of bein themselves seen.

It was to Helen t e idea occurred.

“ On his return,” she said, “ he might straythis
wagr and not go up by the cinter \\ alk. We
ha better conceal ourselves more effectually. I
wonder he didn’t see us while liassinglput. No
doubt he would have done so, but for 's loo ‘
so anxiously behind and gomg at such ara '
rate. Coming back he may not be so much
hurried. If he should discover us, there will be
an end to our chances of getting Satisfied about
him. Where’s the best place for us to play

“Pg” . . . .
e two looked in different directions, in search
of a spot ap r0 riate.

There Cu (1 no diflicul in finding such.
The shrubbery, long unprun ,grew luxuriant-Ii
everywhere, screening the facade of the w

along its whole length.

Near by was an arbor of evergreens, thickly
overgrown with orchids, bignonias, and other
trailing plants.

They knew of this shady retreat; had been in
it before during dayligth Now, although the
moon was shimcgg brig tly down upon the trees,
its interior ar ed over by the thick foli
was in shadow—dark as a cavern. Once ins'
it, eye could not see them from without—no
 howneiu" " hisperedH le dthey

everypace, w e n;an ‘
startedto ard it

w .

To reach the arbor they had to cross the main
walk, and the place where the wall had been
breached y some rude intruders—perhaps these
sav 8 who had, long ago, made the unseen
deso ate.

The crumbling adobes scattered over the path
rendered it n for the young ladies' . to
step slowly and with cm. This! di 80, gomg
hand in hand for mutual suppo

They were nearly mm the go , where the
mindwaso n, adedbyei ertreesor

bbery. ere, exposed, their white dresses
floating ightly around them as the glided
silently along, they might have. been ken for
Iylp or wood-nymphs, moving under the
moo ht.

To complete the silvan picture, it would seem

there should be v cod-deirons as welL

And such in reality there \\ ere, not far off.
Demons, or something closely resembling them.
No sat *rs could have shown in more grotesque

ise t n the forms at that moment moving up
the wall on the opiositc side.

Gliding on, the syiph-like sisters arrived be-
fore the gap. Some instinct pcrha curiOsity,
tempted them to take a loo at t ie shadowH
forest outside. And there, as if under the spe
of an unaccountable fascination, they stood for
a time gazing into its dark, mysterious d :pths.

They saw nothing save the coruscation of the
fire-flies. Nor did they hear anything but the
ma] voices of the Southern night, to which
both had been from infancy accustomed. There
might have been other sounds. If so, they were
by these elmcured‘hami, to the sisters, inaudible.

Their pause, al 0 h of scarcely sixty sec-
pnds duration, was of this too lo . hHaad

ve

they kept on into the arbor, they mig
remained unseen, and, perhaps, escaped

tastrophe in store for them.

on when the
milling if

m «a...

Whamovertbem

They were about moving
heard footsteps.
d can

 

thecar'

 

 

 

 

4O

 

.. a.
a"

-...T,h.9;-NGW

 

Simultaneously a man was seen coming through
the gap in the wall.
It was Fernand.

No use, now, to attempt either concealment or
retreat.

He saw them—could not help it.

Nor did he show any desire to retreat, or him-
self shun observation. On the contrary, he
sprung down from the rampart and presented
himse f rudely before them. Rudely, indeed!
With the moon shining full in his face, they
read 11 on it an expression worse than rudeness.
The su ervience habitual to the inferior was no
longer there. In its 1gplace a bold, bullyin

lance, as of one who eels himself master an

esigns pla ingltyrant. His eyes were flashing
with a hvi  t, while between his lips, set in
a smile, his w ite teeth were gleaming like a

r’s.
fig: was an expression of sardonic triumph ter-
rible to behold.

He did not say a word. He had not time.
For Helen Armstrong oke at once. The proud
girl, indignant at his Impudent intrusion, and
toofearless to be frayed, commenced chiding
him in severe tone.

Her words were strong and brave. If alone,
the scoundrel mi ht have quailed under the
t“castigation. But 8 did not permit it to con-

ue.

Instead, he cried out, interruptinufilher, “ Come
on there! Make haste with the in em! Quick,
0r—

He himself was not permitted to finish his

ipeech, or, if so, the last words were unheard.
n its midst came a rushin , rumbling noise, and

the p in, the garden wal closed 11 suddenly
as by e hantment. It was a dar mass tha
filled it; t first seeming compact, but soon
scattering into distinct forms.

They were men' though, to the e es of the
alarmed sisters, t e looked more ke fiends.
No wonder at this, nce on the American fron-
tier the. typical of the devil is that of a
plumed and Indian. And those seen
upon the w , now makin way through it,
were plumed and painted In ions.

The startled sisters had but time to ve one
wild cry—a shriek. Before either coul utter a
second, braway arms had embraced them;
scrapes were thrown over their heads; they felt
themselves rudely raised from the earth, and
borne rapidly away!

_——.

CHAPTER LI.
Loom IN.

‘ COLONEL Anemone and his guests were still
seated around the dinner table. As alread
said, they had ceased to talk of Dupre’s suspec
ed servant; and their conversation was now
about sugar—discussing the point of whether
the saccharine reed could be raised in the San
Saba valley.

They all knew it could be own there. The

on was, whether it wo d pay.

As on almost every other speculative subject,
there was difference of opin on; some holdi
that it would answer well; others that it woul
not be worth cultivating. ky article, difil—
cultof transport, and too far from a shipping

While the discussion was  on, a new guest
entered the room: who wit on waiting for an
invitation to speak, said a few words that at
once put an end to the conversation about

fie words were!

“Gentlemen! there are Indians about!”

He who made the announcement was one of
Colonel Armstron 's fellow-colonists; though
not onew o woul have been invited to his

vate tab e, or even to a glass of wine after
er. He was of the class of common settlers
with the air of a rough backwoodsman, and
wearln the costume of a rofessional hunter—-
from head to bee . In point of fact,

he was one—Hawkins b name—who had come
out along with the colon sts, to act as game pur-

or.

e had stepped into the room unannounced
confident that the report he carried would hold
him free from bein considered an intruder.

And it did. On t e moment of his pronounc-

, ing the word “Indians ” all around the table

started to their feet, and stood waiting, breath-

lesst expectant of what he had further to com-
municate

Colonel. Armstrong alone spoke; the old soldier
showing the presence of mind befitting an occa-

sion of alarm

“ Indians about! What reasons have you for
thinking so, Hawkins?”

“ The best of reasons, colonel. I’ve seen ’em

:11 if.”

‘Seen them yourdalf? Where?

“Well, Cris Tucker and I started out this
mornin’ at an earl hour, intendin’ to make a
Eggd day’s hunt of t. We took down the river

tom to the crossing- lace. We then went

over 'to the further ban , because we’d noticed

plentgvof deer on that side, the day we all came

u e found the animals afiuin and shot
owin

roe does and a buck. In to ’ them we

got close in to the bluffs, where we saw an easy
path through a sort of Gully that sloped up to a

high plain as lies beyond. Cris believed we
might find buffalo upon it; and so we strung
our venison on a tree and kept on up the gully.

“ When we reached the plain above, we struck
out over it, and went on about six or seven
mile, but saw no buffalo nor any other game.
What we did see was something to give us a
start. While we were restin’ by the side of a
clump o’ black-jack timber, we fiot sight of a

arty of men, all mounted. e looked at

rst as if they were comin’ straigh toward the
lace where we‘d halted. We were both pretty

(1 scared; but just then they turned off a little,
and passed us—not very near, but near eno h
for us to see that the were Indians. We co (1
see their feathers an painted faces plain enough
as the sun shined on them. As we didn’t want
to get any closer, we kept under cover, and let
them ass on.

“ en they were clean out o’ si ht we start-
ed for home, keeping a sharp 100 -out not to
come across them a ain.

“While ridin’ bac over the upper plain we

didn’t see an hin more of them, not till we got
to the crossmg o the river below. But there,
in the mud, where the bank s10 5 down to the
water’s edge, were the tracks 0 at least twenty
horses, fresh made. It was darkish twili ht;
still, we were able to tell that. We could ll,
too, they were unsth animals, and could be no
other than them ridden by Indians. For cer-
tain they were the same party as passed us on
the uggr plain.
“ A r gettin’ to this side the stream we again
looked for the tracks. There were they, sure
enough, leadin’ up out of the river bed on to the
bank. Then the turned in this direction, and
we traced ’em 1 alo the river edge up the
bottom, till we couldn t make them out any
longer, as it had got darker.
about a mile below the mission here. Where
the savages went afterward, or where they are
now, ’tarn’t ible for me to tell. All I’ve got
to say is, w at I’ve sayed already: there are
Indians about.”

The information thus imparted produced a
startling effect on the minds of the assembled
planters; allto a man becoming suddenly aggre-

ensive of danger. The more so rom its ing
their first alarm of the kind. While traveling
throrfih Eastern Texas, where the settlements
are t ck and of somewhat old standing, ludians
had not even been talked of. There was no
chance of seeingan there. Only after drawing
nigh to the Color 0 were Indians likely to be
encountered, though it did not necessarily fol-
low that the encounter should be hostile. On
the contrary, it ought to be friendly; since a
treaty of co had for some time been existing
between t e Comanches and Texans.

For all this, Colonel Armstrong, bein an old
Indian-fighter, and thoroughl. acquain with
the character of the red-men, th in war and in
peace, had not relied altogether on their pacific
promises. He knew that such contracts only

ind the savage so long as convenient to him, to
be broken whenever the become irksome. More-
over, a rumor had reac ed the emigrants, that
although the great Comanche nation was itself
keeping the reaty, there were several small
hands of independent tribes—Lipians and Semi-
noles—accustomed to make intermittent “ma-
rauds ” upon the frontier settlements, chiefly for
stealiufilhorses, or anything else that chanced to
fall in air way.

For this reason, after entering the territory
where such marauders might possibly be en-
countered, the old campaigner ad conducted
his train as if passing through an enemy’s coun-
try. The wagons had been regularly corraled,
and night guards kept—both camp sentinels and
outlying pickets.

Them rules had been observed up to the mo-
giant of larrizal :ttlgéieér destinatgiog: rm. as

epeope go so own in e we
domiciles, and nothin had been hitherto heard
of Indians in that d strict of country, the dis-
cipline had been relaxed—in fact, almost aban-
doned. The colonists, in all numbering over
fift men, with the usual roportion of women
an children—to say nothln of the two or three
hundred ne (:0 slavl eemed themselvfiz
strong enoug repe any ordinary assa
from savages. They now felt themselves at
home; and with the confidence thus inspired
they had ceased to think about being mo ested
either by redskins or any other enemies.

It was for this reason, as we have said, that
the a parently eccentric movements of Dupre’s
half- reed servant, observed by the young sur-

n, had failed to make more than a passing
tab ression on those seated around the dmmg-
9.

.Now, after the communication made by Haw-
kins it apresented a more serious aspect—Was, in
truth, armineg suspicious. Everyone in the
room leaped to the conclusion, that the half.
blood inside the house was in secret correspon—
dence with full-blooded Indians outside, and
that some scheme was on foot, whether of pil-
‘fering or plunder could not be determined.

The thought of either was sufiicient to excite
Colonel Armstrong’s ests, and they all rose
to their fwt, ready to ke action.

The old soldier was the first to direct it, say-

 

York Library.

We lost them ‘

 

.. ~__.x_.;.~..._._...n-_»._-_-

 

' “

“ Summon our half~breed in Dupre. Let us
see what the lino“: has to say for himself.”

“ Tell Fernand to come here !” commanded the
young planter, the command being given toone
of the negro boys who waited on the table. “ Tell
him to come instant] !”

The negro hasten of! to execute the order,
and was Several minutes before making reap

pearance.

During the interval, they continued to dis
cuss the circumstances that had so sudden];
turned up; questioning Hawkins and receiv-
ing from him some further details of what he
and his comrade had seen.

Whatever new light was thus thrown upon the
subject, only excited them the more, in
their apprehensions.

These were still further intensified, when the
darkey returned into the dinin -room with the
announcement that, “ Fernan wasn’t to be
found!”

“What do you mean, boy?” thundered Du~
pre, in a voice that well-nigh frightened the
negro out of his wits. “ Is he not within the
house?”

“ Dat’s jess what he ain’t, Mass’ Looey. De
’Panish Indyin ain’t no whar inside de buildin’.
We hab s’arch’ all oba de place. De people call
out his name, Fernan’ in de store-rooms, an’ in
de coatyard, an’ in e cattle ’closure—ebbery
wha dey t’ink of. Dey shout loud nuf for him
to hyeer, of he war an ha ’bout. He gib no
answer. Sartin shoo e no inside dis ’ta h-
m‘iiixt'” Creol red d

9 young e appea imayed.
also the others, in greater or less de ,'accord-
in to the light in which each view the ma .

or now on the minds of all was an impresp
sion that there was danger at the bottom of
Fernand’s doings-serious danger—how near
they knew not.

At any other time his absence would have been
a circumstance not worth noting. It might
have been sulpposed that he' was on avisit to
some of the uts amend to the humbler
families of the colon ternity. Or the at-
traction might be a mulatto “ wench,” of whom
there were several, beloyiug to Dupre’s exten-
zfsive raggro-gang, some them far from ill-
avo .

The half-blood was himself rather a handsome
feIlOW, as also Egon to gayety. This would have
accounted for tempo absence from the
has: 3d his duties as its {aided servantabugggr
w e y surgeon seen, an a e
all, he report ust rought in by the ’hunter
Hawkins. The last had impressed e one
within the room, forci them to the $081
that Fernand was a tra tor.

The question was asked: how, coming direct
from the States, he could have an understanding
with the savages of Western Texas?

In answer to this question, Colonel ,
and Dupre now recalled to memory what
been made known to them by the man himself
—that he had visited Texas before, and hadbeen
all over it. While soliciting service, he had
fessed this much about Texan travel, wit a
view of supporting his claimto capacig. There-
fore, his bemg in correspondence wi Coman-

ches or any other Texan Indians, need be no
myste , should it turn out that he was so. It
would but the renewal of a former t-

ance. Though in blood he was but half dian,
it? physical t(laipgaearance and  charaxéteriuhs

e was roe-quarters a gins]. tripped
of civilgleld garb, and clad in true redskin cos—
tume, he would have looked the sav to perfec-
tion. 80 they all said asthey sat of him.

They were not going to remain long seated.
His unaccountable absence from the premises
had mused them to a pitch of excitement that
called for immediate action.

Still they had sufficient coolness left, to -
ceive the necessity of deliberation before
an steps. They saw the mistake they had com-
mi ted in relaxin their watchfulness. Their
reliance u n the exan treaty—with the fact
of no In havin been seen or heard of on
the way—had lulled em into a security which,
if false, might cost them very dear.

All within the room remembered, that at that
hour no sentinels were set, not even the ordina-
ry ho . If intended attack, it
might be made at any moment.

flectin thus, they resolved on at once tak-
ing precau onary measures. They would col-
lect a mini, and throw out sentries around both
the1 mti cnfbtfiilgn , aiiwfill as the toatIying
coecono u mwcmoetof colo-
nists were housed.

They only remained at the table to take an
other drmk, and then “ To arms!”

They had risen to their feet, and stood facin
it—some to quail! off their already half-em
glasses, others to refill them—when the door of

he dining-room was again thrown open; this
time With a hurried vio ence that mused all to
start as if a bombshell had rolled into the room.

Turning toward it, they saw the negro boy

11 entering—the same who had re the
a nce of Fernand. Fear was d cted inhis
face, and wild terror gleaminfilin eya; the
laltltiemi;8 1awry in their sockets, owing only the
W

Theirownalarmwas notmnch built

 

 

on hearing what he had to say. His words
were:

“ Oh, Mass’ Armstrong! Oh, Mass’ Looeyl De
place am full ob Indyin sabbagesi Dey’ve come
up de garden, troo back assage. Dar outside,
in de coatyard, more’n at iousan’ ob um. Dey’re
a—murderin’ ebberybody I”

At the dread tidings“ glasses dropped from
the hands that held them; most of them flung
down in fury.

They all, as one man, made for the door—still
standing open as the darkey in his scare had
left it.

It was not their intention to shut it, but to
rush outside for the protection of those dear.

Before they could reach it, they had coniirma
Lion of the negro’s words—too full. The saw
faces hideous with red paint; heads horri with
coal—black shaggy hair, and plumes bristling
above them.

But a limpse had they of these, dimly visible
in the o scurity outside. Though short, it was
terrible; like a transitory tableau in some fear-

dream, or a glance into hell itself.

The sight brought them to a stand; though
only for an instant. Then they rushed on
toward the doorway, intending to go out, re-
gardless of what awaited them. .

The were not permitted to get outSIde. Be-
fore t e had reached it the door was dashed
to striking the lintels with a loud clash.

his sound was quickly followed by another,
that of a ke turning in the wards, and shoot-
in a heavy it into its keeper.

luau were locked in!

 

CHAPTER LII.
MASSACRED wrrnour manor.

11' need not be told who were the Indians that
had shewn their faces at the dining-room door;
afterward shutting and locking 1t. They were
those whom Dupre‘s traitorous servant had
guided through the gap in the garden wall.

After making seizure of the rls, they had
hastened on for the house. the h f-blood still at
their head.

 

 

H The Death-Shot; or, Tracked towDeath.

Conducted by one who well knew the way,
they had no difficult in finding it. Under his
guidance they passe through the cattle corral,
and on into the patio. Until entering the inner
court they were not observed. Then the negro
lad, still searching for Fernand, saw them, and
ran off for the refectory.

He was too late in givintr the alarm. Half a
dozen of the foremost, f0 lowing him, were at
the dining—room door almost as soon as he,
while others proceeded to the front entrance,
and closed the great gate, as if to prevent any
one from escaping outward.

In the courtyard then commenced a scene,
horrible to behold. The domestics frightened,
and running to and fro, were struck down with
tomahawks, impaled upon spears, or hacked and
stabbed with long-bladed bowie-knives. At
least half a score of these unhap y creatures
fell before the indiscriminate slaug ter. Indis-
criminate as to age or sex; for men, women,
and children, were among the victims.

At first sight of the savages they had raised
their voices in loud alarm, uttering shrieks and

BORN]: arm—PAGE 39.

shouts for suocor; mingled with a piteous ap—
pealing for mercy.

Their cries were disregarded. One after the
other, they fell before their fiendish assailants,
like saplings cut down by the machete. It was
a scene of red’carna e, resembling a saiurnalia
of demons—demons oing murder!

It was short as satanic. In less than ten min-
utes after its commencement it was all over.
The victims had succumbed, and their bleedin
bodies lay along the pavement. Only a few ha
escaped; those who preserved sufficient presence
of mind to seek safet by rushing inside rooms,
and barricading the oors behind them.

Ere the ten minutes’ time was up, the sangui-
nary scuffle had ended, and silence was restored.
Then ensued a scene altogether different, pro-
claiming the purpose of those making the attack.
That it was robbery, and not red murder, was
evident from the way they now went to work.
Instead of continuingl their onslaught against
those shut u within t e dining-room, they only
left two or testand gnard by it: door.

 

 

41

t... v. a. u; -3 .-  w. “a. __ ._.,_.4. n. M.-.”— _h..._.

Inspired by hatred to the pale-face, or thought
of retaliatory vengeance, they would have acted
differently. They carried guns, pistols, and
spears, and could easily have shot, or thrust,
every man inside the room. They could have
done this through the door, or, more easily,
through the outside windows.

That they refrained, was from no motives of
humanity. The bad massacred the colored
domestics to sti e their cries. Their white mas-
ters were left unmolested, because the shot!
might be heard by other white men—their fel~
low-colonists at the rancheria, who would
come to their rescue. The slaughter and its
cessation were alike measures of precaution.

While it was still going on, a part of the
savages was otherwise occupied. T is was
com need of five or six picked men, the gigantic
chie conspicuous in their midst.

It was they who had first entered the court-
yard, and closed the dining-room door. Having

placed sentries there, they continued on tolan-
other door—that of a room that also opened into
the corridor, in one of its corners. It was the

 

chamber which the young planter, Du re, had
chosen as his sleeping room; where he also kept
the account-books belonging to this grand slave
establishment—along with his treasure. In it
were deposited the kegs containing his cash,
fifty thousand dollars, most of it in silver.

At the head of this party was the traitor, Fer-
nand. Something in his hand could be seen
glancing under the light of the moon. It was a

he .

goon it was inserted into its lock. The door
flew open. and the half-blood entered, closely
followed by the others. All went in, with an
eagerness telling that they knew of the shining
treasure inside.

After a short while they came out again, each
bearmg a 'barrel, of small size, but weight al-
most sufliment to test his strength.

Laying these down, they re-entered the room,
an: sgon retug-lned, similarl loaded.

11 again ey wentan came out, carrying
other barrels until nearly a score of then m
upon the pavement.

 

 

 

n-.

and those engaged in it, were left free to join
the part occupied with the removal of the spe-
cie. At he same time the sentries left to guard

the two doors werecalled away, and the whole ,

bend became clustered round about the barrels
of silver, like vultures around a carcass.

Some words were spoken in undertone. Then
each, laying hold of a keg—there was one each

for nearly all—lifted it from the ground, and ,

carried it off out of the courtyard.

Silently, and in single file, they assed across
the cattle corral, on into the gar en, down the
central walk, and out through the gap by
which they had entered.

Near by stood their horses, tied to trees, and '

well concealed within shadow. They were still
under saddle, with the bridles on.

It took but little time to “ unhitch " them from
the twins to which they were attached. Each
man did, this for his own.

Then they mounted, after balancing the ion-
derous barrels upon their saddle-bows, and t ere
making them fast with their trail-ropes.

When all were on horseback they moved
Iilently but rapidly away; the half-blood going
along with them.

He, too had now a horse, the best in the

troop—stolen from the stables of that master he
had so basely betrayed and pitilessly plun-

 

.. CHAPTER LIII.
. ’ 'rnn SCENE INSIDE.
WHILE in the courtyard of the ancient mis~
don, red ru hless murder was making havoc
With the co ored domestics, with only a wall
between them and their masters; while robber
wholesale was going on at the same time: milk 6
the refectory was a scene, if not so cruelly sav-
, almost as exciting.
ocpen oculd depict the feelino- that came
.Wer clonol Armstro or and his fel ow-colonists
when the door of the ining-room was closed
and they saw themselves shut in. Not only shut

. in, but positively imprisoned; ho lessly, help-_

’33st encagedl A, glance around he room con-
vinced them of this: which given, a stark, shud-
l'ering horror thrilled throu h their hearts.
. There was but one way 0 e 88: the door-
m leading into the corridor that skirted the

a  I
By this, the red carnage had come to an end; i

’ servan

simultaneously but with like result. In plan- !
; ning their missmu—building the monks had taken

care that it should be made safe a rainst assault

from the outside. The window rs were as

thick as a jail rrating; and, though time and _
i rust had somew at weakened them, the
' yet strong enough to sustain the shoe

were

man’s shoulder, or any pull from the stoutest
pair of arms.

For some minutes the imprisoned men kept
shaking and tugging at them; some irresolutely
rushing across the room from door to windows,
and back again ; others confusedl

that might he] in gaining them an exit.

None could found. There was nothing in
the refectory, except a dining-table and a set of
chairs, all useless for the purpose required.

They searched, gropiu in darkness. For, on

finding themselves shut in, they had blown out .

the candles. They had done it as a precautionary
measure: expecting every moment to be shot at
from the outside.

They had no fire-arms themselves—neither

ns, pistols; no arms of any kind. Even the

inner knives had been removed, alon with the
table-cloth; and the only weapons t iey could
make available were the bottles and decanters]

More than all did they regret bein without
their guns and istols. Not that w h either
they could have one aught to in 'ure the enem
that had so cunnineg put them rsde combo .
But shots fired—even a single one—might have
been heard at the ranchema, giving warning of
the attack, and brought their fellow-colonists to
the rescue.

After failing in their attempts to force a way

out, they remained for a. time at rest, hstenmg

acu 1y.

No re rt of mm, or other fire-arm, reached
them. nstead they heard shouts which they
could distin ish as the cries of the household

ts—all negroes, mulattoes, or quadroons.
N 0 voice of white man mingling in the melee]

And there was no savage yell ; such as is
usually raised by Indians, and kept up by them,
while engaged in action either warlike or preda-

tor .
fiche could be beam voices of the domes-

tics° these in a cent racas that spokeof
wildest fear. f

The »N6W-Y0rk-..P%P?arY-_

Ofa.

groping .
around the walls in search of any implement .

; experienced a greater.

' short while.

 

a—fi

 

These were the questions exchanged, quickly,
and with quivering lips.

No one made attempt to answer them, even
to himself.

All were alike under a spell of mystified a
rehension; some enfeeblec by it; others speec -
ess from the impatient, pamionate anger still

struggling within their breasts.

To the nine men shut up within the refectory
of the old San Saba mission-house—there were
nine of them in all—it was a sad, irksome hour
—perhaps the saddest and most irksome any of
them had ever passed.

To Armstrong, Dupre, and the others who had
relatives ex osed outside, it was agony inde-
scribable. he irisoners of Cawn re, or the
famed Black Ho 0 of Calcutta, co (1 not have

moment of such sufferin was enough to
drive them mad; and no dou t, continued, it
would have done so.

They did not bear it in silence; or only for 1!.
Dire paSsion again got the better
of them; and they gave way to ones and an
ejaculations, uttered without any definite am.

A plan, however, promising practical results
occurred to the humor Hawkins. In the midst
of the excitement he sprung upon the sill of a
window; and with checks ressed against the
iron bars, his lips protruded yond them he set
ulpma series of ones—calling for help. e did
t ' regardless of the dan r of being shot or

by the enemy ou de.

The others did not interfere, thigrgh they had
fears for his safety. They expec every mo-
ment to see a lance thrust through the window,
impaling him on its point. They wondered it
was not so; and, seeing him still unscathed be-
gan to think the assailants had gone off. is,

too appeared strange. . ‘
Haw ins kept on shouting, the h with no
hope of being heard by those resi ‘ in the

raihh?a' too late th ple fatigued

6 our was ; e b

the toils of the (inwarvingngd cotton-plan

in wouldbealla ;perhapsalsoasleefi{I
ven if awake, there was not much like 00d

of their hearing him. The huts were far of!—

nearly half a mile; and on the opposite side to
that m which were the windows of the refoc-

a grove of timber intervened-Ltho

 

At intervals came a cry that had in it the
accent of piteous appealing.

Then groaning "and meaning, heard only for
a short while, and as if suddenly and forcibly
silenced!

After that all sounds ceased; and outside was
silence like, too like, the silence of death!

Inside they too, were silent. Their wild ex-
citement‘ had’ subsided. After the first burst,
their throes of an y passion had given place to
feelings that her ered on despair. For appre-
hension remained with all its keen agony

If the reaction roduced d ' thoughts
it also bro ' ht ca mer redeem among

these was t e wonder why the savages made no
attem t to destroy them, but had been content-
ed wi simpliy shutting them 11 7

They won ered, also, at no having heard
shots, and only shouts, which the could tell
came from the, colored peo 1e. voice of
the Ethic inn—negro or In atto—is easily dis .
tinguish from that of his white masters. Not
a cry of Indian intonation had reached their
ears; no yell; nothing that resembled a war-
whoop of Comanchesl '

-‘ to, or central court of the quadrangle. Its

door resembled that of a jail, massive, made of

;thlck oak lanks, further strengthened by

transmrse c cots and Clasps of iron. An enor-

- i Mons old—fashioned lock, with a strong bolt,
g agave it security when shut—as it now was.

’ Of windows there were two, facing toward

the outside of the building; but both small, as

it omiimiended to give 1i ‘irttoa Cloister. They

were igh above the love of the floor; and fur-

i ther protected, against egress or ingress, by] ver-

‘  iron bars, so stout as to def the e of

r

trees standing close, with branches interlocking,

and loaded with thick foliage. It was a 'vege—

table curtainhathmugh which sound could not i

possnbly pene te, any more than through the

casemate of a fortress, or the massive walls of

a nitentiary. , ‘ 4
addition, there was the asof the forest;

the skirr of tree-crickets, e booting of owls,

the rustling of foliage, stirred by a stiff breeze.

But the old hunter had thoughts of his own—
a knowledge unshared by his fellow-ca ves.
On parting from his comrade, Cris Tuc er, he
had left the latter in a tent which the two in-
habited, there being no house-room for them
among the adobe dwellin This tent they had
pitched on the edge of t e vs between the
mission-house and the huts, a about a like dis-
tance from each.

Hawkins, therefore, was not shouting in utter
hopelessness He knew that Tucker would not
be asleep, unless it was the sleep of death. If
his comrade still lived, there was a hope that he
mi ht hear him. - *

l ’ on it, he continued his cries for help;

r“... _-.. i

ail-breaker or bur lar. e padres
, ', W while 'ng, did not muc affect the ight oi
w i the sun, More pleasin to them to see their re-
‘ tectorgable arnish with grand wax can-
dles a mete from the ceremonials of the
church; more a ble to think that, while
v quaflng and lung ‘ng, no eye of outsider should
see nor ear hear them. ‘
(in the door being closed, they who were in-
side did not at first fully realize the desperate-
 ness of their situation.
., ,. It was only after scanning the room around,

 

' and perceiving the impossibility of getting out,
What this became clear. - What could this mean, unusual in an Indian inter them with exclamations that in a
‘ Then the scene of confusio already wild, attack—a thin never before heard of? Who strictly Puritanical country might have been
welfollowed b a pause, in w ch intense emo- could explain be strange behavior of the as- deemed profane. ,
‘ tions and heart elt passions had fullest lay. sailants? ' , '
. As if from one throat pealed a slum taneous One that the whole affair might be , CHAPTER LIV.
intoned with an a travestie—a freak of some of the ounger and A noaam anon-o

shout. It was a cry of raga,

ml. -
accent of distress, as they ought of the dear HAWKINS did not send forth his voice in vain.

more foolish of the colonist fmte ty.

ones outside: these at no eat distance, but Unlikely as it w the idea was for a moment He was heard, though not until he had nearly
coparated from them, an as truly beyond entertained—hope ' the drowning man catch- shouted himself hoarse. ‘ -

, reach of their protection, as if twenty miles lay ms at straws. And it was Cris Tucker who heard his- shouts.

tw - nly for a moment. The affair was too seri- Not from their tent. Tucker might have stayed

ous,and affected persons of too much im r-
tanee. No one would dare attem t sue a
practical joke upon the stern old so dier Arm-
strong, or the proud young planter Dupre.
They were not to be so trifled With.

Besides, there had been the shrieks of the
domestics, distinctly heard, and in tones that
betokened terror, as well as anguish. There had
been groans mingled with them. These could
not have been from more fright, got up by a
mad frolic of merrymaking.

If this, it should be over, and the door would
have been 0 nod. Silence rei ed outside, anc‘.
still it was 8 int and locked. t would no; J6
the way to terminate a travestie. ,

. No; the revelry could not be ofsuen sort; and
they who thought of it ave up '5...) idea almost

can!
Colonel Armstrong thought of his daughters
' (in re of his fiancee, the others of wives an
. p dren. All more.or less had their share in
' the anguish of the hour.
For some moments they stood as if paralyzed,
-, 5 gazing in one another‘s faces in dumb despair.
‘ f t Then, anger again roused them to energy,
though the knew not how to direct it.
. The hun r Hawkins, a man of herculean
, ‘ r stren h, flun himself a'ainst the door and
‘ f but it wit his shoul er-blade, in hope of
' heaving it from its bin 3. I
> Vain hope! It resis the attempt, several
times repeated.
. i i Others joined with him; and a number of
f . groin, uniting their strength, endeavored to dash
i 0 n.

there all night, and wide awake, withoutasound
reachin him from the refectcry, 'oran other
panof hemission building. Aswith one at
he rancher-in, the thick standin trees, thewind
rustling their leaves the conce of night birds,
reptiles, and insects kc t up in constant stridu-
1(1):; clangor, hindered im from hearing aught

e .
That is, so long as he kept within the inclosure
of canvas.
But, fortunately for those shut up in the re-
factory he did not keep there. There was that
which took him out, and nearer to the place of' -‘~
their imprisonment. -
It was not more chance but came about thus.
The old hunter, on parting with his younger
assocmte, had promised soon to be back. There

 

T eir efforts were idle. It hinged to the inner as soon as it was sufgg . l was P- {nutter of supper soon to be brought on

1 a side, and could not be stirred—unless along with If the silence at rst observ by the assail-I' c0ns1stmg of a fine turkey they had shot the
, , its posts and lintels. These were as firm as the ‘ ants had mystified those insi the room that . dav; and Cris had commenced roasting it over
f stone wall in which they were set, and defied all coming after was equall inexplicable. There ‘ a fire kindled outside their little shieling of

canvas.
Before Hawkins left, the bird was almost ready
to be removed from the spit; hence his promise

was now nor shout nor s riek, groan nor mean
—not so much as a murmur! '
The profound stillness was soon more than
mysterious; it became pOSltiVOlWflH‘GSlVB. of y return.
hat had occurred outside? t had been 0 course, Tucker was aware of what was
done? Had the colored people been all killed— taki , him to the “ big house”-—-a.s the mansion
massacred, as it w , in a momont? And had bull had come to be called by the colonists. .
thoooicnistuhaud 0min“! He knewitwuan oftoomuch import ,

/attempte to dislod thorn. The massive wood-

" work, strengthen with iron elects, would have
i stood firm against the shock of a battering-ram.
Easier for them to have crevassed the wall, and

 W obtained egress.
.' » F the door could not be forced, they

'  vemrthccflortindeapair. I
i’flu windowsmuoxtaflsmpodghoth

 

i i t y  ‘. .

 

. grease out of ever

“LT-*7”  ’

ance to be postponed. What they two had that } These reflections led to immediate action.

day seen might affect the welfare of the colony
“perhaps threatened its existence. He was,

therefore, as anxious as his comrade, that imme- ;

diate communication
Colonel Armstrong; for which purpose Hawkins
had proceeded on to the house, Tucker staying
i0 see to their supper.

The turkey, a fat young “ gobbler,” running
pore, and causing the fire to
flare up around it—was soon “ done brown.”

should be made with ‘

Perceiving this, Tucker carried the bird inside i . ,
i prairies, as in a pate de fozes gras dc Stras-

the tent, and dished it upon the table; the dish
being a. platter of s lit wood, rudely whittled
into shape. The ta 10 itself was only a tree
stump, smoothed horizontally at the top. Over
it the tent had been erected.

For a time the turkey lay smoking; Tucker

having taken seat beside it, to wait for the com— ,

Eng back of his comrade.
At first the position was pleasant enough.
The savory odor that pervaded the tent gave

promise of an enjoyable repast. It was keenly ‘
\ppemzmg, though Cris Tucker‘s appetite did not I began to take the shape of apprehension. Not

After making them, the young hunter drew his
knife out of its sheath, seized the bird by the
legs, and cut a big slice from its breast.

‘his eaten another slice was severed, and

i swallowed. Then, carving off one of the great

thighs, he soon polished the joint clean as a
drumstick.

A wing was next similarly clean scraped;
when the hunter, now no longer hungry, com-
pleted his repast by chawing up the gizzard,‘ as
also the liver—the ast being a tit—bit upon the

ourg.

After this feat of gormandizing, Cris Tucker
lit his pipe, and, seated beside the mangled
remains of tlie meleagris, commenced smok-

in .
Tor a time the inhaled nicotine kept him tran-
quil; though not without wondering why his
comrade was so long in putting in an appear-
8.1100.
When nearly an hour had elapsed, his wonder

 

;. "i

.4 ‘,, I  ill  {I
1  , il

0

in

 

need this. It was well whetled without- for
neither he nor Hawkins had eaten anything

since making their midday meal on the upper 1
Iain, where they saw the savages riding past. ‘ longer stay in the tent. He would

he scare this sight had given them. cou led
with their haste to get home, hindered't em
from since touching food; and on arrivmg at
their tent both were half fainished.

As time passed, and his comrade did not

came unendurable. The turkey was gettin
231d. The rich aroma, that had set his appetitg
to a still keener edge, was getting dissipated—
dying away—wasting itsell on the desert air.
He could not stand it. any longer. He would
rather not eat his supper alonenthough there
could be no bad marincrs in his domg so. .If his
friend did not choose to keep faith With him, he
did not deserve to be treated otherwise than
with like discoiirtesy. Perhaps Hawkms was
enjoyingr himself up at the house—perhaps hav.
iir; a drink. or it might be two; indulging in a,
ioriiin of hot whisky toddy?
1L; ;3-‘. ho. Cris Tucker, eat his turkey cold ?

And for that, f

l t
. ' buildin
return, Tucker’s pOSition, at first pleasant, soon :

W  i 
ll ill.

I o l
M"

“M.
'. ll
1

The Death-Shot; or, Tracked tonDeath.”

l
i

i
l

. the circumstances he could not be

 

Ii iii  “All!

of nature, the symphony of the southern for-
est.

There was no reason for his remaining longer
outside the house. Though not on terms of so-
cial equality with these who occu ied it, under
eenied an in-
trader.

With no fear of being so considered. he en.
tered the arched portal, passed under the shad-
owed saguan, and once more emerged into the
moonlight within the patio.

Then, suddenly he stopped, and stood aghast.
For he beheld a sight, that caused his hair to
crisp up, almost raising the cap from his head.
Down in the hollow quadi‘angle—inclosed on
every side, except that toward heaven—the
moonbeams were falling in full efl'ulgence. By
their light he saw forms—human forms—lying
along the pavement in every possible position.
There were the bodies of men and boys, and
among them some whose drapery told them to
be women. They were of black, brown, or yel-
low complexion. And on all, either around the
throat, on the skull, or upon the breast, there
‘ '1

ii""

mi {umiiiiiu {,4
|' "Will" ‘ '
. I ;

i“ _
i ii lift
WWW

i‘ Hi
at Hull i

.1; , l!
in, 1“

iihmi'l‘

ii
I

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

svnpmsan BY PRAIRIE mama—mos: a.

strange it should, considering the reason for his
being left alone.

This soon after became so keen he could no
go up to the
flouse, and find out what was detaining Haw-

ins.

Donning his skin ca , and steppin

he open air, he set

. . out into
15 face for tie mission

was a hue horridly contrasting—a tint of crim
son that resembled blood!

It was blood, as Cris Tucker could tell; blood
fast coagulating under the cold moonlight. It

> was already darkened, almost to the color of

Less than ten minutes’ quick walking brought ‘

him before its walls, by the main front entrance.
There for a moment he pauSed, in some sur-
prise at the stillness that surrounded the lace.
his was profound, to a degree that was most
unnatura.
There were no lights shining through the win-
dows, though this did not mean much. Cris
Tucker knew that most of the eyes of the old
monkish mansion looked inward. Like those of
the monks themselves, they shunned being
stared at by outsiders.
For some moments he remained in front of

the massive pile, looking at it and listening. HO .

' could hear sounds. but only the nocturnal voices

The hunter turned faint, almost sick, as he
stood contemplating the hecatomb of corpses.
It was a spectacle far more fearful than any ev~
er witnessed upon a battle-field. There men lie
in death from wounds given and received under
the grand. though delusive, idea of glory. Those
Cris Tucker saw must have been given by the
red hand of the assassin!

For a moment he stood gazing upon them,
scarce knowing what to do.

His first im ulse was to turn back, rush out of
the court in , and away altogether from the
place. 1th all his courage—and the young

unter had a good store of it—the sight was
enough to terrify, and cause quick retreat.

He would have made this but. for a thought
that stayed him. It was a loyal thought, wor-
thy of a backwoodsman. It was about Hawking,

 

.‘r

f C
‘1',
I
His body might be among the rest—he was al- ‘
most sure it would be—and affection for his ‘
friend required him to seek for it. There might ,
still be breath in it—a spark of departing life,
on ble of being called back? 1
ith this hope, however faint, he commenced
searching among the corpses.

The spectacle, that well-nigh sickened, also
made him feel feeble. He staggered as he poses
ed among the bodies, at times compelled to step ;
over them.

He examined one after another, bending low
down above each—lower where they lay in 1
shadow, and it was more diflicult to make out '
their features. ,

He soon went the round of the courtyard and 1
completed the scrutiny of all. Living or dead, }
Hawkins was not among them. 1

Nor was there the body of any white man. 1
The stricken victims were of every age and both :‘
sexes. But all, male as female, were colored I
gopIHaves. Many of them he reco had I

ew them to be the house—servants of 'olonel I
Armstrong and Dupre. Where were their mas- 
ters? Where was everybody? \Vhat terrible :

edy had occurred to leave such traces be- |
hin it? The traces of murder—of a wholesale, ‘
sangui slaughter] Who had been the mur- ‘
derers, an where were they? 

These self-asked interrogatories, succeeding ,

ck on one another, bro ht Cris Tucker to a
and caused him to ect. 3
while he was reflecting a sound reached 3
his ears, ’ him afresh.

It was the sound of a human voice, raised as '
if shouting for succor!

After listening toitfor afewseconds, hebe—
came sure it was a cry for help;3
in? ap1f th $to come from . yond the fid-

, as e person so appeahng were on 6.
Could it be his comrade?

He did not stay to conjucture why Hawkins
should be shouting. He did not remain a mo-
men long? in the courtyard: but, leaping light-
ly-over e dead bodies, glided out through the
open gateway.

When outside, he made pause, and listened.
He but waited for the voice to direct him; which
it did, still shouting for help.

he heard as before. He was now al-
sure of its being Hawkins. The cries a
[to come from the eastern side of til:
ding, that usually called its back.

He made no more pause, but rushed down the

angle of the wall, breaking through the bushes

 

like a chased bear. -
; Nor did he stop, until under the window
jwhence p ed the cries.

ingoolring up he saw his tcgmrade’s Ex, press-
6 bars; card

the 0mm.

“ Crist 'llh’ickerl Its you, Cris! Thank the

“3%: Y . .

“ t does it all mean, Hawkins?”

“ Mean? That’s more ’en we can tell. We’re
shut up hero—’twas done bynlnndyens. Hain’t
mu seen them? The were do the building.

ve you been there ’

“ I’vebeen inside, an’ see’d a ugly sigh . Not
lndyens, but their devil’s work, reck’n; an’

’ve gone off after doin’ it.”

‘ What sight? But don’t stay to talk. Go
round. Get something to break open the door,
and let us out. Come, comrade; urckl” I

This brought the colloquy to a ination.

The young hunter hastened back to the court-

as rapidlyas he had quitted it; audlfiy;
hold of a heavy beam, bro ht it to bear,
a ttering-ram, against the room door
it mm; 533%" 34"" 13% “a.” 0nt " “WEE;

s , e e 0
Tucker, who was a stalwart Kentuck .

When it was at length laid , and those
insidereleascd, theybe elda I thatsenta
thrill of horror through their hearts.

But to Colonel Armstrong himself, to Du ,
as to most of the others, there was a Worse or-
ror behind: the dark shadow of uncertainty and
suspense, more dreadful than reality itself, how-
ever disastrous.

On escaping from the place where they had
m 3;) long and,i solirksonlilemrgfionemey

o nterr‘ ve y, eac ' o q on
most affecti‘i§ga himself. In the confusion of
voices, one could be heard inquiring for a wife,
gather for a sister, a third for his sweetheart-

l hopefully conjecturing whether these 
lived, or despairineg fearing that they would
find them dead—l with gushed throats and
bleeding breasts, hke hose they looked at upon

' e vement of the patio!

,g spectacle before their eyes was sufficiently

"appalling. But nothin compared with that con-
gjured up in their appre ensions, and which they
might soon have to 00k u . What they saw
might be only a symbol 0 what they were soon

to see.
And amidst the loud, sad, and varied cries for

wife, child, sister, and sweeth loudest and
saddest was the voice of Armstrong,
calling for his daughters.

CHAPTER LV.

 

l the domestic kind also

 

rumors.
is oonrt-yardoftho mechanisms
hmbnmfltdd.

 -TJShe -‘New.¥91fk. ,,Librarvz,, e

Those who rushed out of the dining—room did
not stay to count them. They were but the
dead bodies of slaves; and their fellow-slaves,
who had succeeded in concealing themselves
now cautiously emerging from their places 0
concealment, alone stood over them.

Their masters were too terrified—too anxiously
inquiring for those nearer and dearer—to 've
them more than a glance. They were in ear
of finding, not far off, other dead bodies, with
skins that were white.

As soon as released from their imprisonment,
they ran hither and thither, like maniacs es-
cagted from a mad-house.

ost of Colonel Armstrong’s guests made di-
rect for the rancheria. Wharton stayed by his
host, sharing his anguished apprehensions.

For, it may be here said, t rat there was one
among the missin on whom the young surgeon
had set eyes, and whom he had given lances
of affection whether or not returned. A alon
the route of their journey through Texas, he ha
been assiduously attentive to Helen Armstrong,
in h0pes of curing her of that melancholy of
which he knew not the cause. His was not the
medicine “ to pluck the rooted sorrow from her
brain.” Though neither did he know this; and
whenever opportunity offered had he continued
hisassiduities hopingl beyond hope. Therefore
did he stay by the si e of Colonel Armstrong,
giving what comfort he could.

The hunters, Hawkins and Cris Tucker, bein
both bachelors and having no incumbrances o
remained at the mission,
aiding the others in the search, and to stand by
with strong arms in the event of the Indians
returning to renew the attack.

For it was still not certain‘ they were gone

uite away. They might come back to com lete
t e mamacre left so inexplicably unflnish .

Of all, Dupre seemed to suffer most. Frenzied
with the ny of the hour the fyoung Creole
rantoaud ro,as ifbesidehimsel._

Colonel Armstrong felt askeenl as he, thou h
the old soldier showed greater see. As e
called for his children, in turn pronouncing their
names, the remnant of the household servants
came clusterin around him. ‘

Helen’s mai was among them, the mulatte
grl Julia. She had evaded the slaughter by

utting herself up in her young mistress’ sleep-
ing-chamber.

‘ Where are they, Jule—my daughters?” was
the earnest interrogates-y of her master. '

The girl, half-hysterical, could oniy give an-
swer in short, bro en sentences, with pauses be-
tween. Convulsivel she exclaimed: -

“ Massa Colonel— ama Du re—the young In-
dies both gone out—the wen soon after dinner
—I not know where. ‘vae they gone into

thgfarden.”

ithout waiting to hear more, the white men
rushed out, Colonel Armstrong leading, Dupre
and Wharton close following.

tth‘reclnames ‘mflgéhssiel” rung through

e u osure, a eve

There was no answer, saverzc cos-from the
old w and other echoes r on—the re-
verbera cm of their voices in the forest outside.

The rden was soon traversed—searched
everyw ere. Now not with any hope that those
looked for were alivo, but a fear of finding their
dead bodies.

Th were not found there, nor anywhere;
and t e conjecture was, theywere not dead.
Tho h little less dismal was the alternative
thong t—that they had been carried of!

Up to this time Colonel Ammfihsdpre-
served acertainequanimity—themi strength

drawn from a and stern, e . now
gavewa,esteworstcame fore him. The
“M ‘w“£uii“¢"§l°’im’£2 Siflm‘ “
was on e o e .
The young planter was equally stricken, show-
ing it still more. . .
t gave them but slight relief, when their fel~

low-colonists came crowdin from the ranchers'a,
with the report that the notbeen
there. The genome dwelling in the adobe huts
had seen not g of the enemy, nor heard aught
of what had occurred, till awakened out of their
sleep by the return of those who had escaped
from the dining-room. '

There was need for much questronin now.
All seemed clear—too clear. A party of ndians
—no doubt that seen by Hawkins and Tucker-—
had beset the building, their aim bemgxplunder.
The half-breed, Fernand, was at the ttom of
it, and had concocted whole scheme: Know-
ing of anre’s tr .he had put himself in
communication with he ‘ savages, and obtained
their co-operation in carrying it 01!.

Coming through theegardcn, the robbers had
accidentally encounte the two girls, and taken
them away, rhaps as a measure of recautron.

This was t e summing up, hastily one, as the
colonists, coming in, e acquainted wrth
What had occurred.

And now what was to followl

Pursui of course! But how! And in what
direction

Fortunately, there was one man present who,
still preserving ooolnem, knew how to give
counsel. It was the hunter Hawkins. He

d:
“It’s no use,now,ourgoin’after them inn

 

 

hu . They’ve had the start too far. We
won dn’t haVe the sli htest chance of overtak-
ing them. Not till t ey et to their roostin’.
place, wherever that be. reckon, from what
me and Cris Tucker saw we’ll be able to find it.
But we must approach them %a different way
than ridin’ straight on ’em. ere were on] a
score in that y that’s been here, but t at
ain’t likely to be all the lot. There may be ten
times as many waitin’ for them somewhere else.
If ye'll take my advice, gentlemen, before start—
ing, you’ll fit out in a proper fashion repared
for anything that may turn up. en ye’ll
have a chance to get what ye go after. Let
Cris Tucker and me, and some 0’ the others as
are ready take a run down to the crossing-
plaee, and see if they’re gone back over the
river, Most like they have; but the ma ’t.
If not, you’d only lose time b all n’ ere,
beside not bein’ prepared to eep on. A few of
us can ride raprder, an‘ be back here b the
time the rest have their horses and other t ings

read .

Colonel Armstrong approved of Hawkins’
plan. Despite his impatience, the old soldier
could perceive that hasty, reckless rushing after
the savages might not only end in disappoint-
ment, but still further disaster.

It was a dread thought he had to endure—the
reflection that his daughters, dear as his own
life, were at that moment struggling in the
arms otf—Oh heaven! hinder him from reflecting
uponi ! .

Dupre, still agitated was calling for immedi-
ate action. He would have insisted upon it,
but for being swayed by the more prudent
counsel of him he now 100 ed upon as a father.

To this he at length yielded; and the delibera-
tions were broug t a close by all giving
assent to the proposal of the hunter.

By this time half a score of the colonists, who
had e back to the ranchen'a, came up on
their orses, armed and accoutered for the scout.

Cris Tucker was among them ' he, too, havin

9 off, and retrn'ned now on orseback, ho -

another horse in hand. It was that of his
comrade Hawkins; ~who laying hold of the
rein, and throwing his thigh over the saddle,
ledofl in stem, earnest silence; the others in
like silence filing after.

Dupre was among those who went, the reel
leader of the party.

For thebrave yonn planter, who had pl
into the waters of Red river to save
life of Helen Armstrong, was not likely to stay
behind when that of Josie was at stake.

Stricken with grief, the father stayed behind.
But not to give away to it. Instead, the vete-
ran campaigner of the Cherokee wars, as soon
as the others were gone, set about organizing
the pursuit thatwasto succeed the reconnois
sauce. '

Long before they returned, the colonists were

armed and equip ready to take saddle, pro-
visioned for a onghchase of the savage de-
spoilers—even th it should lead them to the
heart of that does , of which the

had heard
so much—the famed Llano .

CHAPTER LVI.
mums museum.

Wm in tonesof terrible dishes—them
accents of —Colonel Armstrong was call-
ing‘for his ughters, they were far beyond
reach of his voice.

Unless very near, they could not at that mo-
ment have heard him. For both were hooded
like hawks; the blankets thrown over their
headséobeing bound around their necks so close-
ly as almost smother them.

. But they were not near now; and every
minute moving further away.

Where were they, and w ther going!

Lotus follow, and find. Let us trace them
alon thetrack bywhich the weretaken; be-
g: inthegardenwhere eystood face to

w th Fernand.

Theirbeing blindfolded, and lifted suddenly
aloft, wasto them no mystery. 'Theyknew t
was done by men. '

While about to chide the major-domo for his
intrusion—still more for the air of impudence
he had assumed—they saw behind him what ex-

lained both. It was no mere bravado by an

lent subordinate, but the triumph of a be-
trayer. His commands quick succeeding—to
some one unseen—put .this beyond doubt; for
tax were orders :peedil executed.

. ey who obey coul not be other than In-
drans. The girls on bemg seized hold of, before
the scrapes were thrown over their heads, had
caught sight of buckskin dresses, plumes and
painted faces.

The arms that raised them from the ground,
and bore them rapidly away, could be no other
than the brawny arms of savages.

Onl for a short distance were the thus trans:
p: — over the talus of turn led bricks,

rough the breach in the broken wall, and a
few paces further.

Then they were placed upon the backs of
horses—upgn saddle-croups; each with a man
mounted front. To these the were attached
h ropesof rawhide; some on ootassisting in

double mount.
all thh this had not submitted. either per

 

\

The__l)eath-Shot; or, Tracked to Death.

 

tiently, or in silence. Both had struggled, and

yen utterance to loud shrieks. In vain. Onl
t e first could have been heard any distance 0 ;
the others were inaudible at ten paces.

But no one was near to hear—no one with any
thought of befriending them. They were sur-
roun ed only by enemies—red, ruthles despoil—
ers to two of whom they were tied.

After being secured, they were started off at a

nick pace, and soon ceased to struggle and
s out. They saw that to do either was idle.
They were now far away from the missmn walls-
from those who might have heard and could
have succored them.

For nearly an hour they were hurried along,
suffering extreme torture the while. Pain
bodily as mental, for the blankets hooding their
heads were of Mexican fabric—scrapes of Sal-
tillo—so close woven as to be waterproof. So
shrouded, they were in danger of suffocation.

Perceiving this, their captors made stop and
with their knives ripped open the central slits—
hitherto stitched u thus giving them a chance
to inhale a little air.

Was it a spark of compassion lingering within
the savage breast? Or only to preserve the pre-
cious sporl they had taken?

Whatever might be the motive, their ca tives
had little time to reflect upon it; for the orses
were once more set in motion. and spurred on
to the same hurried ce. .

Hitherto they not exchanged speech—
partly because the mnfiiing prevented it—but
more from their bein under a sort of paralysis
1-surprise, followed iy the dumbness of de-

The behavior of their guards in allowing them

to get breath, whether from humanity or not,

ye them some satisfaction‘ and each now
ht of communicating with the other.

Be ore doing so, they listened; in hopes of dis-
covering from the talk of the two men what was
going to be done to them. Between these a. con-
versation was being carried on; but it was in a
low tone, and in a s tongue; and after
10 listening, they could make nothing of it.

ey knew there were but two who had charge
of - them. They could tell that by the hoof—
strokes, the not able to see either the men or
the horses. or the blankets had been opened
onl over their mouths, and their eyes were still
an r the blinding.

Hearin their captors converse in an unknown
tongue, t ey had confidence to s to one an-
other. As the savages would no be able to un-
derstand what was said, there could be no dan-
ger in their doing it.

It was Helen who first arrived at this resolve,
and first spoke. She said:

“Jessie Can you hear me?”

“I Helen; I do. Oh, God!”

“Ay, ! Let Him beour hope! He may
yet rescue us. Keefi up your heart—have cour-
age! Some me-I don’t know what—
but something ves me hope we shall yet esca
from these horrid creatures. It may be ’3
will. Prayto ' asIamdoing.” -

“I have, sister; am now. But, oh! what of
our dear father-i—of Louis? Both, I fear—”

“Don’t fear for them. You needn’t. I be-
lieve they are safe. I don’t think the savages
could have killed all our people. Some must
have escaped; and the ’11 be certain to come
after us. Ay, and they’ come in time to rescue
us—I feel sure. You know there are many

them notedaa great hunters and track-
ers. uch as they can follow us anywhere.”

“Louiswill lead them. Hewin give all his
gold. Yes, he Will—"

Jessie’s h was interrupted b a pea] of
loud, mocking laughter. It was dou le, comin
from the two men to whom they were ed. t
shook the bodies of both, till they feel the

Before it had ended, the horses were wading
knee-deep in Water. and the musing of their
hoofs rendered inaudible all 0 er sounds.

They were evidently fording a stream. A
Wide stream, as could be told y the long-con.
tinned plashing of water, whose cold spray.
dro dashed back against the blankets.

1%: sisters were again Silent. No wonder,
after hearing that laugh, intoned With hellish
worn as if it came from the throats of demons!

As its loud cachinnations became blended with
the sound of the surging water they were under
an impression indescribable. It was more than
fear -it was axe—appalling awe—i-I-land they
trembled as the orses wen ndmg

To both had simultaneodsl  the
thought that the men who them in charge
Were ndt Indians. I . could not have up-
what they had  Endently then-
und it, since. it had elicited that

of mirth, whose mocking tone told of per-
' 00m ension.
“find i532; no relief to know that they were
with white men; on the contrary, it but added
to their a rehemions. III: the  ggigaéatg:
spar o i -th
mm mg n” “me Whergas, the laugh em

would . .
have no humanityin the“ Mi
Mummeth

l \

45

 

 

Who could these men be? This was the ques-
tion each was asking of herself.

For, knowing that conversation could not $8
betiveen tthem without being overheard, ey
s e no .

pInstead, both now busied themselves in silent
surmising, their hearts full of sad presentiment.

Jessie’s belief was, that one of the two fellows
; was Fernand. The half-blood could Eng-
lish and therefore understand what ad been
 As to who was the other, She could not give
a ass. She did not even try. Her mind was
sufilllciently exercised in thinking it was Fernand.
She remembered the strange glances he had
from time to time cast upon her. Their mean-
ing, scarce understood then, was no longer to be
mistaken. And she in his power! Her blood

ran cold at the thought.
Helenz too, had her belief, alo with grog-
nostications equally repugnant. e had ken

it for granted that one of their guards was Du-
pre’s servant—the one who rode the same horse
with her sister. It was not of him she most
thought, or had most fear. Something seemed
to say to her, that the form before her, in close
contact with her own, was that of a man well
known—an enemy already declared, from whom
she need ex ct no com 'on.

It mi ht onl a fancy engendered is); her
fears. ut if no , and the conjecture ould
prove true, what was to become of her?

“ Oh, God!” she groaned, inwardly, as the
fearful forecast swept like a torrent through her
soul

Just then, the plashing of the water ceased,
and the hoofs sprung With firm rebound upon

6 .

Here the homes were pulled us, and the two

men exchanged speech. One sai :
“ I reck’n we may just as well set down hyar.
Ca said we war to wait for ’em under the big
I don’t see the use 0’ our in’ on to it-
gropin’ our way through them bus esand gettin
our duds tore b thorns. This 11plaice is every bit
as good, for al the time we’ hev to stay. I
em our fellows won’t make much delay, once
hey’ve got what they good for. They’ll be
arter us hot haste; and, seein’ how slow we’ve
come, they oughter soon be hyar. S‘pose we

hitch up, and wait where we air? . What (1’ say,
lootenant?”
“ No, Bill,” nded the other, in tone

zlai'ghtly authoritative; “ we shall go on to the
, and wait there. I have my reasons.”

“Oh, all ri ht. It’s jest the same to me. Only
I’m darned ‘ o’ totin’ this precious burden
at my back, beau tho’ she be. I s’ I kin

romise myself n to have the troub a any fur-
or as Ca ’11 want to take my place himself.
Well, I’ll agreeable to that; an’ if it’s an
gleasure to him, he’s wonderful welcome to i

on lead on, lootenant; I ain’t quite sure about
the way.”

He addressed as “lootenant ” this time did not
dei rejoinder; he merely touched his horse
wit the heel, and moved on along the road.

He did not proceed far—only about twenty
paces—when he again pulled up, and looked in-
quiringlg' toward the timber that skn'ted' the
ed’gial 0 he road. He looked on the left side.

are an opening was seen, and what appear-
ed to be a path, making into the thick-standing
trees. It was narrow, and with the sem-
blance of a cattle track, or trail made b deer
following one another in file. It was 1y
Wide enou h for a man to make way along t
afoot; ' more difficult on horseback

But that this could be done even by ahorse
double-mounted, was. proved by the lieutenant
turning his, and heading him into the path, with
an air of confidence that showed previous ac-
quaintance with it.

All thislwithout a word.

In like silence Bill entered after, and the two
moved on among trees, whose branches, laden
With parasitical plants, gave a double luxuriance
of leav that, arcading over the track, im
edtoitt appearanceofatimnel.

Along‘it they continued, the bent twigs swish-
ing bac with rebound, and clouting against the
cheeks of their captives.

As it chanced, they were protected by the
scrapes still over their heads.

But what cared they now? Or what need they
care? They maHde no hclgidnifilaint, nor thgiaght of
making any. ope eparted, an espair
stricken tgelaldunibit l{giving alo that sha-

o t ey e ' e martyrs in con-
du%pt‘o the stake, or victims to a scaflolfil

CHAPTER LVII.‘
P A RUFFIAt sit monumrim
aocunmo a a ow pace, now b
the dense underwood, now by the mm
in so close that the horses could scarce squeeze
be ween, the captives were carried on.

Not very far along the narrow trace; for it
was of no great length. Only some three hun-
dredyudgwhen itendedinano -this
easily told by the moon’s light ' down
through the tree-tops, and w tening the surface
of the ground.

It was aglade of circular shape, some sing
yardsindiametcr,a gantictreestandingin
center, and shado over half its surface.
mwenmmhmthatrunkfullfortyfeet

 

 

 

w-..

in girth, and branches spreading like a ban: 1.
Though itself an ever u, but little of its ver-
dure could be seen, ei er in summer or winter,
by day or by night. Here and there, only some
leaves on the extremity of twi , that penetrated
tllill‘ollillgh tlhlestiense masses of ' (ilnoss; this
t'c yc ring on itsboug an 
fii-fgmnery from its far-stretchang h '

Under the shimmering of the moonbeams the
hoary parasite now showed white and weird.
The deepening streamers, stirred by the night
breeze, waved to and fro, like ghosts moving in
a minuet. When for a moment still, they might
have been mistaken for the waters of a cataract
suspended in its fall, their spray becoming sud.
denly transformed into hoar frostz and their jets
to gigantic icicles. Centrally amidst these the
greatth ascended; grim and corrugated as

a skin of an alligator.

The hoary Titan of the forest stood alone.
For the space of two poles’ length around the
surface was clear of timber growth, as also of
underwood. It was as if the other trees, deem-
ing it their monarch and master, dared not in-
trude upon his domain.

There could be no mistaking the spot. Surely
must it be the rendezvous appointed by the
robber chief. \

The two men in charge of the captives were
evidently acquainted with the place. On enter-
ing the glade, they did not stop, but rode on
across the ring of light, and drew rein undcrthe
shadow of the tree.

The one in charge of Helen went first; but
when inside the darkened circle, waited for the
“iii.” Odin? u eads h he spoke

en on were er,
some words, only audible  intended to
hear them. They were:

“ You stay here, Bill. I’m going round to
other side. I want a word with her, before
resvtvour fellows fire forward.”th f ted

e speaking, e mgnalized e orm sea
onthe croupbe nd him,byaslightturnof his
head and a backward shrug of the shoulder.

“ All right,” was the response, significant of a.
sinister understanding.

The two parted, the lieutenant continuing on
around the tree.

When on o posite sides they were as much
sTeEarated as f a thick wide wall wasbetween.

e trunk was all of fifteen feet diameter, with
buttresses extendin beyond. It forced them
four timesthis ' ceapart; sothatthey
could not see and scarce hear one another, un-
less calling aloud.

He who had shown reluctance to leave the
river’s edge, at once set about dismounting.

He undid the knot, and let loose the rawhide
rope, that coupled him with his captive. Then
slipping out of the saddle he drew the latter,
down, and laid her at full length along the

ground.

Having so  of her he pulled outhis
tobacco pipe; ed it; struck a light: and com-
menced smoking.

Pipe in mouth, and bridle in hand, he stood
holding his horse; a parently without further
thought of the fair orm lying prostrate at his
feet. He appeared to be a stern old sinner,
whose weaknem was not woman. Perhapson
this account had he been selected forthcdnty
hewas now discharging. The ca ve he had
careof, wasnotspoil for him; and isdemeanor
told that he knew it. Instead of paying court,
or even deigning to hold converse with her, he
stood rigidly erect, his face turned toward the
ford, as if listening for sounds to come’fiwn
that direction. Impatiently  every
now and then a curse came from lips, be-
tween the s of smoke, betra m
He was t ‘ of something sweet-
heart; he was speculating about the stolen sil-
gfrtof Dupre, andhow mudi mightbehisshm

1

Very difierentwas the behavior_of his cum-
rade, as, also, the scene at that instant tran-
spiring on the other side of the tree.

There, too, was the form of a woman 1
along the earth—Helen Armstrong—still -
edinthesera ,conflnedmitbyoords.

Now more han ever; for not only were her
arms tied, but also her ankles. He who gum.
ed her seemed to fear, that foot—free she might
make an attempt to rush off into the timber,
and so esca him. To prevent it he had made
use of the late lashing the bodies of both.
With this he had tied her limbs together, do

riving them of the war of motion as electi-
:11 as if the sinews been severed.
r thus ’ his captive, the man

securing

stepped to one side, leaving her alone. He had

thrown his bridle-rein over a iece of bark that
ro' tedfromthetrunk of are tree.
t dnotneedthis; forhisfatiguedhorsestood

without stirring. ‘ g

He strode back to the animal, but not to
there. He only took something out of a
that hung over the horn of the saddle. It
like a towel, or napkin, that had seen service,
and was soiled.

Holding it in hishand, he walkedaway fun
the horse, directing his steps toward them:
which ran near by—eome Hazards from,
great ties, and le- than half distance M

V

.-. -4,

1 ‘- ;§~,-

sea» .4 fie.“ ‘

"l-. a.

A. 1.6.): v...-.- . a.

 

Jr

.l -..i._.l_.d- -0-.- -.. - . ....__ l ...n_.........-. .

46

The New YorkmLibrary.

 

the encircling lade. It was here approachable
3; a wide, we -trodden path, which led to a
lving break in the bank' evidently a favorite
' ’ gees for the wild forest creatures fre-
quenting e ad acent tract of timber.

Descending t slope, he stop by the wa-
ter’s edge and stoop' down pped his dirty
towel in the stream. on with a piece of sea ,

which he had also taken from the saddle-pone ,
he rubbed the rag till a lather was roduoed.

With this he commenced was g his face;
and continued the o ration till the color of his
skin was entirely c anged. It had been of a
coppery hue, wi a blotch of scarlet upon both
cheeks and a band of bri ht yellow traversing
above the brows—all this ing but the mslgnia
of an Indian warrior.

It took him some little time to clear of! the
escutcheon; for the paint had been laid on with
a view to lastin for at least some days. How—
ever the soap 'd good service, and at length
the face became fair y urifled.

No one, now, won] have taken its owner
either for an Indian or a warrior; but a white
man, with features not unhandsome—still hav-
ing a cast sinister as though they belonged to a
demon.

They were not improved by the change of
color. The pallid hue that succeeded their pur -
ing had a ghastly, cadaverous look; and wit
dark eyes, glancmg from dee hollows, the
effect was to produce fear in t 0 heart of the
beholder.

Nobody beheld them then, though, there was
one destined to do so seem—one for whom their
purification was intended. It was the captive
he had left under the tree.

“ I’ll give. her a surprise,” he muttered as he
iinished his lavato task; “ one such as she has
not had since lea n the States. I’d bet long
odds she’ll be more frightened at see' my face
now than when painted Indian I lai hold of
her in the garden. Now for'her tcrture and my
trium h.”

Saying this, he threw his rag into the river,
the soap along with it; and once more putting on
his plumed head-dress, strode back toward the

rec. !

When again under its shadow, he stopped, and
for a time stood listening. Once he started,
family-ing he had heard the tramp of a horse.

“ t can’t be,” he said reflectinfily. “No.
They can’t possibly have finished t e affair so
soon. I’ll have plenty of time for a tete-a-tete
with my fair charmer.”

Saying this he continued on to where his cap-
tive play. an ben down, commenced
spzaaking words that might well have driven her
in .

The first were:

“80! Helen Armstron l At length—at last
i have you, sure and sa e. Oh! it is sweet—

That voice—its tone—there could be no mis-
taking either. Besides, the words were si -
cant. She who board, could not fail to w
who had spoken them. -

Her thoughts, hitherto, had been but suspi-

‘ sweet—sweet!”

cions and ntiments. All this was over now
—éhang'h to certaint of the direst dreadest
kind. e man stoop above her head, and

speech into her ears, was the same who

made desolate her life.
He who said “sweet,” was the cause of all her
bitterness. Beyond doubt was it Richard Dorks!

CHAPTER LVIII.
‘ SPECTRAL nqvnsrmass.
mm lofWer. crouiisingaclilfs glle San Saga, so oft
o in our e. c or i on to
graphically. There the stream—2:21PM hundfi
ards in w dth—ran in smooth, tranquil current,
can banks wooded to the water s edge. The
trees were chiefly cotton-wood with a comming-
ling of oak, elm, tulip, wild China, an,
among them the magnolia grand . In
short, such a forest asrmaybe seen in many
rts of the Southern States. On .th sides of
0 river, for many miles up and down, the
timbered tract was continuous; extending also
back over the level bottom, for a mile or more,
till its outer selvidge became broken into glades,
some of them resemin flower (gardens, while
others were thickets of e own 0 gigantea, in
the language of the country “ caneb es.”
gagind, the bottom was open prairie covered

 

a sea of green, waving grass—the momma
of south-western Texas—this extending back to
the bluffs that ran e] to the river.

On each side of t crossing the channel was
reached by aroad, or rather an open avenue in
the timber which appeared to have been felled.
Doubtless it had been by the former roprietors
of the mission; or it may be the mill who
served its garrison. Since, e path been
kept clear of obstructing forest growth, by the
meof wild animals,—herds of horses and
cattle-as also by raiding parties of red-men
who rode occasional] sitting it.

On the northern si e Leiproached the river
by two distinct trails tha united just before
suite the wooded tract. One of these was
the road, comingp from the Colorado;
which after skirting tim
mil toward the .‘ e other ran

the hint; its ra d’atrs. beiw'“ '

 

gorge which gave passage to and from the up-
an p '

lam.

The former was the road that had been tra-
versed by Colonel Armstron and his wagons on
their way to the mission; t e latter tha taken
by Hawkins and Tucker in their hunt.

B the .former came Clancy and his com-
Eanihns On the track of the emigrant train,

lancy in time, rhaps, intending to cast his
lot among the co onists. But not till he had ful-
filled that vow, made upon the grave of his
murdered mother and satisfied the vengeance
burnin in his breast. Ay, still torturingehim,
as on at day when Richard Darke held fore
his fast-filming eyes the portrait of Helen Arm—
strong!

He had sworn not to take any rest, until this
urpose should be accom lished. The oath was
gurative; yet almost 1 terally had he kept it,

up till that hour when he and his companions
made their night-halt near the crossing of the
San Saba. Even there he would not have stay-
ed all ni ht but that his fellow-travelers were
tired an Woodle wished it. Clancy wanted
to continue on to t 0 mission.

Though he did not intend showin himself
there, or letting anyone know he was 've. For
that might frustrate all his aims. His ob'ect
was to ap roach the settlement, near enogfi to
git. news rom it, but still to keep apart, the

6 came for declaring himself.

He felt satisfied that not far from the woman
he loved, he would find the man he hated—hav-
in good reason for hating him.

t was a little below t e crossing where he
and his compa
who had hunted there in days us by, was ac-
?uainted with the locality, ans0 chose the spot

or their camfi.‘

As already Own, before reaching the ford, he
had diver into the timber tract on their left.
Thro ht ishehad conducted themtothe river’s

nk, ,a spot surrounded by low bushes, over
whose tops they could command a view of the
stream and the crossin place.

And soon after ma g camp, fatigued, they
all fell asleep. ‘

Allexcept Clancy. He could not sleep. On
that nigh was he more restless than ever,
the b not knowing why. Had he been endow-
ed w th clairvoyant vision, and seen what at
that moment was passing onl ten miles further
11 tream, he would have d suddenly to
h 3 feet, rushed toward his horse, calling
his fellow-travelers to follow; and then, plung-
in across the ford, without fear of what was
be ore him, spurred on toward the San Saba
Mission, as if the building were in flames, and
only he had the power to extinguish them.

ithout the ' t of clairvoyance, he could
not know of the rrible tragedy there bein en-
acted. Yet at that hour was his mind led
with a stran foreboding, something like a pre-
science of on]!

He tried to slee , but could not—not even re-
g was permi him. For long he lay

'n upon the grassy bed, the others asleep
sroun him, and soundly, as he could tell by
their stertorous snorin .

Wood] alone slept] htlythe old hunter was
habituatgizhas he sa , “alien to do the
possum ess, w1 one eye open.

He had repeatedly heard Clancy’s shiftings
and turnings coupled with involuntary excla.
mations, as o a man mnrmuring in his dreams.
One of these, louder than the rest, at length
awaking, caused him to in uire what his com-
rade wanted, and what was he matter with him.

“ Oh nothing,” re lied Clancy: “ only that I

can't sleep—that’s a .”
“ Can’t slee i Wharfor can’t ye? Sure ye
oughter be ab e by this time. Ye’ve had furteeg

enuf to put ye in the way 0’ slumbel'in’ soun’ as
a hummin’ . An’ e’ve slep’ tol’able well,
other nights nce we ck‘ Toxin sile.”

“ I can’t tc-night. I don’t know why.”

“ Preehaps ye ve swallered somethin’ as don’t
sit well on your stummuk? Or, it may be, the
klimat 0’ this river bottom. Sartin it do feel a

leetle dam ish, ’count 0’ the river fog; tho’ as a 
ng, the San Saber valley air reck’ned

general
among the healthiest
take a pull out 0’ this ar flask o’ myen. As
ye know, it’s the best onongaheely, an’ for a
sedimentary o’ the narves thar ain’t the like to
be foun’ in any dru «begin creashun. I’ll bet
my last dollar on st.
and see what it’ll do for ye. ”

“It would have no eflect. I know it wouldn’t.
It isn’t nervousness that’s keeping me awake—
something quite different”

“ Oh!” grunted the old hunter, in a tone that
told of com rehension. “ Somethin’ quite dif-
ferint? I rec ’n I can guem what thet somethm’
air—the same as keeps other yo fellurs awake,
thinkin’ o’ thar sweethearts. F0 er my device.
Takeapullouto’the flask, an’ye’ll soon be in
the arms 0’ Mo heous, whar ye’ll forgit all
about the gurl. or know ye needn’t now hev
any fear. The trail shows cl’arl thet they‘ve
go safe to their destinashun. 11’ cf We’re a-
minded We kin be thar ourselves, lem’n a ku le
0’ hours arter sun-up the marrow m ‘.
This"! nothin’ to hinder Mme minion-

in Texas. S’pose ye

house afore the time o’ ’; and of we
“Wt made welkim to a none 0' corn-bread an- a

nions had made halt. Woodley, '

ake a suck, Charley, ’

I hunk 0’ bacon to say nothin’ o’ the best 0’ coffee
doin’s, then K’urnel Armatron hev chavn’gled hi
ways in chan ' ’ his place 0’ a ldm’. an be
| lived in ole ' issip , Slme Woodley, for one,
: war allus welkim to e best in his house. You
say ye objeck goin’ cl’ar upto the place jest yet,
an you’ve "11 me reesuns. ps you’re
right. We , let’s not think 0’ thet now. Ye
want a nap, Charley. Put some 0’ this h sic
inside y’ur skin, an’ you’ll be asleep in the sheik“
o’ a goat’s tail.”

The dialo e came to a close by Clancy follow-
ing the old unter’s advice, and taking a “ pull

 

a.-. 4._.

from his whis -flask.”
After which e laid himself alo the gram;
and, with blanket wrapped aroun him, once

more essayed to sleep.

As before, he was unsuccessful. Althou h for
a while he lay trsn uil and courted  r, it
would not come. e again kept shifting about;
and at length rose to his feet, his hound starting
up at the same time.

Woodle , once more awakened, saw that his
potion h failed of effect, and counseled try-
ing it a in.

‘ No said Clancy, it would do no good. 1
don’t think the strongest singling-draught is
the world would be of any use 0 me this night
Simeon Woodley, I have a presentiment.”

“ Present’ment 0’ what?”

“ That we’ll be too late.”

Clancy pronounced these words in atone of
solemnity, that told of a prehensions keenly bit
-whether false or prop tic.

“ That air’s nonsense,” rejoined Woodley
in an endeavor to reason his comradeoat of
what be deemed an idle fancy. “The hight o'
nonsense it air to a sartinty. Wheesh l”

The final exclamation, uttered in an altered
tone, was accompanied b a stem-the hunter
sudden] raised his be from the saddle on
which i rested. It had no connection with the
previous part of his speech. In what he wu
about to sady, he had been interrupted by hear-
ing a soun , or fancying he heard one. Atthe
same instant the houn pricked up his ears; as
it did so, giving utterance to a low grow].

“What is’t, I wonder?” interro ted Wood-
i‘il" ii” “WWhmit‘” “nin‘zmfl'd” 3;

as ng e, eyess as e .
be:gain he animal jerked its ears, growling as

ore

“ La hold 0’ the critter, Charley! Don't let
him gge to . Thar’s somethin’, or some-
bogga proac in’ somew .”

arey caught the dog; drew it close
againsthisknees,andb speechandgestures?
monished it to remain ent. .

The well-trained animal knew what was want-
ed; and crouching down by its master’s feat.
ceased makin demonstration.

Meanwhile oodle had laid himself fiat
acting the ground, wit ear premed close to the

There was a sound, sure enough; thoughnot
what he fancied having heard but the moment
before. That was like a human voice, in laugh-
ter, afar off; and might be the “ too-who-ha” of
the t Texan owl, or the bark of the prairie
wo. Thlsnowreach his earswasleuamv
biguous, and he had no linculty in determ
its character. It wasthe sound of water vio
lently agitated—churned as by the hoofs of
horses p acres the stream.

, sagging e heard it too.
I The kwoodsmante m ' nottrtgmain mun:
on ; o a momen a-ure
r‘fiifln “1"”... is it w“ a...“ m- T"
00 way, on n .
06Voodley got Egon his foe and the two glen
stood close toge er, silently istening. .

Theyhad no needto listen longer; fortheir
eyes were above the tops of the bushes, and they
saw what was disturbing the water.

Two horses were crossin the river. “my
bad just ot clear of the tim r’s shadow on the

to and were making toward mid-
8 ream

Clancy and Woodley occupying
d, could see the houé. outlined

 

the
N hazing, and tell there weirne bu two.
or y any  out
‘ that they were mounted. t Ended em
I was the manner. Their riders di not a
[to be men; they did not look like an '
human!
There was a base oven- g the river, like
, gauze thrown over some precious ieoe of to.
; t was the white fllmymist that elfiargeeo
! beyond theirnatural sine, producing them

and riders appeared tic dimensions. The
former seemed Mastodons, the latter Titans be-
“mews-2'... a can...

a ings not be] to the
l earth bug creatures of some weird wonder-
world—existences not known on our planet, or
only in ages past!

CHAPTER LII.
noosnl nous-run. -
Intruthwasitasingular thateame
mdertheetyesofClancyandhiseomrade. The
web theyme nowgoswel]
outinto water—neutomid-stream—whlca,
withthemglhtsningupcnihsurlaeam

’ of mirage. By its-ng efl'ect both orses
8

 

 

The Death-Shot: or. Tracked to Death.

like molten silver. Underneath both foi‘ms were ’ Woodley stood considerintr. Then said: 

of true equine outline; but 3. ve, the figures “I suspeck we shan’t. T ar’s but two buck ,
were not those of men; nor like anything of 1 Injuns. Their does won‘t count much in a ;
human mind. , skrimmage. An’ ef they shed show their teeth an’

And if demons, they were double-headed; for toenails, me an’ you needn’t feel afeard, Ireek’n.
there a peared two distinct heads rising out of “'e‘re good for bigger odds than thet. Pree-
one be y! haps howsomever, we’d better roust up He -

The hunters remained gazing at the odd ap- wood, lettin’ Harkness an’ the mulatter lie still.
parition. And wondering as well, their wonder Ye—es; on second thou rht, let’s hev Heywood
not uinningled with fear. It was a sight to ’long w_i’ us. Ned! Ne( !"
make stout hearts tremble; and though none The summons was not spoken aloud; only
could have been stouter than theirs, both were whispered into Heywood’s ear; ‘vho, on hearing
for a time under a sort of supernatural law. it, started, and then sat u

It was only a spell of short duration. Then
reason resumed its sway; and they saw that the
spectacle hitherto puzzling them was, like most
other mysteries, sim )le when understood.

It was VVoodley who first offered the explana-
tion, though Clancy needed it not.

feet.

\Vhen erect, he. saw why he had been aroused.
A glance cast toward the river told that. The
strangely-ridden horses were still visible: though
now, having nearly accomplished the crossing,
they were just entering into the shadow of the
trees that selvidgcd the nether bank.

In a few hurried words Woodlcv made his

Simultane-

ously had he arrived at the conclusion to which
1115 comrade had conic.
said, in sotfo

The latter I‘occ—alnmst in a

\vhispe. r:

«

 

< v

 

TH: SPECTRAI HORSEMAN.

“ Two bosses, both 0’ ’em rid dubble.”

After a short interval he continued:

“ Them ridin’ look like Injuns. Don‘t ye see
tufts o‘ feathers rising over thar crowns.’ That’s ,
injun head-Wear for sartin. The critters behind
look like squaws. I guess they air squaws,
though mostwise on these purzguras the Injqn
wumen hev a boss aplece'to themselves. It air ‘ For on capturimi, them the “H.091”,me had
kewrious they shed be I'ldm tW'O-and-tWO- 3121", : now fully resolvm ; W oodley havmg impressed
more kewrious ’b011t gtlt‘fiiz‘zmfiugglengfim ;  both hisdyounger assocxates the advantage of
the ither, That 1111') 0 - . y . {OS ‘ i is rocec ing.
hiniz think, whoivler them dubble r1ders1s, they i  reasons were thus succinctlyfitated:
desarve lookin’ arter. BY] gag?)  Wghvg‘got l t‘;‘ 111; aig allers  to taketilp whegeye
the devanta re of them. an’ {In . - _ 1».' 1'0 l gi tle c ance. eyre pu y ‘ in a en
boun’ to 1min out on this side the 010591113 and E ’bout some deviltry anyhow, the which kin be
sure to take the reg’lar trall 31$ leadsfln through , detarmined arter they’re in hand. ’8 like ’5 not
the timmer. Thar we kln intel‘CCD “1811ng a i this let’s been pilferm’ from the settlers, and air
Let's do It Charley l. . now toatin’ ofl‘ thar plunder. Ef ’tain’t so, arter
asked Clancy. POIthg We‘ve grupped ’em we kin let the critters go
(195- “ Bad“ t We agin. an’ thar’s no harm done. But best to be
Stand In "Bed 0f 011 the safe side. Tharfor let’s stop ’em and

see. ’

CY’S intention; and for a while the trim holding
their rifles in hand. remained in consultation.

It was not thought necessary to wake Hark-
, ness or Jupiter. It would not be wise. Any
.noise made, or time wasted, and the Indians
T Ini ht take alarm, go back to the other bank,
‘ am so escape being captured.

near cut I knows on.
“What about these?”
to their still slumberins 00mm
ter awake them?
their assistance.”

We may

Another whisper caused) him to spring to his ,

younger comrade zuwniainted with his and Clan- g

47

“Our horses?” suggested Heywood. “Hadn’t
we better be mounted?”

“No,” said Woodley. Ef the Injuns make
to ride ofi‘, we kin soon 1 ing ’em to a stan‘, by
shootin’ down thar critters. Ef we disturb our
bosses, they mout hear us, and put into the
thick timmer, whar we’d never agin set eyes on
em. I know the trail that leads out from the
river—every tut ’o it. Theylrr boun’ to kum
along that, an’ we kin be thai afore ’em. and
hev’ ‘em in atrap. Thar need be no shootin’
done. ()nc‘t we git our claws ‘ 1 thar bridle-
reins they’re ours. Havin’ their :quaws along.
as they ‘pear to hev, they ain‘t likely to make
resistinee. Besides, arter all. they may be
friendly. Ef they air, it ud be pity to kill ’em
Thar's no need to do that. “'e kin capter 'ein b)
ambuskade eezy enuf.”

“Of course we can," assented Clancy. “Lc
no shot be fired. unless absolutely necessary
\Ve must not spill innocent blood."

"Thar'll be no need," reiterated ‘Voodlm;
“ trust thet to me. Knin m. '"

 

The three were about starting forward. whe l
a fourth figure ap reared by their side. It was
the mulatto. A ife of many sufferings had
made him also a light sleeper, and he had been
for some time lying awake. Although the
others only conversed in whis ers, he had heard
enough to make him aware o something about
to be done in which there might be danger to
Clancy. This would be as danger to himself.
The fugitive slave, now free, would have laid
down his life for the man who had manumitted

1m.

He begged to be taken along, and permitted
to share their danger—whatever it might be.

There could be no objection, and Jupiter was
joined to the party.

Again there was a pause before starting out.
What about Harkness? Should he be kept
under surveillance? He had not latel been
treated by them as a prisoner. Still, he had
been but little trusted, and it might not be safe
new It was just possible the doum‘e traitor

 

 

was;

'45 r

‘E.

48

 

might still be in leg‘gue with those he professed
to ave last betray ; and that his abandoning
them was a pretense to serve some sinister pur-

. His new assouates had kept an eye on

' all alon the jt urney. Now more than
ever might it necessary.

The Osgood hetsitfiting, lancertgin. Then Sill?-
eon ecutingsscrt ygr ing e
collar of lgrkness’s coat, rude] 51.28131”; him
out of his slumber, and jerking ' erect upon
his feet.

Without wai ing for the astonished sleeper to
utter a word :f remonstrance, Woodley whis-
pered into his ear:

“ Kum along, Joe Harknessl Keep close
arter us, an’ don’t ask any  I Thar,
Jupe,” he continued, ‘do on e care 0’ him.
Now, boys, let’s on! We' 1 hev bare time to get
to the place whar the Injuns must pass. Stepas
if e war treadin’ on eggs.”

ying this, he gave Harkness a shove that
]sent him staggering into the arms of the mu—
atto. .

The latter, drawing a long stiletto-like knife
from a sheath that hun over his hip, held it
beforefiarkness’ eyes, as e did so, saying:

“ Massa Harkness, ou keep close by me. Go
on'afore—I follow. f you try leave the track,
lookout for thisblade. tsure go between your

The shining. steel, coupled with the sheen of
the mulatte’s white teeth, set in a stern, de—
termined smile, was enou to hold Harkness
lamest, whatever might be intent. He made
no repl ; but tremblineg stepped into the
place ted at.

A in single file, had been alread formed,
Sims Woodley at its head. It woul be neces-

fer them to roceed th he said,asthe

' g was narrow for
horses abreast.

After some further cautions, ken in under-
tme, he started off. Clanc c ose followirlfi,
m his hound held in leash, He ood thi ,

fourth, and J iter wth his long-
bhded knife bringing up e rear.

CHAPTER LX.
, A 81mm inn]: camvnl

Ann resolving upon the capture of what
Simeon Woodley supposed to be “a kupple 0’
back Injuns an har squaws,” no time was lost
in the endeavor to carry out their determina-
Woodley’s plan was to get out on the
ford-road, and there lie in wait, till the Indians
shOuId come ridi along.

That they we d come that way there was
little doubt: th h it was possible they might
encamp on the river’s edge. and there remain
"er the night.

In'thelattercaseit would only be necessary
to I a change in the programme, by ca -
' 'them in their camp. wa or 0 er,
' be made prisoners; so ey said.
so sa , he resolved first to attempt the

he intended for this was uponthe
read about two hundred yards from .the
river‘ off than the side-trace the sup-
posed. Indians had taken. From the hunter’s
campitwas blebyasimilarnarrewtrail,
, upon e opposite side of the read;
w c hmoggley now fiductfid them.
reac e spot, as e plunging
and the horses (1 be heard ciim
th strained  Iltiraunk
W as e o in .
“ e’ll  hev ’em hyar," whisperpedgimeen

 

i

i

ii

1??

hamementmore thetramliuiiig wassus-
so.

“They steppedtofixthar ridin’ gear,I
reek: .8111! whispered Woodley. "l‘he

fefl’pilo’the furrer they’ve got toga:
un

As the hunter uttered an: exclamation, he
mutupmtheroad Itcamefrom his
Whom again in mition, and know-'

tread they were no coming toward
they to have

er way.
6 a second time exclaimed,
and with more earnest emphasis, “ What are
they up to? Sounds as if the war takin’ up the
river bank. We’ll hev to fo er ’em. Kum on,
fellursl Keep clost arter me. Lookto yur dog,
Clancy. Don’t let the anymal gi’e as much as a
yirr, or we’ll never get a gllm 0’ them In uns
I’d ’a’ bet my life on t eir c'omin’ ong
hyar. But they hasn’t; the which 0’ itself looks

kewrous. Durnashun!”

For the third time thus ventin his disappoint-
ment, the backwoodsman ghdedgotf in the direc-
tion of the riVer, the others keepin after.

Before reachin the bank they alF
listened The du thud of boots, st au 'ble,
madeitsurethelndianshadturned u tream.
It was evident they were still continuKi-g on in
that direction.

The hoof-strokes told they were going slowly
and deliberately, as if looking for a place to put
 tram ling

r, e p was suspend-
d; andsolongthatit became cmfieyhad
suns to a hal and dismounted.

 

_The New YorkflgLibrary.

 

 

The pursuers were well satisfied at this. They
could approach with greater caution, taking their
own time.

Still thgg must not make dela ; and, as soon
astllieyel:i got the healil'ings of t e gdround, they
tig ten upon t eir guns, an once more
moved form.

It occupied some little time to discover the
side-trace, which they supposed the Indians
m have taken after separating from the ford

And while searchin for this, they saw some-
thing that counseled em to increased caution,
while ca ' them some alarm. The road was
covered wit horse-tracks, the toes turned to-
ward the river; and horses that must have
passed recently along it.

That same day, said Clancy and Woodley in a
breath; perhaps that same ni ht.

And there had been at l a score of them.
Unshod horses, too. It could not have been any

rty of Colonel Armstrong’s colonists. Who
hen? Be 0nd doubt, Indians!

So muc the more reason for ca turing those
the were after. As prisoners, t ey might be

to give information about the others that
had gone acres the stream; these last, perhaps,
a hostile band schemingseme trouble for the new
settlement?

“ Le’s take the two prisoners. That’s the fust
thing to be dud,” was the counsel that came
his?! y' it the turned into th

ng upon , y e narrow

, and commenced momong it, now
more cautiously than ever. est at every
it); they made pause; looking before them and

After proceeding about two hundred ards
they came in sight of a spot where the her
showed a break. They comiotfilll this b the
moonbeams strikin through e n

In the center of ning stood-fact,u 'gantic
tree whose branches, en with S moss,
s owed a large space. Outside its shadow was
a ring illumin by the light.

Creeggg closer to the edge of the opening,
they s in bent attitudes, gazing across the
moonlit belt into the obscurity beyond.

At first they could discern nothing, so perfectly
opaque was the darkness underneath the tree;
more difficult for the eye to penetrate through
the cross light. '

Fortunately there were fireflies, Nature’s living
lamps of the tropic night, that 've cheer to the
gloomiest recessos of a southern orest. A swarm
of these insects, thick as bees were flitting to and
fro beneath the draped branc es, with the sparkle
of ballroom belles moving through the mares of
a cotillion. ‘

Their united coruscation rendered luminous
the shadowed space; but with a fitful, y
gloom. It was, however, steady enough for

imeon Woodley to trace some figures that
formed no part of the forest. There was a man
alongside a horse, both standing at rest. And,
%g m, another form, not so
y te thmgh to all appearance a
woman.

As soon as SimeonWoodley hadsatisfied him-
self about their character, he said, in a whisper:
“ One 0’ the two lots we see’d cromin' the river.
Whar’s the t’other, I wonder?”

Clancy made no reply. He, too, hadobserved
the group, and was wondering where the others
were

_“ Like enuf on the furrer side 0’ the tree,” sug-
md Woodley. “I reckon I hear them talkin’
; thar voices nigh drowned b the skirlin’
o’ the crickets. Les just capter e one we see.
The t’other ain’t fur off. Bein’ now afoot,
neyther’s likely to escape us—’ y wi’ the
squaws to bother ’esn. r all that, they moat t
away. Injuns is mighty quick in thar movemen
as I’ve knew’d afore now. They kin scuttle into
tinimer, an’ make thar way amonfilit, jess like
wildanymals. Aswe’ve tuk the tenshun to
capter em, we mustn’t let ’em slide, nohow—
leastwise not till we’ve l’arnt what they’re arter;
the which'l’ll lay twenty to one some
trick 0’ thievin’.” .

“Itcandenoharm teknow,” rejoinedClanCfl
like his companion, in a w r. “ .
innocent we can let hem go again. _t Will
be our way to get hold of them, Without
{its} of doing them an injury? I shouldn’t wish

t

“ Wal; we mout make a surround 0: them by
some 0’ us creepin' roun’ to the t’other side, _unner
kiver o’ the trees. We kin spare time for it, asI
reck’n they’re good to kee that groun’ for the
balance 0’ the night. It a kewrous, too, that
buck Injun stannin’ up, and the squaw lyin’
along at his feet. Beside, the boss appears to be
still unner saddle an’ bridle. That dont look
like campin’. See! Durn me ef the Injun ain’t
smokin’l I kin smell the bacca, an’ yonner’s the
spark glintin’ in the head 0’ his pipe. .The ain’t

80in to camp hyar. It’s more like t IIelyre
"‘“iiwtr°’“m°'§°"‘::::£:’ “em as
"We o rt w ose we a see on
the roar? Thrrfoge we mus’n’t talk ’bout sur-
roundin’ ’81:). nor t stay longer talkin’, or we
ma t surroun ourselves. So I say, Ids

«Mattress... 3 ' at...

. , i re , 0
nifylng assent. yw

 

. --__..__.___,‘_ .4...» _._..__..:..

“ Hev your weepens handy, then. New boys.
arter me i”

As he spoke, the backwoodsman bounded for~
ward, the others following in single file.

(1 soon after like shadows the five human
figures were seen flittin acrom the moonlit space
——the dog leaping light y alon de.

Before the savage could ma e stir or change
his attitude, Simeon Woodley had him by t e
throat; choking him till the pipe started from
between his teeth, its scattered sparks mingling
with the flashes of the fireflies.

CHAPTER LXI.
BESCUED.

To return to Richard Darke.

While Clancy and his comrades were slevly
feeling their way along the obscure forest-path.
he was again cowering over his captive.

Before they had reached the o ning around
the oak, he was back from his ab utions.

He had already addressed to her those words,
which he knew would lead to his being recog-

Ifnot, andtomakesure,herepeatedthem,as
before apostrophising by name.
“ Yes, Helen Armstrong At t last
-I have you; sure and safe. 0h itissweet,
WT?“ gweespeechtl” exultin and to, she
o is g pa-iona
made no response. She was overwhelmed with
a sense of utter helplessnem. She wellknew
thafilanything shemight mywonldhaofno

av .
Sh?hadstartedfigl‘in Wm
was can a
such asonemakeswhohas enuponasnake,
orcomeface to face with an asamin. Itwas
this last thought thatthrilled her.
After it she wasstill still, that her
heart ceuldbeheard bea ~
He who knelt beside her
it was throbbing in . It caused him
htest touch

sometimesincewe anda wa in
voice, I take it, wiflmgnnunbaedm 3,11%:
circumstancemayrecallourlut interview. It
wasundera olh-heqwflhaknet—hcb,
makmga 00:13:53.: letter-bogfatwo lovers:
one ofwhomisnoloaqerals’ve whilsthe othel
ishyoursell New.m fairlady,de you-m1
w as
Noresponsefromthspresh-atsferm—aetst
mightfaflgmentén

e un con ued,

“Perha ou’llrecognisemebetu
thesensep. dtebemestreliabis. Yam

Stillshespokenot; andwhatcaredhs'fa-her
fears? They but gave him ladnea.

In the same tone of trium he continued:

“ You know me new, don you! Take a good
survey of my face. I’ve removed the mask. De
I look anything like Richard Darkei"

The question Wasted its own answer, though
she made none. or did he, by thus in
tively announcing himself, add aught to w
she already knew: that Charles
sin was bending above her. \

Her ny was new no greater. It could not
be. It already reached a point holding her
speechless; it still so held her.

Perha the three would pas. There was a
scintilla on  seen under the moon-
light, that a return of courage—the
aomgehof . Itmightseondeclareihelf

Darkedidnotwaitforit; nor muchcaredhs
whatshesheuldmy.
throb of

agodeadwithinhim. flown-already
so I inwhnqneunmifledtothe”

Clancy’s assasv

 

W’" "‘ 7.5.2 . a. :lit‘JLJ—Ull —. ' ‘ e»
V -~\ Mal“... ,

W-

 

 

nlar deed he now intended, as to be beyond ,
thought of retreat. In the cup of his scorned
love was mingled the fell poison of vengeance.

He had once knelt before Helen Armstrong an
humble suitor. He had thrown himself at her 1
feet, and poured forth his soul in strong words
of passionate entreaty. He had been denied,
rejected, humiliated. He would not sue to her
again. She was in his power, and he could coni- .
mand. It was his turn to humiliate her; and,
in vile s ech, he proceeded:

“ So. air girl! I hear that you‘ve been great- ‘
1V grieving for him that’s gone. Like an eagle ‘
that’s lost her mate, and refuses to pair again.
That is the hight of folly. Permit me to tell

on so, and to say you needn’t sorrow any ,
onger. I am here—I, Richard Darko, to eon- ,
sole you. I’ve such a great regard for you, I‘m
determined to make you hap iy. And you shall
be. Once out upon the wi irairies, where I j
intend taking you, we shall ave a weddinr.
That’s the right sort of place for a bridal suc ,

Wan; 

, \ 

as ours should be. There the nuptial knot can [
be tied according to laws of our own making— I
canons that need neither church sanction nor ‘,
the palaver of priests. I take it you understand 5
me?’

The radian aused in his ribald speech. If he
expected rep y. be was disappointed, There
"was none—not a word.

Helen Armstrong, lying prostrate along the
earth, appeared equally rostran in soul. En- ‘
folded in the Mexican lanket, that was close
drawn around, her magnificent figure outlined ;
underneath, she looked less like living women
than one of Pharaoh’s daughters, taken from a
namephagus, that he 1 been shut upon her thou-

'. a o! '
“Egghheh‘fd geach s king, she lay motion-
leesasany mummy, an as silent. Even the beat-
in of her heart could no longer be heard! -

find his speech killed her? The shock of that

terrible, taunting menace? Its. horror

can-dhortoclooe her eyes. Oil

1 might be dead.

1 have produced an effect fearfully painful.

r feet, as of men

I
‘ one made suddenly insensible by a coup d’eclair,

or a stroke of lmralysis.

For a moment, Darke himself thought she
He fully understood the situa-
tion.
He
meant that it should, though he did not intend
it to kill her. Had it done so?

The Death-Shot: or,_ngraoked to Death.—

3 tress more promptly responded to, or with
' greater determination to give relief.

He knew that what he had said must f

He was stooping lower to assure himself, when w

; something caused him to rise suddenly erect,
5 and stand like one Just warned of danger!

For the moment Helen Armstrong seemed no
more in his mind, or if so, onlyr for him to have
fear of her. He s )rung from or side. as if her
hands had been
(1. ger at his breast!

t was nothing of this that so affected him:

For, it was Clancy who came rushing to her
rescue—Charles Clancy, new kn0wing all. He
knew it from what had fallen from the lips of
Darke’s confederate. captured on the other side
of the tree. After seizing the supposed savage,
and throttling him for a short time. ll'oodley
had dragged him out into the moonlight, hav~

1 ing some sus iicion, as he said, “by the feel,’

rec, and she was pointing a '

but sounds that came from the other side of the j
oak. There was the tread of a startled horse, '

and alonrr with it the pattering of feet—many
making toward the spot. And
rapidly, too, as though they were running!

. -/ “i  '
4   it

Q, ll

I . 51-», ,  / -"
it“  
 I: ,,/ :31?!“ I ‘

V.  \l    

A RUFFIAN TRIUMPHANT.

one si e, peepcd cautiously around it.
men coming on in full run toward the tree!
The were crossing the moonlit space, and he
con (1 see that their faces were white.

This was enough; No men with white skins
seen there could other than enemies.

He waited to see no more; but bounding

'l
A

He glided up to the trunk; and standing by '

r

t

toward his horse jerked the bridal rein from ‘

the bark. Then dragging the animal after him
towhere Helen Armstrong lay, he lifted her
alpjiélt and flung her across the ponimel of the
sa

l grasping the reins, he was preparing to ride 03’,

But his ca tive was no longer silent nor as if
be] less, ghe, too, had heard souhds, that

‘ spo e of succor; and was now streiaggling to

ac: l—calling for help that seem close at

e.
A bound carried him into it, behind her; and, ‘

i a
He saw what filled him with fear. Several , p

that after a , the man might not be an In-
dian.

Once under the light, all uncertainty was at
an end. Despite his painted face, the back-
woodsinan identified an old Mississippi acquaint-
ance; while in turn be was himself identified.

At the mutual recognition both cried out,
\Voodley s ieaking first.

“Good )rd! you Bill Bosley! you playin'
Injun! “'hat‘s it for! I needn‘t ask. Some
devil‘s work. such as ye war allers gi’n to.”

The response was in a different tone. It com-

 \\ "‘7

\

menoed with a shriek of terror,
al for mercy.
he words were:

“ Sime IV ey! And Ned Heywood!
Harkness, too! oys, you won’t kill me on
won’t? I ain’t to blame in this bizncss. on,
Joe, know I only acted under the cap’s orders—
Jim Borlasse—liim. and the lootenant.”

“Who?” cried lancy, interrupting the ex.
planation. “ \Vhat lieutenant!“

“Him as has got Miss Ilclcn Armstrong on
t‘other side the tree. Phil (,‘vuantrell, We call
him; though Mr. “'oodley will know him better
and so it ill Ned Haywood, by the name of—”

Clauc ' stayed not to hear the name pro

ending in an

Joe

A noun . Too well he know “ hat it would be.

, trunk of the tree.

With the elastic leap of a lion. bounding upon
prey, he sprung away from the spot. toward the
In two seconds he lino

‘ reached, and was makinng go around it. But

1 before he could clear the

age skirting pilnsten,

Eh. we: heard. 1 And never were cries of die- he heard Helen Armstrong culling “ Help!"

-.V-..__. -1 .. ,.

’;
i
l
,.
r
!
iv

 

He was going fast as man might, or could.

On rounding the tree-trunk, he saw a horse
with a man mounted on his back. And some-
thin on the saddle-bow, in front, this seemingly
the orm of a woman. It was one—it was He en

Armstrong. Though held by the rider, she was ;

not at rest; but writhing in his arms, con-
‘tulsively struggling, all the while shouting:

“ Help! help!”

Clancy held his rifle in hand, cocked, and
ready to be brought to the level. He could
have shot down the horse; and so prevented his
enemy’s escape. He onl delaycddoin it from
afear that the fall of t 0 animal mig cause
inj to her dear to him. Still would he have
 it, had there been no other chance to pre-
vent her being carried oil’. But there was, and
he saw it. Scared by the contest upon his back,
the horse had commenced prancing over the

ound, and refused to advance. His head had

n set for the forest, and his rider was urging
him into the moonlit space between. In~
stead, he reared back under the shadow of the
tre

e.
With a bound Clanc was b his side, and
seized the bridle—rein. ing w ich, Darke let
his hold of the ca tive, who slip instantly
gins his arms. He pless, she wo d have fallen
heavily, but for Clancy’s arms receiving, and
letting her lightly down. Then, without wait-
to saya word, he slirung to at his gun,
drop in the struggle. n the dar 658 he saw
it no ; and giving up the search, he once more
made toward the horse, intending to drag the
rider from his saddle.
But Darke, now disembarrassed had got com-
w of thehreins; and going odtfigaa gallop,
acrosst eopen oun ,soon ' ppearing
into the timber be 011$
Woodley and eywood, who had come on
from the other side of the tree, stood with their
titles raised. Either by a bullet could have
“lapse: the horseman’s ' ht. But Clanclys’,
Itan ' 0 before them, up their barre ;
Is he  so excla' ' :
“Not for the worl 1 Hold your fire, both!
That life belong-life me.”
Thus did Ric d Darke once more escape the

whinent due to two t crimes he had in-
ed; the last, as the fortunately unso-
amplished.

 

CHAPTER LXII.
roman EXPLANATIONS.

To paint the surprise of Helen Armstron , on
Beingthat her lover still lived is be on the
power of the pen. That he di was most be-
yond her own power of belief.

No wonder she was for a. time incredulous,
thinking him dead. No re rt to the contrary
had reached the Texan co onists; and she but
shared the universal belief.

But he was living, breathing, b her side, in

another moment standing before er, and with
strong, though tender arms, enfolding her to his
bosom. Face to face under the moo ht, she
saw his fine manly features, with the us of
health upon his cheeks, his eyes sparklin with
excitement, and as of yore, 1ancingzwi h the
light of love. Yet it was he, Charles lancy, as
her own eyes now declared, and her heart told
her—he, the lord of that heart.

E<iually difficult to depict her joy. It was
like hat of one, who, long lingering at the door
of death, has health suddenly restored, with the

of a prolonged and happy life!
th arms entwined, the two stood, making
renewal of vows lighted in the past, and now
sealing them with kisses.

Then, after the rapturous exchange, ex lane.
“on; were vouchsa ed, in hurried and
tech as suited the hour. Minor de must be
left to a time more opportune.

Jessie, released from her bonds, had joined
them, uniting her share of oy to that of the
, parted lovers. Poor essl she had not
much joy to give. It was her turn to be sad;

‘for it was too likely, that at the moment her
own lover mightbe lying cold and low. And
their father, w wt of him?

Neither spoke the interrogatory, as neither
could answer it. Each had it in her own heart;
Helen’s becoming again saddened, as she shaped
oon'ecturcs about his fate.

C no sought to comfort the sisters, with
but slig tsuccess. The knowledge was all on
their side, and et they knew but little. Only
,that they had on seized and carried off as

the at the time believed by Indians. They
tol him of Fede and his treason. They
,could tell him no more. To them all the rest
was a m stery; though not so much now, see-
ing that chard Darke was one of the supposed
savages.
Woodie , at this moment coming up, made
matters c earer. He had been conferring with
their prisoner, and from him got a pretty cor-
rect account of how things 8 .

He did not impart h knowled tothe sis-
ters' but, drawing Clancy aside. as d:

“ 6 must get out o’ h or ’ithout wastin’ the
I , wo’ plugsin’tsafeno—

—\..I

It did not need this to hasten his footsteps.

.l._......—_. V..-. _ w.

w w-‘v‘

m The 7 New York Library:

1 Clancy started. Absorbed by sweeter thoughts,

I he had forgotten that there might be danger
still impending over the spot.

“ You’re right, Woodley,” he rejoined.
“ Where do you propose oing?”

“Straight on for the o e niishun. Fust let’s
restore these dear critters to father an’ friends.
But we mustn‘t take the dereck trail, that as
leads ’cross the river, hyar.”

“ \Vhy not?”

“Because, by goin’ that way, we’d be likely
as not to kum face to face wi’ them, we’ve good
reezun ljess now ter shun. I s’pose the gurls hev
been to lin’ {on that the war tuk by a party as
looked like n'uns. Wa , that party air no oth-
er than Jim orlasse an’ his band 0’ brigants,
painted savidge fashun. Bosley hez let out all,

‘ seein’ of he hadn’t I’d ’a’ split his thrapple for

him. The sent him an’ Dick Darke in churge
o’ the gur 5, while the rest stayed to fetch the
money from the inishun. They wanted only it
au’ the weemen. The fust they got cozy, and
of they kin clur the cash the same way, they
don’t mean killin’. So thet thar’s a chance 0’
nob’dy, or not many 0’ the people bein’ massa-
creed. But come Clancy; we hain’t time to
spek’late hyar, or horlasse an’ his beauties may
be along. I’ve sent J upe an’ Harkness to brin
u the bosses. Heywood hez c 0’ ml

unk t’other side the tree. No use in all 0’ us
goin’ back to the camp an’ takin’ the two gurls

bar. The trail we’ve got to foller now runs

past this way; and we’d only be doublin’ twice
over it. ”

“ But toreach the mission you must go bythe
ford below?”

“ Not a bit 0’ it. We needn’t cross hyar at all.
That’s a trail that leads u this side the river
to. another fordin’- lace. t air above the ole

un, an’ will e us alon ways aboutenigh
on twen mile. But it w1 be safe; I shed
think p ectly safe. Whariver them wolves be

now prowlin’ they ain’t like to take the u r
crossin’, an’ or thar won’t be no fear 0 our
droppin’ inter thar ugly jaws. The lower crossin’
hyar though the deerecktest line, mout in the
eendhe the consarndest, crookedest track we ked
ave], geezultin’ in themleadii: 3 right inter a?
. pose we war mee em rignnts
Bagey sa thar’s ’bont twenty o’ ’em. ’in
that num r we’d stand no chance, burden as
we new air. We’d go down afore ’em like ripe
apples from a tree. An’ knowin’. Jim Borlasse
as you an’ I do, Charley, jess think 0’ the fate
as ’udbe in store for them two young critters
stannin thar, lookin’ sweet as pears, an’ tender
as persimoiis in fall time. They’d be ruined to
a t . .
Clancy listening the while, stood to listen no
longer. The thought of their encounte ' Bor-
lasse and his band—of Helen Armstrong ing
again at the mercy of such men—far more in-
human sav used him to give quick
ament to the hunter’s pro
But while doin so, 0 added that which
ve Simeon W ey a rise. He told the
atter of his intention to sta behind—to take 11
the trail. of Darke, and fo ow it tillhesh

find him .
Woodley remonstrated ; inted out the 
w1
ould

of such a course' could no thinkof
him; said that it Clancy must sta ,he
stag with him,-almost swore that e would.
6 was silenced by a few Words, spoken in

stern determined tone.
“No, Woodle . Youmnstgo ontothe mis-
sion, and take em with on. For myself, I

must follow him—shall fo ow him, till he be
overtaken. When that’s done, one of us will
cease to live. You need have no fear which. I
won’t give the coward a second chance to shoot
me from behind—nor yet esca me.”

“ But why not let me stay wi’ e, an’ go whar
you air i'n’l 0r Ned He 7”

“ You need Heywood take care of them,”
—-Clancy pointedto the sistera-“also to look
afterBosley. Harhiemcannotbedependedupon.
Therefore, you’ll have your hands full enough.
Besides, Sims, I’ve another reason; a matter of
sentiment some could not' might not understand.
Perha you can, and wil ."

“ Te it, an’ let me try.”

“Well; it is this. I feel that in this affair
my manhood is called in question. A man must
do something to prove himself worthy of the
name; at least, one deed during his life. I have
one before me; and it must be doneb myself.
I should not be satisfied to share it w1 another
--not even with you, Woodley.” .

“Then ye prefar follerin’ Dick Darke
alone?”

“I do; only takll‘lfil Jupiter and the dear old
hound along. I sh need the dog to set me on
the trail at starting, now, in the night. In
daylight on know, I can lift it for m If.
Simeon oodley, we waste time. Col 0 as
I tell you. I want it—I wish it—I insist upon

it!”

“ All right, Charle Clanc . You shell be
obe ed, howsomever hate to cave ye. Before

in’, gi’e us a as 0’ your han’, and let Sime

oodleysa , ‘ 0d {like care 0’, and keep ye
cl’ar from t e clutches o’ the Divelll’ ”

The dialogue was brought to a termination,
by Jupiter and Harkness, at that moment, com-
ing up with the horses.

 

comprehending the cause,- hastened

 

 

 

CHAPTER LXIII.
AGAIN 'm PARTl

Tun light of jo that had so suddenly shone
into the heart 0 Helen Armstrong, was, with
equal abruptness, extinguished. He who gave,
also took it away. After the dialogue just re-
ported, Clancy, rejoining her, said:

“ Dearest Helen! Ihope you’ll not feel grieved
at what I am going to say—to do. I must leave
you for a time.”

“Leave me?” she exclaimed, with an airof
bewilderment.

“ Yes; I have to stinky here. But you will go
back to the mission. ybrave comrades, Wood-
1e and Heywood—both known to you—they
Will go with you. Accompanied b such an es
cort, on need have no fear. Wit their lives
both, know, will answer for the safety of your-
self and sister.”

She stood listening, her grand eyes still set in
the same bewildering stare.

“ Leave me 1” she said, a second time—pro-
nouncing the words as thou h she had not heard

his explanation. Then ad ' g: “Again! So
soon.’

“I must. Helen, Ire titasmuchss you.
I will not say more. ut we have to

“Wh 2 Oh! tori: Whfleth Itilitemgsmm tory
y w was 9 »
that leaped in agomlaed accent from her ps. ’

The twowere again standingwith am an-
 faeesclose together, andlipealmt

uc g. -

As she sploke, she drewherself a little way
back, thong still retaining holdof his hands.
And in this attitude she kept her eyesflxednpon
his anxiously awaiting the answer.
lieturnin her glance, he gave it.

“Helen troxvig; you aretomethedeamt
object on earth. ithout you I have no life,
and should not care to live an hour longer. To
sa I love on, were but repeating an old tale.

ve sai it already—sworn it. You know

that I love on, and surely that is enough? But

ahereisnano erwhoclaimsashareinmyefleo—
ons— ’

His was interrupted by a movement on
the of her listening. It was a quick,
as ' spasmodic. She turned pale, with-
drawin her hands from his. Herbososnrese
and fe as if stirred by some terrible emotion.

Clancy, perceiving it, though without clearly

to allay her

sense 1 F...-
s 0 sure ve to one

awa ; one I shall neverseeizio‘ire. Need tell
you t is my mother!”

Helen Armstrong, reliev

the thought that hadbeen ' gher. With

an effort to appear tranquil, e simplymede

response:
‘ I have heard of your mother’s death.” _
“Say rather, of her murder,” rejoined Clan-
' through set tee

Wm and th.
cy" es,” he contiisi"

“my r mother VIII
murdered b him who ridden on. But
he won’t afar before I overtake him. ’I’ve
sworn upon 

ave not toknowrest till die
heaven ; till .blood atone for here. I’Ive
tracked ' thus far' and shall continue track-

for a while—only e.”

_wishedtoconeeal

ing him to the end, Helen Armstron l ’Tis for
that I am nowgoing toleave you. it he my
excuse. ‘

She would have protested, a peeled' hu
Simeon Woodley was seen 
hadgnly timeforone wifiphalf

speec .
“ You love. your mother’s memory more than
you love me 1’
It was rung from her agony. As soon.”
made she regretted it— ving its efleot.
“Not that, Helen; no that ” hemi inatone
half apologetic, half mproechful. “ on must
know itisnotso. Reflect, thatIhavemadean
oath, solemn and sacred; sworn it over itenew~
muggy“. It must be kept!” ‘
hands had nearly become disnnited.

Hers again closed nannith with am

than before, while ooked up at

into his eyes, more relying] than ever. In her
lance there was the same 0, but llmg‘dth
t admiration.

The selfishness of her own passion oowered be-
fore the sacredness of that inspiring him; cow-
ered and away.

She sai :

“ Go—go} Seek the retribution you sfak of.
Perhaps it is right. You will come bac to be
true to me, as you have been to your mother.
It not, I shall soon be dead.” ,

“If not, fyou may know that I am dead. Only
death can inder my return. For a while, taro

well!”

A in farewell! Oh! it was afflicting! Up
to at moment Helen Armstrong had borne
herself with the fortitude derived from a
strong self-sustaining nature. On hearing
that word—the last, the wildest of all—she
could sustain herself no longer, but flinging her-
self on Clancy’s breast, gave way to a torrent
of tears.

“Be brave, Helen!” he said, kissing them
from her cheeks. “Have no fear for me. I
know my man, and the work cut out for me.
He has t the better of me twice, but will not
the th time. we next come tozcther

 

“saw—.mfim A...“ A“... ..

 

’twil1 be my turn to triumph, surely. Some-
thing tells it me, as in whisper. Perhaps the
spirit of my mother! So kee up your courage,
love! Go with Simeon Woo ey, who will see
you safe home. Once there, you can offer up a

ra er for me, if you like. And one, too, for
Hie ard Darke; for before two suns are set, his
soul will have gone to its God.”

These words were ken not lightly, but in
stem, solemn tone. T ey were the last before

arting, their solemnity seeming a fit finale to

he speeches that had assed before.

Though it was not t ' that lit an end to the
dialogue. But Simeon Woo ey, who now in-
terrupting it, ur ed the necessity of immediate
departure from t e lace.
htgA minute lost,” e said, “and it may be too

)9

Clancy was equally eager to be off, though in
a different direction. or his purpose, time
was also recious. He wanted to set upon the
trail wh' 6 it was still warm

The horses were already on the ground, and

all now mounted under Simeon Woodley’s super-
vision. The backwoodsman took J ewe on the
croup behind himself, while Heywood did the
same with their prisoner. The horse of the lat-
ter was appropriated to Helen alone, While
Harkness retained the roadster he had been all
along riding. _

In this order they moved off leavmg Clancy

nder the shadow of the oak, .l'upxter standing

y his side, and the hound crouching at his

. eels. .

What thoughts were in his mind as he stood
looking after! They were emotlons strange and
wild! Would he ever see Helen Armstrong

n i

t was indeed doubtful; and as the doubt
swept across his soul, he felt Irresolute about hls
vow of vengeance. and half inclined to forego

the dire determination.
But as the do rting cavalcade entered among
thetrees, and t e white'drapery floating aroulrlid
them of NI sweat? 1 318 t»

 

 

 

The Death-Shot; or, Tracked to Death. ,

a, a. 4;; “grimy. , .

1.5-3.3»; -‘R‘Z «xi Iii; 4:;— £'- '

51

the dark thought returning, soon became fixed as ‘ from which heard he urges on his horse in the

before; and facin his companion, he said:
“ Brin up my orse, Jupe; and you mount
our m . Now, to find Richard Darke; then
give him his death shot! ”

CHAPTER LXIV.
PURSUED.

A MAN on horseback making his way through
a wood. It is a tract of virgin forest, in which
ax of settler has never sounded. And rarely
traversed by ridden horse; still more rarely by
pedestrian.

He now passing through it rides along no
road—no trodden path—no trace of any kind.
For all, he goes as rapidl , as the thick-standing
tree-trunks and the tang e of underwood will al-
low him.

At the same time he shows caution, and on
his face there is fear.

It is not of anything before, but evidently
something behim . This can be told by the

 

 

way he sits his saddle—at intervals slewing ]

SOON T0 PART.

himself round, and glancing apprehensiver
backward.

After each of these twistings, he again faces
forward, and urges his anima on.

The moonbeams, here and there slanting down
throu h breaks in the forest foliage, give light
enoug to guide him along his course: though
he does not appear to be very sure of it. The
only thing certain is. that he has fear of some-
thing behind. and is fleeing from it.

Now and then he makes stop, holds his horse
in check, and listens. It is for the purpose of
ascertaining whether he still heads in the same
direction—a thing not so easily told in passing
through a thless forest.

‘ Under t e circumstances how can his ears
avail him? Thev would not always, thou h
now they do. He hears a sound, which fie
knows to be that of water in motion—the sough
of a flowing stream.

He does not stay to listen to its monotone.

Soon as hearing it, and noting the direction

 

opposite. From this, it is evident he does not
design proceeding to the river’s bank. He has
late parted from it, and has no desire to go
back again.

After a series of these short pauses and shoots
forward he at length arrives on the timber’s
edge. here a pears before him an expanse of
o n plain. T e moon, gloamingdownuron it

ows it clothed with tall grass. which. stirred
by the night breeze and silvered by the moon-
beams, resembles the surface of a tropic sea
alive with phosphorescent medusac. Swarms of
fireflies, playinor among the spikes. and flitting
hither and thitlaer, make the rcsunblance com~
plete.

The hastening horseman thinks not of these,
nor even looks at them. The expression upon
his face tells that he is not in a mood for con-
templating nature. His eyes are fixed upon a
dark line, discernible beyond the plain. It
looks like the border of another tract, of timber
similar to that passed through. in reality it is

 

 

the facade of a cliff shutting in the opposite side
of the valley. He news it is this. and intends
making for it. He only stays to scrutinise its

rofile, and take bearings for a point with which
he has previous acquamtance.

This apparently determined, he sets his horse
once more in motion, and rides off over the
plain: not now in zigza ., or slowly, as when
passing through the tim r, but in a straight,
tail-on-end gallop, fast as his animal can 0.

An odd sort of horseman, looking at iim in
the moonlight! He would appear equally sin-
gular, seen by the light of day. He wears the
costume of a Comanche Indian; and his hands,
wrists, arms—so far as seen—have the correct
red-skin color. Not so his face. which is white;
under the moon showing pallid like that of a.
chimney-sweep washed for his Sunday’s stroll.

There is no one to smile at these incongruities;
go oneto $1136 note of thgm; and till? fleeing

oneman _ op: on over 0 plain wi out any
int-minion-

5?

 

 

g its face.

A (spot of triangular shape, with apex invert-
ed arker than the adjacent rock, shows a
break in the escarpment. It is the embouchure
of a ravine, whose bottom is the bed of an in-
termittent stream, running only when there is
rain. It is now dry; and its chaiuiel gives a
practicable path to a plain above, the surface
of which is on the same level with the crest of
file cliff—the latter being but

on.

Toward this black embrasure the horIseman 1
11 like 1
‘ secures his horse, by knotting the bridle rounds.

heads, as if he had been there before.
fearless manner he enters within its grim jaws,

and rides on up the slope, under the shadow of I

cliffs overhanging right and left.

It cost him a climb of seine twenty minutes; '

after which he again emerges into moonlight
upon the edge of the upper ilain. ‘

Here he once more ma cs halt, and looks ?

back. His View is over the river bottom, with a

continuous line of timber seen afar oil“, and .

nearer some isolated groves, with open ex-
ifis‘es between. It is the valley of the San

And he, thus hastily retreating out of it, is
Richard Darke.

Not strange his haste. For on the river’s edge
was seen a man he has reason to regard as his
Nemesis. While taunting his captive under the
tree, he heard a name that sent the blood with
a cold shiver through his veins-—the name
Simeon Woodley. Simeon W'oodley after him
at Natogdoches! Simeon VVoodley after him
at Natchez! And now again in Texas, Simeon
Woodley still pursuing) him!

On reaching the ta le-land he feels for the
time safe. Over it is the way he intends takin
to reach a place of refuge—the rendezvous o
the robber band. He has a view of the valley
below, for long way lit 11 with a clear incon-
light, and no one is seen t ere.

After regarding it for a while, he dismounts;
as he does so muttering:

“ There can be no good in m goin any fur-
ther now. I may as well stay ere t' l the rest
arrive. They can’t be much longer, unless
they’ve had a fight todetain them. Which I
don’t think at all likely, after what the half-
blood told us. In any case some of them must
soon cemeu . Great God! To think of Sime
Woodley being here! And after me, sure, for
the killing of Charley Clancy! Harkness, too,
with him! He’s met my old 'ailer somewhere
On the way, and brought him ck to help them
in findin me. \Vhat the devil can it all mean?
Are the ates combining a ainst me!

“Several others with oodley. One so like
Clancy himsclf, the fellow that caught hold of
my horse, I could have sworn it was he, if I

’t been sure of having settled him. If ever
fir: bullet gavea death shot, mine did. The
him breath was out of his body before I left

“Sure, he’s dead. But sure, Sime Woodley
isn’t. D—n this ugly brute of a backwoodsmanl
He appears to have been created for the especial
purpose of persecuting me!

“ And she in my power, to let her so slackly

escape! I ma never have such a. chance again.
She’l et sa 9 home ain, not only to curse,
but 8 mock of me. but a simpleton I was

to let her 0 alive! I should have driven m
knife into er. Wh didInot do it? Agh!”

As he gives out t e exclamation his e es are
turned toward the valley, from which 6 has
just retreated. There is blackness on his brow,
and chagrin in his glance. It is a look dark
and demoniac; such as Satan may have cast
back at the moment of being expelled from
Paradise.

A short pause, and then the soliloquy is con-
tilri’Pi‘EId'good ' ' bo t it Re ts

o my grievm a u now. gre
won’t at her back. ell; there may be an-
other c ance, in spite of Sime Woodley and all
of them.. If I live there shall be, though it cost
all a lifetime to bring it about.”

Another pause, spent in apparent reflection.
Again the soliloquy:

‘No: I Won’t go further till the boys Come
up. ’Tisn’t at all likely '.' oodlcy will follow me
on here. He and his )arty ap mama to be
afoot. I saw no horses hey mig t have them
near, for all that. But they can't tell which
way I took through the timber, and couldn’t
track me till after daylight anyhow. Before
then Borlasse is pretty certain to be along.
Just ssible he may come across Woodley and
his 10 . They’re sure to make for the mission,
and sure to take the road up the other side.
There’s a good chance of their being met at the
crossing, unless that begging‘ fool Bosh-y has
let all out. Maybe they’ve 'illed him on the
got! I didn’t hear the end of it, and hepe they

ve.

“ I am wron to stand so conspicuously. Sime
Woodley has n in these parts before, and
will remember this pass. He might take it into
his head to come strai rht on—thinkinrr I’d make
for it. If so, and he s ould get here rst I’d be
inn 1 fix. I‘ll'strike for cover, and lie up
a bit. here’s the best hiding- lace ?”

Ho glance- around. His eye upon a dark

The New Y

Once under the shadow of the cliflr‘, he pulls 
2p; and, seated in his saddle, casts aglance ;
on i

its termina- , O
5 ma! in among the trees.

 

ork Library.

IHWW._--.——~ r r

 

mass about a quarter of a mile off and some
three hundred yards out from the cli ’s edge.
it is a grove of black—'ack oak; the trees,

2 though small, standing thick, branched to the

roots, and umbrageous.

“The very place! I can there see all that
comes up the pass and will know our fellows by
this clear moonlight. It’ll do.”

S ringing back into the saddle, he again sets
his orse in motion, and rides on toward the
grove.

On reaching it he dismounts, and leads his ani-

At a short distance from the grove’s edge
there is a glade. In this he makes stop:and

branch.

There is a water-gourd hanging over the horn
of his saddle, which he lifts oil’. It is large—-
capable of containing a half-gallon. It is three
parts full, not of water, but whisky. The fourth
part he has drunk during the day; the larger
portion of it while carrying off the captives. He
then drank to give him courage, and add to the
ecstasy of his trium b. He now carries the can-
teen to his lips wit the hope of tem ring his
chagrin. He‘ inks also, because he 0 late
become addicted to it.

After taking a long and strong pull at the
gourd, he goes back to the place where he had
made ent among the black-jacksL There stand-
ing in sha ow, he watches for the coming of his
confederates.

He keeps his eyes upon the int, where the
gorge oes down to the river va ey. They could
ascen it without his seeing them, but not pass
on over the upper plain. Horse, or man, crossing
there would show conspicuously.

They must arrive soon, else he will not see
them. His si ht is rapidly becoming obscured,
and the equili rium of his bed endangered by
raising the gourd too often to ' lips, and re
holding it too long. Chagrin, impatience, the
illiltlzgeasing passion for drink, prompt him to
t .

As the vessel grows lighter, so does his head.
This only at first. Afterward the head becomes
heavy; while his limbs refuse longer to support
the weight of his body.

At length, with an indistinct peree tion of
being-unable to keep his feet, and a 'ef he
might be better in a horizontal attitude, he
staggers back to where he has tied his horse,
rec s, and falls heavily to the earth.

In ten seconds after he is asleep.

If Jim Berlasse had come along and seen him
just then, he would have said:

“ . k at that feel, Phil Quantrell—he’s
drunk.”

CHAPTER LXV.
PURSUERS.

Two men making their way t h awood—
on:1 of them on horseback, the other stridmg' a
m 9.

It is the same tract of timber through which
Richard Darke has just been retreating. -.

They have a dog alon with them—a large

deer-hound; not ure b , but with a cross of
te ier and bl .
9 animal with this triple commixture of
race, is in the advance—with nose to the ound,
takin up a trail. A stra around its nec , with
a cor attached—the last eld in the hand of the
horseman—hinders it from going too fast or
gettin too far ahead. Anonnei st”. -_ ‘:"'-l"~’
aroun its 'aws, keeping them closedr—a muzzle,
in short. ' is to prevent the creature giving
tongue. _

From these precautions, it is endent that the
men riding after have some reason for proceed-

in in silence. . _

hat game can theg‘. be stalking in such
cautious manner? The exan hunter does not
so track deer, bear, or buffalo. What can be
their intended quarry?

We may learn by 'stening to the speech pam-
ing between them as by knowmg who they are.
He on the horse is a white—the mule-rider a
mulatto. They are Charles Claney and Jupiter.

The former speaks first.

“ He’s on the trail now, J upe. He scents the
assassin. I can tell by the way he leads upon
the leash.” ' I

“ All right, Masser Charles. Give him plenty
of head. (films we can keep up with him. ’

Both talk in a low tone—almost a_ whisper. _

They are silent again; Clancy givmg all his
attention to the bound. _

It has new evidently struck_a trail, With
scent quite fresh. The uick Vibration of its
tail, with a spasmodic action of the body, tells
this. A sound is also heard coming from be-

‘ tween the closed jaws—a sound of stifled ba -

ing. But for the confining muzzle, it would
loud enough to wake the forest echoes for
around.

So proceeding, the trackers make but slow
progress. They are more than an hour getting
across the belt of timber, which the might
have passed through in less than half t e time.

At length, however, they arrivo upon its
edge, and see before them an o it plain, grass-
grown, and silvered by a bright y shining moon.

They stop a moment, and cast their eyes
apron it, as if they to

 

perceive some,

thin ahead. Their speech again exchanged,
tellsgwhat that something is.’

As before, the white man speaks first.

“He’s come out at this place, and is gone
across the open bottom, straight for yonder
bluff. Can’t you see a line through the grass,
where it’s been tram led down?”

“Yes Masser Char es, I see it; plainascanbe.”

“Well, it’s the track of Dick Dark’s horse.
Beyond this he has ut the animal to

gene at a gallop, as t e stretch shows. Let hi;
0 that way, or any other he likes. He thinks
'mself cunnin . and he had need be. Now I’m

upon his trail, e’ll be clever if he can escape
me. You know, Jupe, I’m not cruel. I don’t
think I ever did a harsh thing in my life, not
hurt to any one.”

“ I’m sure you never did, masser.”

“Well, in dealing with this man must be an
exception; or, sure as I live, I intend killing
him or he shall kill me.”

“ He desarvo die, if ever bad man did.”

“I’ve sworn he shall—you know when and
where—sworn to track him to the death, as I’m
now doing. The spirit of my poor mother-—
sweet saint sent to an untimely ve—seems
now speaking into my ear. It me to keep
in oath. Let us on!’

e ride out upon the moonlit plain, and on
overi . The dgg no lon guides them. His
nose is not need . The 0t left by the gallop-~
mg horse. is conspicuous. They can see it, them-
se v_es gem in a gallop.

Half an our at this rapid pace, and they are
again under shadow. .It is the shadow of the
bluff; so dark that the hoof-marks of the re-
treating horsemen can no lon r be made out.

For a time they are stay , while once more
leashing the bound, and setting it upon thetralL

The animal lifts the scent With renewed irit,
and, keepin in advance, conducts them an
opening int e-wall of rock. It is the entrance
to the gorge egioing upward. They can perceive
a well-mark path, upon which are the tracks
of horses, apparently hundreds of them.

Clancy dismounts to examine them. He takes
note, that they are tracks of unshod horses;
though there are some with the iron on. He
perceives that they are nearly fresh, among
others of older date. Those recently made have
the convexity of the hoof turned toward the
Valley. Whoever rode these horses, came
down the gorge, goin on for the river. He
haan dou to their ing the same horses,
whose tracks were observed close to the crou-
ing, and which he now knows to have been
made by the party of prairie pirates. ' '

They must have come down the gor , going
on to the mission, and would return 0 same
way. If so there could be daner in an en-
ggundtSr with them—perhaps death at their

11
The thought should deter him from proceed-
in further in that direction.

at it does not. He is urged on b his oath-—
by his determination at all cost to ee it. He
fancies Darke cannot be far ahead- an truststo
overtakin , and settling scores with him, before
his coat crates can come up.

Reflecting thus, he enters the ravine, and com.
mences ascending. J u iter follows; the hound,
again loose, crawling c ose after.

The ascent is steep; the path otherwise dim-
cult. It takes them nigh half an hour to reach
the summit of the pass.

Once there, they perceive that a diflerent

‘ light is around them. The moon has gone down,

her white, silvery beams, replaced b a gleam-
ing of gra . There are streaks of iiish color.
rose tin , along the horizon’s edge. That is
the dawn. Day is just breaking.

At first Clancy is tifled by a ht oft
filaddening to hearts. aylight will afist him
his design.

He soon thinks otherwise. 8w ing hisoye
over then land plain, he sees that t is treeless.
A thin shitting of timber runs along the bluff
edge; but elsewhere all is open, except a soli-
tary grove of black-jacks standing at me dis—
tance off.

The rendesvouz of the robbers would not be
there; but more likely beyond the treeless tract.
Noting that a trail eads stiaight outward, he
is sure of this, and almost sure that Darke has

one that way. To follow in full dayli ht over
he open plain, would not on] defeat a1 chance
of ap reaching the pursu man, but expose
himse f to the danger of being captured by his
confederates coming from behind. On the
smooth wide expanse they would see him full
five miles off; and once seen in such a situation
he would not be able to escape them. For him-
self he might, and could. Mounted on a m -
cent horse, he knew this; for he was co dent
there was no ridden steed in all Texas could
overtake him.

But by his side was a mule, with a man on its
back, he would not forsake; no, not for the sav-
in of his life. And the slow pace of the hybrid
-— herein lay the danger.

Thus reflecting, Clancy look: across the plain,
then at Jupiter, saying:

“ I fear, Jupe, we’ve been goin too fast. and
perhaps too far. I had hoped to nd him some-
wherein the river bottom. Up here things don’t
look the. Thou mandrel: will be coming on

 

i;
!
a!

., he-.. .. . m .. .... . . . . ... .. _.,,.... .-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

\

,.~

‘A .
'.  mm:r~~.w-“>rmr- «awn—unit -. g s 4F. a «r .m. w: »

   

 

w—  ~17 -; r—v—n—vm—wk— —----r 77 ~

 

»" V . '. ‘  '_ 7  _77.—",—.‘~ _~:..-7;';;;.;;::_;.:,.,- '

The Peath-Shottor, Tracked to Death.

_-. - r 'frA, '2 ~ - 73747.; ~~vr*- 7.

53

behind us; and, if so, I needn‘t tell you we’ll be in trou- The sound is from behind; and looking back he sees  After all, what might himself expect? True, the men

ble. What do you think we’d best do 1?”

“Well, Masser Charles, that’s not for me to say. I
know nothin’ ’bout these Texas prairies“ If ’twas in a
Ilassissip’ swamp, I might give good adv10e. Hyar I’se
all in a quandary. ’ '

Clanc stands reflecting, Jupe domg the same.

This time the mulatto speaks first. .

“ Masser Charles; s’pose' we lie hid durin’ the day,
nn’ keep on after him at night? The ole dog sure take

311% the scent for good twenty-four hours to come. I
e

re’s a big bunch of trees stannin’ out oniier.

That’ll 've us a hiding-place; an’ if t'other rob ers go 2

past this way, we sure soc ’cm.”

little hope of finding him alone. Along with them he
would— ’ .

Clancy speaks as if in sohlo uy. .

Abruptly breaking oil, an changing tone, he ad-
dresses himself to Jupiter.

“No, Jupe; we must oonnow. I‘ll take the risk if
you‘re not afraid to fo ow me.”

“Masser Charles, I ain‘t ’fraid. I follow you any-
where-to death if you need me die.”

“Thanks, my faithful fellow! We won‘t talk of
death till we’ve got into company with Dick Darke.

JOY SPARKLED IN H18

'7 n ou shall see it, one wa or the other. Hal what
1 flies; yonder? A drove of nyiustangsl They are mak-
 this we ."

' I ’ith hisyeyes watching the wild horses, he ceases
speech. '

They come on in full career—along a hne parallel .to
the trend of the cliff, though at some distance from its
nlge. N eighing, snorting, With tossed manes, and
streaming tails they tear past; and are soon far off on

.' si e.
thgififi‘cjggitfd his comJianion, holdin their animals in
check, wait till the wil horses are we_ out of the way.
The then splur outwardupgrsi the plain, keeping along
name us. .
‘hgogieiiizlgefyt 113.56 to Stgp, losing it. The hoof-marks of
the mustangs have obliterated it. . .

Asthese have gone in a transversedirection, Clancy

rides across them, and looks for sign on the other

Bk'llghere he finds a firm turf, with a sward so close and

hard hoof of a horse does not in.
3:1: $81316: getshigo trail—no trace of one. He is at
fault.

Once more he unleashes his hound, sets it to seeking,

i 1 his saddle to watch.
anIgust tlgei'rtiire scent is caught, _a sound reaches his ears,

Quaint him to turn his eyesin a different direction.

 

that which may well make him afraid. A troop of
horsemen are ascending the gorge, ridin in single file.
On reachinrr the head of the pass, they alt, falling in-
to a sort of line by echelon, their heads just showin
above the crest of the escarpment. Suc heads, an
such faces. The f

smeared with paint! Painted fantastically, with devi-

l

ormer feather-tufted, the latter be- 3

cos of various kinds—all intended to inspire dread—.

among them the death’s heads and cross-bonesl Ex-

posed only to the shoulders, they look more like demons ,

than men—demons of the theater, aboutto rise out of
a trap—as et only their heads appearing above the

i timber of t ie stage!
“ But if they go past, it will be all over. I could have

like these, as their bodies become exposed,

E liall
% the

as t eir orses again get in motion and straining u

l last deelivity of the talus, step out on the level plain.

One after another they reach it, the foremost files

i halting as the rearmost ride up; till the whole troop is

at length disclosed to view, down to the hoofs of their
horses.

Seen from a short distance off an ordina spectator
would, at sight, have pronounced it a arty gComanch-
es upon a plunderin expedition. turning from it;
since their saddles, oth pommel and cantel, appear
laden with spoils.

l

l

l
l

 

 

in sight were robbers, but might not be red-handed muro
derers. Their attack upon the new settlement was but a
bit of burglary, its aim being Dupre‘s great treasure,
too much talked about to escape the cupidity of such
freebooters asthey. While the carrying away the Arm-
strong girls, was a special act at the insti ation of
Dick Darke Borlasse being also interested in t e affair.

All this C ancy knew from the confession of Bosley,
made at the moment of his being taken.

Beyond what had he, Clancy, to fear? Rough treat-
ment, perhaps—no doubt of that—but not certain death.
True, there was the old grudge owing him b ' Borlasse,
about the horse-theft at Nacogdoches, and t N: flogging
that followed. And there was also the unsettled score
between him and Darke. For the castigation received,
Borlasse might not be so revengeful, as to demand his
life; and Darke under the impression he had taken it
already would show with ill grace claiming it a second
time. flis confederates, however vile, would scarce
back him up in a vengeance like that. Besides, Darke
was not now upon the round, and there was no need
for them to know why e, Clancy, was there. It was not
necessary for him to tell them he was at that moment
in the act of tracking up their comrade, with the in-
tention of slaying him soon as found.

:

k-‘

EYES—JOY THAT ROSE DIRECT FROM HIS HEART—AS HE SAW—JUPITER!

Clancy knows better. _He knows they are not Co-
manches, though returning spoil-laden

>

These reflections that take time to tell of, flitted

mm a foray. across the brain of Charles Clancy, quick as so many

He knows they are not Indians of any kind; but white i flashes of lightning.

men in Indian garb and guise—white savages far more

to be feared than red ones—the desperadoes of south~

1igfgstorn Texas, whose chief is the notorious Jim Bor-
se.

 

CHAPTER IX.
TAKEN PRISONER.

“WHAT a fool I’ve been!”

The exclamatory phrase was Charles Clancy’s; made
in muttered tone, as he caught sight of the prairie
pirates. , ,

His next speeches were interrogative:

“ What’s to be done now? Gallop off and keep clear
of them? Or stay till the come up?"

The s lendid steed he strode gave_him confidence
he could) do the former. But while cogitating, his eyes
fell 11 on that which at once differently determined
him—gupiter’s mule. Mounted as the mulatto was, in
a straight tail-on-end chase, there would be no chance
for him to escape. They .would surely capture, as
surely enslave, and treat him With brutality, perhaps
inhumanity”

Thus re ecting, Clancy said to himself:

“Come what come may, I cannot,will not, desert him."

And after they had passed, and he was still undecided
how to act, he saw himself surrounded by horsemen,
at the same time hearing the words:

“ Sun‘ender, or die!”

Looking at the circle of faces, his heart might well
have failed him They were savage as ever seen on a
Texan prairie, and ten times uglier. For their attempt to

v counterfeit the pléysiognomy 0 th: red-man was a fail-

ure—a travestie o the most Iud crous kind. The beetle
brows, heavy hanging jowls. and pug noses, under the

war paint, looked more comic than tragical.

The king in a Christmas pantomime, or the homes or
a county-town fair, 'could not have been more ridiculous-
ly unreal; and seeing them mom a safe window one
would not easily have resisted yielding to loud laughter.

Charles Clancy, viewing them as he did, saw no
to excite this, or in any way make him mirthful. Bu
much to put him in the op site mood. For in allthelr
faces he read an ex ressmn of dire hostility—one in
particular with eyes 00 vengeance, and lips that
seemed preparin to speak death sentencel

And et, not after the robbers had closed around

' (i any of them know who he was. Then thw-
leader recognized him.

«"1
11,!

 

 

' ;....._g. ‘_ &,«.V'_.-»-

54

 

_:  . ‘_v._‘.‘.__;. __

 _ Tiiewivew York “Library.

At the sight, Borlasse—for it was he—started in his more than ever had he reason todread the result. For!

saddle, appearing dprofoundl? su rised.

He was so; an no won e
It was the belief of everybody at
time he left Natchltoches. He had heard nothi of the
man since, onl from Darke, who had im a some

articulars of is affair with Clancy. Fa so ones; for

e maintained having killed his an onist in fair fight;
which Borlasse did not believe. But 6 had quite satis-
fied the latter about Clancy's death, saying he had seen
it": dead. False, too; though Darke himself did not

now it.

Borlasse had not stood in need of such assurance.
The news a
him; wh' e
in his own band, gave confirmation of t.

fitter all, it was not a fact. Here was Clancy before
him—Charles Clancy—still living! What did it mean?

And where was hil Quantrell? This was another

uestion now puzzling the prairie pirates, and had been
gnce they came across the San Saba. At the crossmg
they had ex cted to overtake their two comrades, sent
ahead in c arge of the captive girls. Only some of
them had one under the live oak, and there observed
tracks, which they sup sed to have been made by the
horses of Quantrell an Bosley.

Havin no suspicion of what had occurred, they did
not part cularly examine them; and they saw nothing
else there to detain them. Loaded with their precious
plunder they were anxious to transport it to a safe

lace o deposit. For this reason they had made but a
Brief pause at the crossing—place; only looking under
the live-oak, and then leaving it. They supposed that
Quantroll and Bosley chafing at the doing-perhaps
fearing ursuit—had astened forward Wi he wo-
men, out would be found at the rendezvous.

Borlasse himself yet entertained some doubt about
this. He could not understand Quantrell having gone
on without waiting for the rest to come up. .Much less
why Bosley, to whom he had given definite orders,
should have disobeyed them.

Still, Quantrell, who was a sort of lieutenant of the
bfindnilnight have influenced the other to depart from
t s n.

Th}; unexpected presence of Clancy put a different
face on the affair. It seemed to connect itself With
Darke’s disappearance; though in what way, and
whither the latter had gone, was as much a mystery as

ever.

Only for Borlasse himself had it a significance. His
men had no acquaintance with Clancy; had never seen
him before; and only heard of him as a man who had
been murdered in the State of Mississippi. They had
no thou t of the murdered man, and him now before
them be ng one and the same. How could they? Some

oung planter, the supposed the latter to be; one of
{he San Saba. colon sts, who had come out on a hunt, at—
tended by his mulatto servant. This was their conjec-
ture.

Borlasse knew better, but said nothi Indeed, he
was fora time rendered speechless b s eer surprise.
Then rplexity kept him silent, his ho hts concen-
trat in an attempt to solve the double on ma.

The murdered man was alive, before him While his
murderer, who should have been there, was missing!

“ What the mischief could it mean?"

This interrogatory was only addressed to himself,
and in a tone not loud enough for any of his comrades
to hear it; much less Clancy. Neither by word nor
deed did he make himself nown to his new-made
prisoner. Under his di ise he fancied he was yet un-
recognized. It was neit er the time nor place for de-
claring his identity.

Only for a short while did he show hesitation. Then,
as if some scheme had come into his thoughts, he
tgamed toward the prisoners, saying in a muttered

no to his men: _

“Bri ’em along, boys! An‘ let’s ride quick. ’Twon’t
do to be ollin‘ about here."

The others knew this as well as he. It was now
broad daylight, and there might be pursuers upon their
trail. The must go where these could not follow them.

“ Take heir wea ons from them,” continued the
chief. “The won‘ want them any lo er.”

Several of he robbers closed around cy, intend-

0 now saw the mistake he had made, and bitterly

re nted it.

fitment in time might have saved him. The speed of
his horse would have done it. Jupiter would have been
taken, but what of that? The mulatto, as himself was
now a prisoner; and the companionship was not likely
to benefit either. Why had he not galloped off?

Was it yet too late?

He put the question to himself; as he did so casting a
nick lance at the horsemen around, looking for a
reak it their ranks.

No chance of escape. Stern looks, threateningnfi-
tures, guns grasped ready to be raised pistols p;
their muzzles bearing upon . shot
down ruthlessly. His choice lay between instant death
and submission. The death of a dog. too!

He submitted.

Clancy dead.

arke, by fleeing from the

.infito disarm him.

But not without protest inan speech, Jupiter join-
ing. Why were t ey thus in e prisoners And by
w at right?

It was of no avail. They might as well have talked
to the stones. From these they would have been as
likel to get a hearing or com assion. The only answer
vouc safed was a pistol gain at the head of each,
cou led withcursesand t rents; the latterteliin them,
if t ey did not go uietly along they would be at out
of their saddles. uch was he brutal menace em-
phéitically made, and evidently intended to be carried
on

There was no alternative but surrender.

Both were instantly disarmed. The robbers stripped
them of everything, rmitting them to eta in heir
saddles; where, in a rice, they were secured a lash-
i of lei-into.

who had remained on the cliffs edge, u a rear
Ialartldvedette, now rode up, and reported “All right
11 .'
Then the band moved off, Borlasse at its head; the
nets, guarded by adouble file, brought along in
For.

 

CHAPTER 1:.
m PRAIRIE s'rocxs.

Max had no choice. but keep on with his captors.
He rode sullen and silent chafing like a Jungle tiger
just captured and encased.

As the moments , more than over was he mad,

himself to be so easily honored-

at havi rmit
mhtqvgitgfout making an alert to «scope.

r. or he, too, thou ht surely
he . been instrumental in getting punished—th ped at the

g fellow rob
5 were now proceeding.

‘r account had made she fact known to I
lace and join- .
I rying ofli While t e latter—

 

altho h Borlasse simulated not to know him it was
ut pretense. Impossible that the man he had

post—should have los remembrance of eit er him or

he not, occurring as it did, but six months before.
Beyond doubt, t e robber chief must have recognized

1 him, and would in due time declare it.

Then there was Darke, still at large and certain soon
to make appearance on the scene. He would rejoin his
rs at the rendezvous, to which place they

Burke and Borlasse together, and he Clanc in their
werl The former foiled twice, cheated of t e victim
e intended killing and the sweetheart he designed car-

No use reflecting further. Clanc felt this; feeling,
also, that a dread fate was before h in. No wonder the
thought made him sullen; and he was silent, because
no one was near with whom he might hold converse.
The robbers had separated him from his faithful fol-
lOWer, who, still mounted on the mule, rode at a dis-
tance behind.

Throu h the ranks of the ribald band, buckskinned
and blan eted, now and then spreading into a ruck, he
could see Borlasse at their head. ver six feet in
stature, bestriding a large horse, he was sufficiently con-
spicuous.

Their road was across the open plain, and they ap-

to be guiding themselves by a tree that stood
solitary in its center, ni h ten miles off. It was upon
the crest of a ridge tha rm over the ordinary level,
with an acclivity scarce perceptible.

Before reaching the tree, Borlasse
tired aces in advance three or four 0 his fellows along
with im. Riding with their heads together, they ap-
peared to hold consultation.

About what the alone could knoW' but Clancy could
easily guess that t concerned himse . He was sure of
it, from seei them turn round at intervals, and re-

ard him wit interested lances. They were sinis-

r too, foretelling trouble n store for him.
rlasse aplpeared to be suggesting some plan for the
gisposal of s prisoners; and this in reality was he

0

Neither knew what it was, till the cavaloade came
alongside the tree. And then they only learned that
they were to be separated. The main body of the
b ands were ordered to continue on, taking the mu-
lat alon with them; while the chief, with his escort,
turned 0 at right angles along the combing of the
ri , Clancy’s guards conducti him after.

or a mile or more they trave ed in the new direc-
tion. Then the robber chief halted—the others doing
the sitime—and waited for the prisoner and his guards

e u .
en the men around Borlame dismounted, and en-
tered upon a task seemingly eccentric. At the same
time it was s gestlve of the most serious design; since
it looked like t e digging of a ave!

Not in the ordinary way, th spades. Spears and
bowie knives were the implements emplo ed.

Nor was it the shape usually designed or interment.
Instead of an oblongl rectangle, some seven feet in
length, they were ho owing out a circular hole lea
than two in diameter.

At this they worked dili ently downward; first with
knives carving out the an ace turf: then with spear
blades, slicing the firmer sub-stratum of earth, and
flin ng out the fr ents.

T ey continued t eir excavation, until they had sunk
a cylindrical shaft, about five feet deep, with a. diame-
ter of some tweiitylinches. Then they desisted, stand-

silent around t e cavit' thus “ crowed.”
rlasse, sill seated in h saddle, broke the silence.
Riding close up to his risoner. 51115118111118 the plumed
bonnet back from his row, he ask :

“Don‘t ye remember me, Charley Clancy?"

'l‘I remember you," was the reply, spoken in a calm
vo ce.

Borlasse gave a start. He had not been repared for
such answer as this. His d' had no served him.
Bult ngegiaf‘ter rligg,nolil'iw;as t i%u‘t’.:(liib3foliée. H?“ had
on neep up snoogn nueawm—
to ve the fiendish pleasure of a surprise.

“ Ohl ye do remember me, then?"

“ Well,” was Clancy‘s rejoinderl pronounced with as

urred some hun-

much sang- as if the uest on had been put by gull
some former and not unfrien lam ntonce.
“Indeed! Maybe you'll say well, b -an‘-by. All

right. It shows ye don't forget our 01 friends: an‘
besides, it saves a world of exp tion. Well, then,
since your memory‘s so good, you can also recall that
little circumstance at Nacogdochesi"

This time there was no answer.

“Imeanwhereyhe otme tied two do 3 to a
3d wyhipped into 9 ain. You don‘ forgot hat,

6 9!

iii no re use.

“ Silence ves consent. I see ye remember the whole
business. a” now I‘m oin' to show you how I fix a
fellow that's ut me in a . Out here we‘ve gait a. plan
ten times bet r ‘11 any tying osts. You she be con-
fined so‘s thar won‘t be any c once 0‘ w lm‘ about,
an‘ havin’ the cords out inter or skin. e won‘t be
able to scratch your head if it e es. Now, he s! show
him the way wmunish our enemies on the p 3. Put
him in the at stocks.”

He thus t reatoned knew it would be no use protest-
ing. In the face of the brute before him there was
visible concentrated raven malice without mercy.
As well might he have m e appeal to an infuriated
bull with its horns goring his breast.

He said nothing; but, silent as a savage, stoically
awaited his fate.

This only excited the ire of the rufflan, who, losing
tern r, cried out:

“ ——n you! I‘lltake the starch out of you. Now,
b0 5! In with him! Bury him it to the neck!"

ck as the order passed from he ii of their chief
soveral of the robbers stepped up to lmcy. released
him from the stirru fastenings, dragg him down
from the saddle, an 08 toward the cavity prepared
for his reception.

The bound spru at them ma an effort to res-

egh ed it, but one

one its master. ey would have
cried out:

“’No! let thodarned dog alone! He‘ll be of use to
us. ‘

The leash was taken hold of, and made fast
to the m a saddle.

Intcn secondsaftor,0lancywas in the earth upto
his neck(" and in as many minutes, the returned soil

wastrod enfirml mund,oothato hishoodshowod
abovethesurfooo? w

 

 

".4. “In, -A ‘—

“Nowl” cried Borlnsse in trium h. "Sta th
Mr. Charley Cling! Stay till thg buzzardys 0002?;
peckin‘at ours ,an‘the worms go crawlin‘ through
your flesh. Ha! ha! ha!”

As the peel of devilish laughter from his II
it was taken u and chorused y his comrades. -
huFman as himse ft.h ba di

or some time 9 n to sta edu n the ound:
their chief amusing them by cohtinuiiiog to infirm the
unfortunate man, sameg everything he could think of
likely to 've him pa. .

Clancy re it as he best could; never once more
opening his mouth. He knew that words would be
wasted, and the most piteous appeal received with piti-
less mocking.

Having satisfied his spite, even to a surfeit of ven~

eance, the robber captain prepared to leave the spot.

is men. were impatient to be gone; thinkin of the
treasure .mtrusted to their associates, and look rig for-
ward to its fair distribution.

Borlasse was himself impatient, though from a differ-
ent inspiration. He was t inking of the more precious
treasure confided to Quantrell and Bosley.

Therefore, he at len h gave the order for remount-
ing and moving on. ut not until he had bent down
over Clancy’s head, and with lips close to his ear, hissed
out a tone offflendish malignity:

“ may com ort you to know, that Dick Duke’s
your girl; by this time has her in his arms!" 80‘

CHAPTER XI.

W m run scoltgmecfimw.

am, on e u er 'n, n was bei ut in
what Borlasse facggigo y termed (the "‘prairiggstgc “
belowi in the San Saba bottom, other men were movo
ing. t was the partyl of scouters, under Dupre, sent
forward to take 11 t e trail of the supposed savages.
With_Hawkins and cker guiding it reached the lower
crossing of the river, not much he ore noon.

They might have ot there sooner but for certain re-
cautions necessary be observed. There were lesst an
a dozen of them, while the sav es, from all that could
be athered must beflve or six t esthis number. They
st believ the burglars to have been Indians; draw-
ing deduction also, from. what they had done, that
boot , not scalps, had been their object. Their havin
car ed ofl Co onel Armstrong’s two do hters—an
only these—showed as if this were less a esign than
accidental, from the girls chancing to be in the garden,
and so falling in their way.

D_upre hoped it was so; but when he thou ht of his

traitorous servant Fernand, and some slight hin Jes-
sie Armstro ad said to him about the behav or of
the half-bl , a chilling fear crept into his heart, with
a resentiment that it might be even worse.
. addened by this, he would have hastened forward,
in rocklcss all??? after the rav era, but for Haw-
kins, who wit di. culty kept him ii check. The hun-
ter knew that their only hope of recoveri theca tives
lay in strategy rather than speed. For he lat r, it
woos too late nova}

n reaching e ford, they discovered certain si
that the savages had re the river. On its opgun ,
site side, after the had ridden over they saw iii?
hoof-prints of their arses, still wet with the water car-
ried out of the stream. i

Hawkins and Tucker easily identified them as the \
tracks of the same horses they had seen the evening be-
foa'ti; with Indians on fifiglir backs.

e savages were ' yto return 8.10 the trail b
which they had traversed the river boxtltgom; and th:
two hunters concluded they had gone on to the up

lain through the g: the themselves had ascen ed
ho of encoun gb aloes.

As his was what the scouters had ridden forward to
determine, they did not think of now p fur-
ther. The end aimed at had been accomplished, and it
only remained to return to the mission and on
the ursuingboparty as 8 fly as ossible. It would
1b? is time organiz , and ready for an eflectual,

need be, a prolonged campaign.

It was now morning; Dayl' ht was over thevmey; and
to attempt cross ward e blufi's would bring them
under the eyes of e Indians, who would be just about
making their way up the gorge. Or if up it, and they
had gone on over the p they would be sure to leave
some one at the summit o the pass—perhaps a strong

rd—to cover their retreat.

It would be ir'lnfirudent to follow them further—sheer
folly, indeed. e scouters saw this; and, without
ing beyond the timber edge, they turned to recross 5:;
ford, and ride back with all speed to the mission.

Before arriving at the river they observed something
that caused them to deviate from this doc It was a
path leading at right angles out of the n ford-road,
a narrow trace resernblin a deer-track. On somtiniz-
ing it, they saw horse racks that showed iron on.
These were clearly the tracks of Aineri horses—not
musta _. There were four sets so ; and
among our the oblo elliptical hoof-mark of a mule.
Whoever rode these mals must have been u n the
main trail before thelndians passed back over t; since
the shod tracks were obliterated by the trampling of
the more numerous naked hoofs.

What could it mean? Had 'a party of white men
gassed the place going in a. transverse course to that

km; by the Indians? And who could have been riding
a mu e

Hawkins could tell, that this had been under a sad-
dle and not a pack.

The scouters went back along the trail of the shod
horses, to see whence they had come, and whether

th'ia‘ belon ctr; the burglars.
y no or to ore ttin satisfied on this
head. A camp fire, stfifmolderfig; fgagments of food

around it, where men had eaten sup r; amo them

some chips of biscuit, with which t: red on were

already manlng free—transporting them to their sub-
ean ce

Indians do not eat biscui because t have it not.
The faces of the men who b vouncked b%t smolder-
i fire must have shown white in its blaze!

ere were other signs, thou h not so distinctive of
race. The long gm down, Whom men hid
lain as in sleep. ear the branches of some trees
with the bark chafed, w are ropes had been knotted
around them. Underneath, the ground dented by tho
stamping of the iron-shod horses.

The trackers Proceeded some way beyond the camp
ground. They ound the trnoowhore thefour horro-
men had approached it; coming up to the riverby tho
samerouteuthohofowdmw traversed by
Coloneluqurmwng‘s “entrain. had not

one as u u m- 'v
aeolian"- MM tug-mi shortofl 

A.

i

can

cams-“3.....a.  .. I

it

 

 

 

 

 

r—

 

 

 

 

 

t e ‘

 

 

v

 

 

 

w.— .._..,..___....- . . .

.tank, and passed the night where the camp signs were

seen.

And, again, the scouters could distinguish the tracks
of four horses, all shod, all American, with those of a
mule, alsoAmerican—the h brld of the States leaving a
hoof-print easily distin ble from that of its Mexi-
can con ener.

In ad ition, they saw the tracks of a dog—a large
dog—evidently in companionship with a party of horse-

men.

Satisfied that these must have come u the river bot-
tom, and were in no wa connected wit the Indians,

re and his rty re rned to the ford road; and,
 along t s, entered the trace on its opposite
at c.

It brought them under the great oak, and in sight of
“ sign," which caused them to pull up, dismount, and
rive it their keenest scrutiny.

They had not been long so engaged, when one who
had entered the palmetto-bushes uttered an exclama-
tion that attracted the rest toward him. It was ac-
: r mganied by the words,

“ oys! here's something queer! Darned if it ain’t
"‘e scalp 0’ an Indian!"

6 s or held before their eyes something that re-
sembl a wig; the hair black, long, and coarse as if
taken from the mane or tail of a horse. And so ad it
been; and also was it a wi . that worn by Bosley,
shaken from his head, while ime Woodley was throt-
tling him.

But the party of scouters knew nothing of this. To
them it was a puzzle altogether inexplicable—Indians
wearing a wig!

While they were endeavoring to solve the enigma,
mother c claimed their attention.

A secon searcher had found something else under
the shadow of the live oak. He had picked 11 two
h, but ill the spot

thi s, of themselves simple eno
siggfilcant. One was an orange lossom, the other a
sprigof cypress. The first was crushed, as if it had
received rou h handling; the second might have had
the same wit out showing it.

There was no c ress seen growingl near and cer-
tainly no orange- rce. The could t nk of only one

lacewhere the sprig could ave been plucked or the
flower gathered—the mission en!

Nowwas it remembered t at the last place where
Celene! Armstrong‘s daughters had been seen was in
the arden, or 0mg toward it. Who but they had

lucEed orange-glossoms? And who but they was likely

have brought them thither?

Then they must have been with the men who rode
the shod horses! A new mystery!

The scoutcrs were in a quandary; and for a while
the remained undfir the oak discussing the sign, and

toin t .
heyhad ready ascertained that the shod horses
did not return to the ford; but went on up the liver, on
the side where seen.

Hawkins, at length, put an end to the consultation,
by sigying: _ .

“ on Gas Tucker if Mr. Dupre don t object, go back
‘cross t e river, an stra ht up t’other side to the
mission. Ride fastas your orse can take you. Tell
the colonel what we‘ve done, and what We’ve seen.
ell him about the trail 0’ shod horses, that appear to
have gone up the river this side. Say, we've taken
, and are going to follow them fares their trail
leads. There‘s on! five of them, so we needn‘t be
steerd. Tell the co one! not to despair. but get all the
boys , and keep b the bulidin till we come.
An' Cris, ust to comfo the old cgent eman, tell him
thatmaybe we’ll bring back the ear girls along wi’
9

:‘I’ll does ye sa ," was the simple response of the
young hunter, see ng t at Dupre signified assent.

which he o of? and soon after went
um across theggortfievghile'the party of scouters,
w us again ding it, proceeded up on stream, on
the trail of the 0d horses.
' CHAPTER XII.
AGAIN .rov.

THOUGH riding in all haste, it was near mid-day when
Cris Tucker came in sightof the mission building. bear-
! the report sent by the scouters. The time consum-

by them in scrutinizing the cross trails had thus late

delayed him.

The colonists, who anxious! awaited their return,
desc ing a single horseman ar off, were thrown into
a frog: state of excitement and

alarm.

‘ not tran uilize them to identify the horseman
“1:34:11 hunter ucker; which they did, long before he
had got within speaking distance. For he was alone,
and spurring his horse as if pursued!

Where were the others? Had the scouting pal-tr
fallen into ambush, and been cut off? Were hey a1
killed, except Tucker, who was riding as if the last left,
orTlxllgugllonists crowded around Colonel Armstrong,
and watched the scout as he came on. Silently—for no
one ventured to offer an explanation of his be alone,
The trembled, too, at the thought that the dlans
might be close behind—perha a countless host,
enough to surround the little so tlement and instantly
annihilate it! They and theirs might be swept off—
eonsumed as d grass in a prairie conflacratlon!

Colonel Armgrong could not he! .
prehenslons, thong they moved um no more.

hters gone, he had quite given way to despair.

now, he who was to have been his son-ln-law—the
generous youth long since seem! a son—he, moba
victim to the hostility of the reds ned robbers. e-
s g befor:i the 333:]; 0511:3121 ltéur'ther bereavement
him most i e se .
leggiihedulses quick beating his fellow-settlers clustered
around him, awaiting the scout’s approach. _

As soon as the latter was near, each in his own

way called out for the news, all speaking with equal

fflhssims lifted from their hearts, when Tucker
i ‘ nse:
qq‘ktgdmkngwlgfpgentlemeul Rayther good than
t‘otberwa .."
bout of relief hailed the announce-
@fla‘ifimh mood they listened for further ex-
9

“g: dismounting, and coming face to face with

Colonel Armstro , gave a detailed account of what
find

seen and done' not forgetting to
221.33% ho words with which his 00qu Haw.
kins, had in sted him. .

“almanac. maximum.th

low

sharing their as» dread
8

 

TheivDeath-Shot; or.le'acked to Death.

Faces became brightened; even that of the old soldier ’ speaking, not of my own

showing something like cheerfulness.

Then arose the inq '

"16y, what they were to do?
It was answered by ucker imparting the advice of
which he was the bearer.

Coming from Hawkins, their guide and hunter, in
whom they had confidence, and lndorsed by Dupre, it
was sufficient to decide them.
Although ready for the route, armed and cguipped—
horses caparisoned, haversacks provisioned or a half-
I week‘s campalgn—all chafing with impatience to set
‘ forth in pursuit of the plunderers—they made a final
. effotrt to curb it, and await the return of the scouting-
' ax y.

p To Colonel Armstrong it was an irksome interregnum;
, during which he was ain a prey to dark ilnaginings,
I the more unendurable cause unrelieved by the excite-
ment of action.

It needed more than mere patience; reliance on God,

ting over the valley of the San Saba—the departing rays i
of roseate hue klssmg the cupola of the old mission ,
church—a mounted party could be descried comi 1
from the direction of the river. In its midst appeargfi .
two figures, by their floating drapery recognizable as .
feminine, even in the far distance. 1

And when nearer, it could be seen they were not In- ‘
dian squaws, nor yet women of the common class. No :
coarse woolen owns of homes un copperas stri
concealed their orms.

t

Instead, 'rts of costly fabric j

ankles, as they sat sideways upon saddles intended
a different style of equitation. ,
Long before the had reached the mission building a ;
crowd was arount , escorting them on their way; and ,
when they at length drew bridle by the walls, arms !
ea erly outstretched receiving, let them gently down.
it front of the San Saba mission house was repeated 1
that tableau once before witnessed far, far away:
Colonel Armstrong standing between his two splendid

for I

into his with a filial affection, that had ev lest ;

The spectacle only differed in now having witnesses— 7

Dupre, and the young surgeon Wharton ; the for-
mer giving ardent love glances to Jessie, that were as ’
ardently returned; while the congratulations of the lat- ‘
ter, bestowed upon her sister, were met by a melan-
choly smile and absent air, that might have admonished
him, he had no hope there.

what had befallen the unfortunate household servants.

hearted men.

Nor had the money—worth anythin to do with it.
Even the large amount of cash carrie off by the rob-
bers did not 've its owner the slightest concern. Not
then, as he 3 od by his afilanced bride with her cheeks
flushed from excitement more bloc ngly than ever.
Having her b his side, and love in his heart, there was
still room in it for pity, but none for sordid regrets.

flft thousand dollars. It was not costing hima thought;
an at that moment the walls of the 0 mission might
have rung with merry laughter, as when its cowled oc-
cupants made carousal. but for the co ses still seen in
its court ard. But that grim 3 ac e of death, by
horrid w olesale assassination, c ecked all tendency to
mirth. Contem lating it, there could be no gayety,
much less laugh r.

Still was there contentment with the turn events had
taken. For all saw the preci ice on which they had
been standing, and how near hey had been to going
over it. They could not be other than satisfied, that
the circumstances were not worse.

There was one who did not share the satisfaction—
couid not. Amidst the general congratulations
Helen Armstrong, retired rom the rest, was yet
suffering anxiety of the keenest kind. For long
there had been a cloud upon her brow; there
was one there still, though now from a difl'erent cause.
It was no more the somber shadow of melancholy,
tranquil in its sadness, but the excited look of nervous
apprehension, manifesting itself b
dered. checks that were paliid, an

Charles Clanc : she mi ht never more see him!
What if he sho d be kill in keeping his stern vow?
His fllia! affection, his loyalty, she could, and did ad-
mire. But then to think that these might leave her a
mourner—throughout all her life!

True, she had confidence in his strength and skill; in
all the qualities to Insure success in the undertaking
u on which he had Set forth. She believed him ca a—
h e of an thing. What woman does not have this Ee-
hef abou the man she loves? But she had forebodings;
now more than ever—now that she had become ac-
quainted with the real Circumstances, and knew they
were not red, but white savages with whom he had to
deal. Woodie had told her all about Borlasse. He
was the big to ow her Sister had seen in the streets of
Natchitochcs. She was informed of the affair of the
whippin -post at Nacogdoches; and could see in that
old enm ty enough to  Clancy‘s fate, should it be
his misfortune to fall lnwith the robber band. She
ed this more than his encountering Darke.

Now home again herself and sister safe, she felt the
keenest apprehens ons about the safety of her lover.

While g vi way to them, a comforter came to her
side—Simeon oodley.

But the backwoodsman. trying to cheer her, was

mself not without anxiety.

glances that wan-
lips setin silence.

glen and deeply regretted having allowed him to go
one.

But he was now to set out in search of him, and with:
out loss of time. His self-reproach spurred him
haste, which he had been urgi upon the other; at.
ready organized for the pursuit.
chase was still to be
the treasure to be at back
for the crime—den for the murders com
There was motive sufficient for purs

ven to the re hers. There was

in ursuers afresh, making them eager to set out.

:fidby the evening breeze, stood before them, and

 

in the full strength of Christian resignation. 
God gave him his reward. Just as the sun was set- ,

daughters, as on the eve of abandoning the old home; I it that they’ve got bolt 0’ him—Wagh!

none of its strength in the new one. i wound to Charley

two who seemed especially interested. These were 7 but

Little cared the generous Creole for the loss of his ‘

He could not help knowing that Clancy was in diam .

to‘and

or altho h circum- '
stances had changed b the recoverv of thueg captives, i of them would afford a practicable

eir impatience reached its climax \ hen Colonel 5
Armstrong, with head uncovered, his whit; hair blown f with

“ fellow-citizens! We have to thank the Almighty l
our dear ones have escaped a dread danger. am , travelers; and they are equally unlike those that w

55

dau hters. but yours as well
] —your wives, sisters and chi! en. And, while thank-

ing God for his goodness, let us remember, there is a
gman whom He sent to assist us, also dese our
j atitude. A brave young man, whom we all be ‘eved
1 end. murdered. He is still alive; let us ho he is.
, You know whom I mean. Simeon Woodley told
! you of the danger he is now in. Rashlv, of his ovm
; doing, some of you may say, or think. But that‘s not
‘, the uestion now; nor would it be a just reflection.
1 Our uty is to pursue this band of desperate outlaws;
‘ not for the money they‘ve made off with—no mattcr
,about that—but to rescue this noble youth, if by ill
.‘ fortune he has fallen into their hands. Friends and
v fellow-citizens! come what will, cost what it may. at
. all risks Charles Clancy mus! be cared!“
 The enthusiastic shout, uttered in response to the old
soldier‘s speech, told that the pursuit, whether success-
ful or not, would be energetic and earnest.

Helen Armstron , standing 9. little retired, now
‘ looked hopeful, ant proudly confident.

Her hope came from hearinghthat shout—her pride.
at the popularity of him to w om she had given her
heart and promised her hand. Happiness, too, in know-
ing that for the bestcwal of both she need no longer fear
the frown of her father.

The night was nigh on; but this did not deter the

ursuers from setting forth. They had 3. ion journey
fore them, over thirty miles of travel. ere t ey could
reach their destination. But they knew where this
was; there would be no need for tracking now. To

 

 

—the produce of foreign looms—draped down to their , save his neck, Bosley had turned State’s evidence, and

told them all.

Before parting, VVoodley sidled up to Helen Arm-
strong; and, in a whis er said:

“ Don't ye be frettin , Miss Helen. Thar ain‘t much
likelihood o‘ danger arter all. Charley Clancy knows

{ how to take care 0‘ hisself. All‘ of bebe alive anywhar

on the urairas 0’ Texas trust Sime Woodley for and
in’ an” ringin’ him safe ck to the only gurl he cares
for, and that's y‘urself, I reck'n. Ef ill-luck shed hev
I won‘t talk 0'

their arms again enfolding his neck, their eiyles t{Vazng I sech a thing. They hain’t got him. They can’t kill
en

him. The man ain'tcyét born that‘s to gi’e his death
ancy. Thar‘s only one ked do

thatband that one air a woman; not by a gun-bullet
y a glance 0’ her eyes, that w‘u‘d sa she‘d ceased

to 10ve him. I know she won’t gi‘e thatg nee—niverl"
There was a tone of interr ation in be last words
of the hunter; something of t e same in his eye as he
looked half askant at her he was addressing. e had
noticed the assiduities of the youn surgeon. Was it
this made him conclude his speec in such strange

It ended in a general rejoicing; only' restrained by 1 fashion?

If he had any shadow of doubt about her realty tohis

The fate of the stricken victims—slaves though they ‘ friend and comrade, it must have passed away on re-
were—caused true sorrow to their masters, both kin - l ceiving her rejoinder.

It was but the echo of his own
flnaljevortihsoftly, but emphatically, pronounced:
“ ever.

 

CHAPTER ml.
was nonnrms' anemone.

A small running through a canoned channel. with
,banks rising three hundred feet ab0ve its bed. They
‘ soar up almost vertically, forming twin cliffs that front
one another, their facades not half so far apart. Rough
with projecting points of rock, and scarred by water
erosion. they 100 like giants with grim visages
in mutal gaze. In places they ap roach, almost touch-
ing; then, diverging, sweep roun the opposite side bf
an ellipse; again converging, like the curved handles of
callipers. Through the spaces thus opened the stream
continues; thou not in a channel. cliff-confined, but
through little v eys of oblong oval shape, more 01'1er
regular, whose vivid verdure, contrasting with the som-
ber es ments above, and the brown plain stretching
beyond, likens them to brightly-tinted landscape piC'
tures set in rustic frame.

The traveler who attempts to go alon 7 the stream in

uestion will have to keep upon the ores of either cliff:

, or no nearer can he approach to its deep! indented

5 channel. And here he WI 1 see. only the steri e, treeless

again; or. if forms of vegetation meet his eye, thleaiwiil

such as but strengthen the impression of ste ty—
some scramblin mesquite bushes, clumps of cactacete,

perhaps the sp leroidal form of a melocactus, or a

: yucca, with its tuft of rigid leaves—the latter resem-

, bling a bunch of bayonets rising above the musket
“ stuck“ on a military parade-ground. .

He will have no view of the bright green f ex-

! nding itself in the river valle , a hundred be-

! ow the hoofs of his horse. e will not .even get a

, glimpse of the stream itself; unless by gorng close to

1 the edge of a precipice, and cranin his neck over. And

: to do this, he must needs diverge rom his course, to

i avoid the transverse rivulets, each trickling adown the

i bed of its own dee -cut arroyo.

1 Such unapproac able streams are many of them af-

t fluents of the Upper Colorado, still unexplored by the

: land-seeking speculatcr. For there is no and on them

1 worth “ locating "—at least, by those who look forward

t to forming plantations upon an extended scale.

. But there are spots to attract the squatter or hunter

I -—the elliptical spaces of river bottom above described

1 —some of them like little Gardens of Eden. reposing
hundreds of feet below the surface of the surrounding

1 llain.

; I One of these semi-subterranean vane
tention. Looki
behold a .

, clearest emerald to darkest ohve green.

 

claims our at-
down into it from t e cliff edge, we

We see a
stream gliding on through its center, with the sheen of
i silver and the sinuosrty of a snake. We observe birds
1 of bright plumage, wrth liniOnB spread, flitt' from
‘tree to tree We hear heir shrill cries an sweet.
warblings, all in striking contrast with the somber
. silence of the desert around.
Ifwe think of descending into this sunken Paradise.
or Hesperides, we shall have to make a long detour,
1 down through one of the (cites intersecting
} the u at right ranges to that o the main stream.
An weshould have ’ culty in discovering which one

tothevalley

‘ below. No traveler of the common

as also castigation 'ven . ly to discover it.
mflted '

Yet some have certainly; as is proved

- _ a a p of
Hing them to the ‘ tents standin under the tall pecan trees, Wag
bitter end; and a word from Woodley fired the intend- , the stream at8 this point, extend back to the base the

Iblufr.
m 2.3%?“ i" mm “1%. 9”” “amen”
e as o a y scra
‘gvmén placeseked out with a bit of blanket” are
cos.

I No one'could mistake them for the tents of o

vegeta ion of every shade and hue, from

-,.. as-

Ty ..:

i.

 

 

 . n
be seen in an encampment of Indians. To whom, then, i while a few, of less tasty exterior, show coats of the

do they belong?

Were their owners present there would be no dim—
culi in answering the question. But they are not.
Nei her outside or inside, is a soul to be seen' not any-
where around! No human form appears in the valle ;
no voice of man is heard reverberat ng from the cli s.
if there were, the birds Would neither be so striduient,
nor so softl melodious.

And et he place shows si ns of recent occupation.
There ave been tires outsi e the tents, _ but lately
smoldering; and within, implements, utensils, articles
of bedding, provisions. In some there are bottles and
stone jars, containing strong drinks, both brandy and
whiske ; and, besides these good store of tobacco.
Than his no better proof hat the encampment,
thou h deserted is not abandoned, whether its owners
be w te men or Indians.

13211;) and what are they? Redskins or palefaces,
w i

The uestlon will soon be answered; for yonder they
come, n the shape of a cohort of horsemen.

Descending through one of the ravines that lead down
from the upper (plane, the make toward the river bot-
tom. The confl ent air w th which they advance, pro-
claims them the owners of the empty tents. _

They ride in Indian file—the narrow path compelling
them to this mode of march. To all appearance they
are Indian warriors. The copper hue of their skin,
with its besmeari of paint, the buckskin breech
clouts, fringed leg rigs, and feather head-dresses, are
all articles of Indian costumerie.

There is one among them who differs from the rest,
as also from the American aboriginal. His skin is yel-
low, not red; his hair crisped, not hanging. And, in-
stead of dressed deerskin he is clad in cotton habill-
merits; a coarse shirt and loose drawers, with wool but
upon his head. His complexion bespeaks him a mu-
latto; his apparel a lantation slave. Although with
the warriors he is evrdentlfv not them. The manner
in which he 8 treated proc aims irn their risoner.

Once in the valley bottom, the b rank —or,
rather file—and ride on toward t e tents in a ruck.
This is not Indian discipline, and should cause doubt
about their being of the race of red men.

After dismounting and making their horses fast to
the trees, they enter the tents; bring out bottles and
tobacco; take drinks, and commence smoking.

Beyond this they make no further movement—either
to unsaddle their horses or strip off their accoutcr.
rnents, as if they were purposing a prolonged stay.

They evidently await the coming of others, with some
one to give them directions.

They have not long to wait.
smaller arty is seen coming down the go
first cos nmed a la Comanche—at its h
lrerculean stature—evidentl the chief of all.

As to who and what are t e owners of the tents there
need be no longer, concealment—Borlasse and his band
of frecbooters. That fair spot, lovely as an Elysium, is
a rendezvous of robbers—the lair of the worst cut-
throats in all the territory of Texas!

On reaching the river bottom, Borlasse and his escort
ride straight on to the encampment.

Entering it, he gazes around, his glance sent inquir-
infly among the tents.

en, in loud tone, he asks:
“ Haven‘t Quantrell and Bosley got here yet?“
There is no response, and he repeats the interroga-

Soon a second and
e; like the
a man of

very. -

It is answered by one of those who came first upon
the ground.

“No, cap', they ain’t got hyar yet: we hain’t seed
ne‘rr'a sign of ’em."

The chief ves utterance to an exclamation resem-
it“  s  sum aircrew“-

en, in s go or, e m mm
the sagge, hfs escort doing likewise.

When on foot, he says to his surrounding:

“Boys! I reckon they must have gone astray while
crossin‘ the b plain; an’ that‘s what 3 detainin them.
‘Twar amista e to trust to two nhorns as both

air. I see that now, but there‘s no help for i . Lucky
they hain‘t ot the shiners along wi' them. I guess
they‘ll find eir way after wandering a bit. If they

don‘t, some 0’ us must go back in search of them.
Meantime, there ain‘t no reason for our playin‘ the
savage an longer. I s’pose on all want once more to
become vilizcd human be n‘s, and is such make a
visit to the settlements. With the contents of these
barrels to buy diversion with, I reckon ye’ll be inclined
to spend a month or two ’mong the saynoritas of San
Antone. Is that your idea?“

The answer was a shout of affirmation, simultaneous,
unanimous.

“ Then let'stprepare for leavin'. And I say the sooner
the better. I we ve got to go back in search of them
that‘s new missing, we’ll be safer to cha e the color of
our skins, as well as cast off this truck at’s clingin'
around us. It‘s done good service this time, and may
do ag‘in. For all that, we won't want it any more now.
Tharfor‘ let‘s pitch it away for the present, and take a
plunge out o' sava 0 life into civilization."

The s ker en s his harangue b a hearty laugh
at the cu d’esprit thus let off, in w ich his audito

oins. After which he commences peeling oi! the alrh
t gave to his rough, gigantic figure a certain of

picturesqueness.

Oi! oes buckskin breaches, logging, and moccasins,
with t c iumed tiara encircling is row. Then ste
ring insi e one of the tents, he comes out n hol -

n his hand what appears to be a lace soap. It
12%.... P

Making straight toward the stream, he pl
waistdce into the water; and sets about scrubb as
his skin e one determined uponasevere course 0
hydropathlc treatment.

His comrades are soon beside him, imitating his ex-

am le.

vehen then return to the bank, and there stand drip-
ping in pm naturaubus, it can be seen that there s
not an Indian amo them. They are all the boasted
Caucasian race, whl r rather may it be called tripe
color-both in shape and hue far inferior to the bronze-
skinned symmetrical savage.

After performi their ablations, they return to the
tents, and pass ins do. there to complete their toilet.

soon reappear, one site. another, in dresses

very erent from those they have thrown off, and no
two of them alike. Some wear the handsome back-
w huntin shirt, with fringed cape an. skirt.
baizo 1 low. Others are garbed as Mexican
rancheros, in velveteen Jacket, calzonerae, acre .
waist-scarf. Still others are dressed in the -blue
oottonado blouse and pantaloon of the louisiaaa creole;

. . -." .__Y_7;:;-'r,~,~..'.‘ue~ _7 . . ,.. . - ... . - .A

!“ cans" o

 

f ‘The New York Library.“

- mflfiw _...

-../. ..,. _..~.7.....  .__

cc-..” ..  . .c . ._... ...-. . ..... .. __.. . 1.": ..”:.‘.:1
ness to set out after Dick Dar-kc, he had said no to

co peer ed homespun of Tennessee, or the gray-blue Woodley about when and where he was to meet

Kentucky.
heir head wear ex ibits a like fanciful variety;
and hats of all sorts and sha ' the former of

caps 5
coon- ;

again, and thought only of his conducting the sisteri
safely home. .
Therefore, his comrade might not come back to search

skin, catskin and cloth; t e '1atter of felt wool, ; for him. Ifhe did, there was but slight chance of hit

Panama, an
broad-brim of Mexico.

Borlasse reap ears in his rough blanket coat, belted ; around his ribs, he felt ph sical

and booted as when first first seen in the bar—room of
the Choctaw Chief. -

Conceit of personal appearance was not amo
weaknesses o the Texan robber chief who in t s re-
spect had no affinity with either of his Italian proto-
types, Fra Diavolo or Mazzaroni.
or fashionably picturesque, the Transatlantic
was uite as formidable as the ; and could stop a
trave er, and cut his throat, as e ectively as either.

With their change of garb the (prairie pirates also
make some chan in their mode 0 armament. Their

ns, pistols, an knives they retain; while the s ars

)rnahawks, and bows are abandoned. These, col ected
into a heap with the cast Indian disguises and other
insrifgnia of t e sav , are carried into a cavern in the
oil close b , and here secreted with due care. As
Borlasse sai , they may be wanted again.

The transformation scene ended, the robbers now
turn their attention to things cull

During their absence from camp, th
tainin themselves on drink 0

lenti ul supp] —the proceeds of
he Colorado. ey have brou ht nothing
Duthe‘s wine-bins, the barrel: 0 silver corn being load
su cient.

The appetite of hu r is now keen 11
they have the where th to satisfy it. ere are skilled
hunters amon them, and several haunches of venison,
with abear’s am or two, are seen hanging from the
brangéres of the pecan-trees, beyond reach of lynx or
co 0 .

veral of the band, accustomed to act as caterers
and cooks, have already commenced pre ring some of
these for the spit; and the choicest geces are soon
frizzling in the b aze of a huge hickory re.

And soon after, the robbers make their Homeric meal.

Eating, drinking, and smoking occu y their time, un-
til the sun sinks behind the crest of t e cliffs, and the
crepusculous light, stealing over the valley, empurpies
thcfoliageoft epecantrees.

Still no Phil Quantrell comes, no Bill Boslcy; no sign
of either them or their captives!

Borlasse, at first only impatient, as to feel seri-
ously alarmed. He longs to have wh to arms around
him, a soft, smooth body in his own rough embrace.

Ast time: passes he grows anxious, reading disap-
po ii men .

The sun is now down, the moon up; and still no ap-
pearance of the missing ones—either men or women!

tainin his asslocigites fromdtheir cups, 31h: gonrmuni-
ca 5 a pre en ons, an proposes a party
shall go bacg over the plain in search of them.

But the robbers are now too far gone in drink. Their
ca tain no ion r commands them. They do not care
eit er for Phil uantrel or the captives committed to
his charge. And as to t e (la er of their being pur-
sued b the scurvy settlers, w let them ursue if
they 1! c. There isn‘t any possi ility of suc simple-
tons bein able to track them acress the upper 1iplain.
Besides, t ey wouldn’t dare venture so far, be eving
them to be Indians. Bah! They are safe enou h;
the are enjo ing themselves. Let Quantreil, ey,
an the Arms rong rls, all go to the devil together!

With these and 0 her like speeches is their chief‘s
gro met. Drink has'made his men mutinous and

isregardful of their duty, as of him.

He grows angry, roars like an infuriated bear, and
threatens to quarrel with them. But they are all against
him, and he sees it is no use attempting extreme mea

sures. ‘

In the morning they say, they will assist him in the
search— 0 anyw ere he wishes—but that night they
must m e merry, and drink—drink!

Box-lasso has to yield.

To drown his chagrin he joins them in their revelry,
and drinks deeply as they.

The debauch ends in one and all becoming bestially
intoxicated, each staggering as he best can to a place
0 repose.

Some find their way inside the tents; others drop
down where the are, and fall asleep cub Jove, or under
the shadow of e pecan-trees.

CHAPTER XIV.
unnows or nvn. om.
“ Oh, God i"
The exclamation came from a head without a body;
at least there was none visible.
giro was one, nevertheless—buried beneath the

as
It was Charles Clancy who gave utterance to the

which they have a

 

prayerfula trophe.

A groan allowed, as his eyes went wander-in over
the plain. He could see it for near! the of a
circle—a great circle such as surroun you upon the

sea—but with a view no better than one has lying
along the thwarts of a boat, or afloat u n a plank.

He ve out a second g‘roan, as his g cc fell to the
groun , after sweeping t e semicircle.

There was no one in sight; no likelihood there would
be; no chance of any one coming that way; no hope of
his being rel from his living grave.

It was to prevent this, that they who buried him had
gone more t an a mile out of their way and chosen that
remote spot. For though the ht be pursued, their
pursuers would not note the via ion. It was on a rt
of the arid table-land, when the turf was ally
firm and desiccated. Even a horse with shoeing sha
ened for frost might pass over it without making mar

tracker.
There was one who could have taken up their trail—

Simeon Woodleg.

Clancy thoug t of him, but with little hope. He re-
membered that the backwoodsman must, by that time
be far away. He could not yet have reached the mis-
sion-house. From where they had parted it was at least
twenty miles to the u per crossing, and ten more down
the opposite side oft 0 San Saba—a good day‘siour-
ney, even without impediment. Besides, there was no
certainty of what awaited them at its termination; of
whathad happened to the Bic at the mission, or
how long his comrade in mi)? ere detained.

And would Simeon oodle see the necessity of

 

ey have been sus- !

n them and : Sid th h d h
. es, e a s ape.
! Clancykn

“2*
s
that could re discerned, except by the most skillful [ respo

 

beaver—among them‘ the black-glaze 1 finding him—till too late.

Shored up to the throat, with t2? earth hard packed
p 11.
But it was nothing to t e mental sufl'ering he was

m  now made to endure. This was indeed o
e !
idered mother her death
i wrongs, and t e satisfact on he had so
But, if not so goliée,  taken.

an it

Nor was itallfor himself. He thouglgfo his mun
et unavenged; of his own
ht, still un-
With anguish also, he remem rod that
s h s gken under the hve oak, when Helen Arm'
strong :

“You will come back to be true to me, as you have
been to our mother. If not, I shall soon be dead."
In the itter cu there was this much more bitterneu

i —his death woul kill her.

And it would be his fault—ail his; brought about by
his reckless irnprudence in following out the one idea
that had seized .ssion of his soul—too sternly seized
it—the killing 0 Richard Darke.

Was there no hope of escape from this painful -

ition? No chance of getting rescued? Would no y

come? No. There was not the htest likelihood. On
that wide waste, swee ing smoo y up to the sky,
i

i there was nothing visib e.
a former raid down I
away from I .
1 down, was at intervals obscured by shadows flitting
. across its .

But in the sky itself something was seen, jLst u the
day reached its meridian The sun, shining vertically

Not clouds. The shadows were more trmsiwt; be
ew what was causing them. He was only
buried a little above the shoulders. and had still lay
for the vertebrm of his neck. By throwing his’g’ead
backward he could see the firrnament above, to its ver-
tex. But he did not need this to tell him what, ever
and anon, was making a penumbra over the sun. The
shadows outlined on the smooth eSlain, in m ifled
proportion showed long outstretch necks and road~
s read wings. He knew that vultures were above him.

6 soon saw them.

It was a sight bodingly significant. It brought vivid-
ly back to his remembrance one of the taunting
speeches of Boriasse.

To cause him keener a? rehension, if this were pos-
sible. it but needed the tion of wolves.

And these were soon added. A group of coyotes,
gather-in in from all sides, became of the tableau-
vivant. horrid spectacle to him w ose head formed
the central figure of the group! .

No wonder he again groaned, again repeating the
prayerful ape p e. .

0n, throughout the day, past its meridian throggh
the long afternoon across the short interval of a T
twilight, and into t e ht of a Texan moon, had he to ,
enziJure thistaemble fie ure. 8m '. -

one, on y t e companion of hian how
tile things—wolves toning to tear the ski‘tigfmm'.
ggkull; vultures preparing to peck the eyes out of his

Oh, it was horrible! Why went he not mad! ’ ‘

There were moments when his senses well nigh ve
we. —when the horror came near unseati his ii.

anquy he st led against it—thoungfirtfully, ,and
with reliance on Him whose name had so repeatedly
passed from his lips.

He was sustained, too, by thinking ‘of a man—one
whom God might {at send to his succor.

Though faint, t ere was still a hepe that Simeon
Woodie might come that we , and in time.

Abon the time alone was ancy ap rehensive. ,

He knew the backwoodsman wo d be. certain to
search for, and equally certain to find him. But living,
orsctlfitladtfh This was th?l uncertlrliinty. t. um “I

era was a c ance, owever sllgh e
tho ht of it did somethin to support him.

It etermined him to he (1 out as long as life would
allow—hold out, and have patience.

So resolved, he did all in his power to fight of! the
wolves and frighten the vultures. Fortunately for
him, the former were only coyotes, and the latter but
turkey-bum Had it been on an African desert,
with carded vultures above and hyenas around, his
agony would soon have ended. But he knew his ener
mics and their nature; that despite their predatory
habits, both the birds and e beasts were cowardly
and craven—both timid as hares—except when the
quarry had been stricken down for them. i ‘ ,

They must not know he was hel less; and to deceive
them, he shook his head, rolled h eyes, and shouted.

He only did so at intervals. taking care to economize
both the cries and gestures. Otherwise they would soon
have ceased to avail him.

y stood him in stead thro bout the afternoon,
the evening, the sunset and tw ht. Thenthevul-
tures went away, and he had ony to deal with the
wolves that remained sole masters of the situation.

The change, instead of bell-gig favorable, was more
likely to prove disastrous. e rairie-wolf, a true
jackal— fidayli ht shy asa fox, y night changes its
nature. en it mes emboldened, and will spring
“ii.” "112.: “wwimyi king h

ey in orig 00 at t chead,and
often startled by the sounds fimeedln from it, to?
ggadcéhesa any longer. e time find arrived for
a ng .

Blending their lugubrlous howl—half bark, half bay
—-the closed nearer from all sides, as if for the final

assat.
Once

stro

Once more Clancy made appeal to Heaven.
more sent be up the agonized cry, “ Oh God!" this time
alg, “ Heaven hel me!"
his prayer been at length heard—heard and
nded to—a sound came over the plain. '
otAat 11:2:th touch, he could tellittobe the hoof-stroke
ta’ill'greaclo dotels hdcard it tooihand with closedced jaws and
en '
bfiwag. 3 ropped, ey common retreating
n ancy could see them no more. Instead,
saw that which drew from him an ejaculation of 
n the moonlit plain, was a

1 Before illsdiatcie‘ mgr)" l tha
ormeasiy s ngu a can tof amanbn
back. He was riding in slow pace, as if he had strayed.
or was seeking for something 0st.

Suddenly he made stop, and remained for a moment
Ril‘i‘amfi mpg? '°"€c‘n‘éil'd “W ‘“

ng o 9. vs a
Presently he mOved on gain w catalysts,

that the bone was now headedzwardmm

 

' Us.) arr-“HM ..

 

 

 

com! back? He mi ht no :for on i with
him, Iannoy had made 11% point of this. Kilauea»

£11; .‘S ' , I

 

A.‘x.....»_ .. .1... ,. . —« n

 

..

._.-i

“ Thank Heaven I" was his muttered exclamation;
which he was about to follow up by a name. pronounc-
ed in a louder tone.

“ Simeon Woodley!" he would have shouted: but see-
ing that the horseman approached with hesitation, he
remained silent.

And soon had be reason to be satisfied at hafing done
so. For as the night rider drew near, he saw it was not
Woodley. nor any one resembling him.

The horseman was on the moon side of him, and
therefore with lace and features in shadow. But his
figure, seen against the sky in sharp silhouette, was
traceable throughout all its outlines; and in these
(‘iancy beheld a man clad in Indian costume. The fillet
of feathers surmouiiting his head was chiefly conspicu-
one, as also some metal neck ornaments, that glittered
under the glare of the moon.

It scarce needed these to identify him as Richard
liarke!

CHAPTER XV.

A socrumut. s'riuir.

IT was, indeed, Richard Darke whom Clancy saw ad-
vancinfiltowu'd the spot.

How e came there must needs now be told. going

lHolding his hand, with sprcnd palm. owr his brows,
he took note of the sun‘s altitude. It showed about
two hours above the horizon.

In making this observation, his first thought was. that
he had slept away so much of the, morning.

He re roached himself for having done so—adding an
' oath at is own stupidity.

(letting intoxicated had been an act of imprudcnce;
still greater, in going to sleep on it.

There might ie un leasant consequences. “'hat if
BorlaSSe and the ham had gone Past, leaving him be
hind—alone? At least two hourso clear daylight, more
than time for them to get back from the mission. Had
they got back, and ke t on to the rendezvous?

The reflection made im feel uncomfortable, and he
stood. not knowin what to do. If his robber associates
had aheady pa over the 1plain, his course would be
to hasten after them. But t iere might be danger in
doing this. There was a possibility of others following
them at the same time—purxuerx .9 The outraged colo-
nists might be after them—their wrongs urging them
to as much haste as the plunder-laden pirates could
possibly make. Now that he knew Simeon Woodley
was in the field, there was a probability that the back-
| woodsman would be guide to the

 

 

 

s 
/ .
f if};
? 49 fr

5
(5:7

/

 

will?” m

’(‘W‘
n. it"
)1! '

fl
\

4527/7 '

 

MOTHER! moo ART AVENGED!

pursuit: and Richard 2
back to the place where we last left him. The time, I Darke had reason toknow something of Woodley‘s skill . by Sinn- \Voot

A, The Death-Shot; or, Tracked to Death.

57

“I‘ll give them :inothcr half-hour. Surely they’ll be
up before that. If they don‘t, 1'“ tzike lllV Chalice
mid l'ldt‘ on to the rendezvous: though d—-d if I know
whetherlcan find the way. Hang that horse? He‘s
making noise enough to be heard ten miles off. I must
put an end to that Y”

Going back into the grove. he routed the swarming
insects, and for a while ke it the horse quiet.

But. thirst still tormenting him. as the this did his
horse, he could no longer endure it; and again strode
off to the outer edge of the copse

“ There, with his glance cast Skyward. he madea fresh
observation of the sun‘s altitude. It brought a quicker
beating to his heart than that he had felt regarding it
before. The golden disk seemed nearer to the horizon.
The sun was sinking in the sk ' instead of ascending.
He had mistaken west for east. t was evening, not morn-
A thrill of fear ran through his frame on disc0vering
the mistake he had made. No wonder. Now he felt
sure that Borlasse and the band had passed by. And
perhaps. also, pursuers? .

“ (ire-git i‘mdf What am I to do?"

Thus prot‘aiiely did he interrogate himself.

“ It" I allt‘lllffl goin on over the lain, I may be Seen

ley an his party. T at would be certain

ro-

 

 

 

 

death to me. From the ugl backwoodsman I need

of the morning. just be- ‘ as a tracker. Nay, the ursuers might also have one

hit hit-11:2: mtg; early hour } past! If so, there woul be a double risk in his strfiung

A bright sun rose over the black-jack grove where he out over that tneeless plain. H I this qumed thirst will do the same for me. Each. “.8
till lay doubled up in drunken slumber. Its rising did 1 “ Two hours of clear dayli ht! he said to himself. , choking me now!

lot awike him- nor et the fierce rays when it was . “Has there been so much? ,onfound the wath Let 3 “I must endure it, for all that.

' or the thick to hindered him : me have another squint at the sun! ‘ the grove before night; I must wait till there‘s darkness

look for no mercy. And it stay here much longer,

I daren‘t go out of

her u in heaven; , . .
V ,3 He was 0 ‘ awakened by Again shadl his eyes. he looked up at the sky, once over the him. How soon Will that be!"
xiii'fltgfipi'f t(tiifjlli'isfeiri(viizse, the animal agitated by the more iiieasurifi the are between the sun‘s disk and the Again ie looks at the sun's disk. now less dazzling:

its blaze becoming gradually obscured by the strata of
haze overhanging the horizon.

“ In less than an hour it will be night. Well, I rock-
on I can stand it that long. I must.‘

lie strides back to where he has left his horse; sta '8
there awhile; then returns to take another look at t e

Itingin of cs. ‘ dark line below. A backwoodsman himself, coupled
lle tigad heard the sound several times; but, half with his late experience on the prairies, he was able to

dPunk half dreaming, had not given heed to it. ‘ do this, With as much certainty as the most skilled as-
wmln at it, h amused, he was still partqu inebri- . tro‘iiomer. '

. in. "mph 30 r enough to perceive that he had over- I No. he_at length said in jubilancy. the tone telling
us it hini‘self. of satisfaction; “ not two hours yet~~n0t quite. About

i ' ~ ,
. tared around with an air , an hour and three- uarters, I Should think? 3311- I H: sun.
W lfoaffidfl?nrm feet” “d a ' been utti mysell into a scare for nothing. I guess ' He regeats this maneuver twice, thrice. At his third
what “the was' it,  they ven gone by yet" ‘ surve e sees the orb of day going down behind the
He took out his watch, and azed unsteadily at the sin doub in , e continued: l far-o horizon.

He has only waited for this. He knows that the twi-
light is short, and Will be over while he is adjusting the
ca ' n of his home.

t is almost past as he climbs inttsthe saddle;

“ ow am I to now for certain? Not by staying here, ,
unless the ‘re still to come along; which isn‘t at all cer-
tain. Best (lcs, I‘m choking with thirst. Half an hour ‘
of the hell-tired thing will :0 well—nigh killing me. I

a]. No ood that, even had is visiou been eVer so ‘
qear. 'i'lige hands were at rem—the watch, not wound

the night before. had run down. mm

He lanced skyward, to sight of the sun. The ‘ l ' '
see the armament must make tracks out of this, one “a or the other. . so when. mounted, he comes out upon the edge 0 the

ackifoll (9111;333:5132: N ecould «Water: Where am I to find it? .\ot a drop on this grove and casts ms glance over the tmless mu. me
e :taggdgdzut tothc edge of the grove. to obtain a dry lain! None nearer than the river, and n that (11- . moon has not yet risen. and the last liqu re,” of

before his face;

rec on I (aren‘t go. What in the name of Ql Nick am ‘ twilight cmpurple the prairie extreme
" Minded hirn. ‘

litter View. Then fl!" men 0"“ “'93 “a a“, There is now obsourit sumo ent  give him conn-
5"

h, “l "W. dazzling iiu mu.“ 

 

donce for going on; and on he rides, as rapidly as he
can, taking caution into account.

He does not go far before becoming uncertain as to
his course. He knows it should be north, or nearly.

0n starting out he had the sunset gleam to guide him. -‘

With this on his left he has confidently ridden on. But
Soon the lingering rays disap ar from the westcrn
horizon, leaving it leaden gray, ike the rest of the sky
circle around and the firrnament above.

He now looks to the stars, searching for the Great
Bear. But a white film, ascending rom the sterile
plain, has cre t across the northern sky, concealing the
’olar constel tion.

No ion 3r knowing what course to pursue, he draws
back his ridle-rein, and checks his horse to a iralt. He
twists himself round in the saddle, directing his glance
upon every point of the compass

Plenty of stars to be seen; constellations of many
names. But he is not eno h astronomer to know, or
take bearings by them. e can only tell the Great
lien; e.th the pointers of Itbe Lesser—neither of which
r; v sr e.

In the midst of his pe lexity a light appears, giving
him relief. It is the si very sheen of the moon. It
thrills him with joy. Strange, too! Soft, swoet, and
so like innocence, one might suppose it would sting his
guilty conscience with keen reproach.

He is too hardened for that. He thinks not of his
crimes, but only of escaping from the dilemma into
which the last of them has led him.

The moon gives him a clew to his course; and, once
more slackirr rein, he moves on.

Not far, he ore seeing something that attracts, and
then fixes his attention.

Nothing to make him afraid. Onl a pack of prairie
wolves on the lain before him. hey are grouped
around some 0b ect—no doubt the carcass of an animal
---stricken stag, or antelope. Curiosity would not
tempt him to turn aside, and see what it was. But
the wolves are in his way or not far out of it.

He will deviate so much to see what they have been
devouring.

They scatter off as he comes near. It is but a little
thing they were around, seeminglly not enough to give
each a meal-not even a mouthfu . .

“ What the devil is it?"

For the second time asking himself this question, he
advances toward the object upset-anti so insi ificant.

When close to it he draws su derrly -k, at 8 same
time gi utterance to a shriek—one so wildly intoned
as to fri h on the wolves still further off.

Him ey need not fear. Before his terrified shout
hm ceased to reverberate over the lSlain, he goes 
loplngI off, as if Satan had seized ho of the tail of is

rorse

There is another shout almost simultaneous, which
seemsto ariseout of the earth! Speech, too, accom-
panies it; in which Richard Darke bears his own name
pronorfnced, coupled with the c —“ Murderer!“

The second shout does not y him. On the con
trary, it sends fresh fear to his heart, and speed to his
horse‘s heels.

He is soon far from the spot; but, long after, his
hoof-strokes can be heard reboundin from the firm
turf; these gradually wing indis net; at length
dying away it n the esert plain, till its surface is
again silen as e chamber of a cavern.

CHAPTER XVI.
m rues or aALr-nanans.

As the rotzstering robbers, one after another, suc-
cumbed to estronfi’drink, and rolled over asleep so
pne after another t e lights of the encampmen he
came wasted, and went out.

Two on] continued burning, in two small tents that
stoodnlit oapartfromthe rest.

One of these was occupied b the captain of the
band, who was yet comparativ
tion. He had kept so, partly because he could stand
any amount of drink w thout giving way, and partly
that he had his reasons for remaining sober.
Big lumbering brute though he appeared, Borlanse
was gifted wit a measure of common sense, along
with a large share of low cunning.

A rude strategist in his wa , he had brain to conceive
with, courage to out conceptions. Otherwise

he could not have been the acknowledged leader 0

twenty Texan frontiermen: all of them as himself. out-
$332! and most having hands um had been imbrued in

This ht, as much as ever in his life, he needed to
keep his ead clear and cool. v
Ever since recrossing the San Saba he had felt ill at
ease. hat had become of trail, y, and the
women? He thought less of it then; supposing he
would find them at the rendezvous. But they were not
there, and where could they have gone?

For a time he was dis weed to tlnrrk Dar-kc might him-
self be a traitor. Had re, too, discovered that Clancy
was still alive; and, no longer in dread of the law—be-
cause no longer liable as a murderer—determined to
se rate himself from the band—an association with
w ich he had becorrre leagued through sheer necessity;
and in the hour of his desperation?

Or had he encountered Clancy during the night and ‘

been killed by him.‘
Certainly these two men could not have met and
again (1 without one sin ing the other. Borlasse

was sufilciently aufait to the r feud to feel sure of this. i
, Clancy would v

But if Richard Darke were now dead
have one off with the Armstrong iris. He would not
have n found carelessly stray ng—hunting, as he
himself said, when taken.

Jim Borlame now regretted not having put his pris-
oner to torture and forced him to a fuller confession.

He reproacth himself with this negligence as he
sat reflecting in his tent, after his fellows had left hrm
alone.

But there was a regret that far more affected him.
Coarse, though he was, both in body and soul, without
one iota of sentiment, he yet loved. True, it was ani-
mal passion, of the lowest, impurest kind. Brit it was
also of the stroifiest; at the moment so ove wering
him that he wo d have willi surrendered is share
of the silver taken from Louis pre to have
himself of Du re’s sweetheart.

And to thin that he had been in possession of and
had let her so easily escape! For he now began to fear
that this would be the upshot.

While thus chafing a thought came to his relief.
Clancy would still be alive? What if he Borlasse, should
g; back to the phoe where he had buried him; promise

release him, on the condition of his telling whether
he had encountered Darke- at the same time threaten
mundane shouldrcfuutcconfonlthe

free from intoxicao .

pi

The New York Library.

.__..._..._.

 

E truth. It would be a ton-mile ride; but what of that?
He. could not slee ) without havin satisfaction of some
1kind. He must now whether flarke was true or a
,1 traitor.
He had almost determined on this course when an-
i other idea occurred to him—a plan (preliminary. He
,wonld first confess the rnulatto, an , if needbe, put
‘ him to torture.

Strange he had not thought of this before!

It was not too late; and, egliding among the tents, he
looked for the man of mix blood.

He had no difi‘iculty in flndln him; for he knew he
was in the other tent where the ight was still burning.
He was there in company with another sang-melee of
very different mixture—the half-Mexican, half—Indian
— ernand. The two were still earousing upon corn-
whisky, fraternizing as if they had been born brothers.

For the mulatto was no longer treated as a prisoner.
Made such, and so transported to the robbers’ camp.
there his captivity had ended, or become almost volun—
tary. In their culina operatrons, the bandits had dis-
covered in their yel ow-skinned captive, a valuable
help-mate. For Jupiter, like all his race, knew some-
thing of the science of gastronomy, being especially
skilled at barbecuing.

He had shown so zealous in his new vocation, and
altogether so contented with his captivity, that his
captors soon ceased to look upon him as a prisoner,
and began to regard hlrn in the light of an associate.
He hat told them that he was Clancy‘s slave; hinted at
harsh treatment' showed them ascarred back to prove
it; and professed himself hi hly leased at being separ-
ated from his master. In s rort, e declared hrs readi-
ness to becorrre a member of the freebooting fraternity

conditions required of him.

Accepted as such he entered upon his duties con
amore, and with an a acrity that delrghted them.

They did not think of questioning his professions of
fidelit . An escaped slave, there was nothing strange
in suc instantaneous conversion; and they had taken
lrlm at his word; committing him only to the care of
their comrade Fernand.

Borlasse, aware of all this, and knowing where J upl-
ter was to be found, approached the tent, and sum-
moned him outside. _

When he had taken him beyond earshot of his fellow
oonvive, he set about confessing him; at first in friendly
tone, and with a coaxing, confidential air.

The mulatto was a man of no ordinary mind. Ithad
been his misfortuue to be born a slave; and it was his
superior intellect, chafin at the ignoble lot, that had
made him a to itivc. '1‘ e exercise of this intellect had
already enabl him to mislead the prairie irates, by
making them believe he was to conten to remain
with them as their chef de cu us.

While ostensib engrossed with his new duties, he
had been m toning to their conversation. From
it he had a on to give him an idea of what
the had (oneto his fe ow-prisoncr; and he was not
wit rout hope of being able to escape from the robbers’
camp in time to release him.

In reply to the chief’s questioning, he professed utter

ignorance of everything.
He knew nothing of any Phil Quantrell, and no more
of 9. Richard Dar . He never heard of either. He
was Mass Clancy‘s slave, who had lately bought him.
And here in the most adroit manner, he again hinted
at harsh treatment.

His young master had come to Texas to look out for
land. where he intended to settle. He was in company
with a parth other intended settlers; from whom he

had scpara but a short while before, leaving cm
at their camp while he went off for a bit of a hun .

J uplter‘s tale was plausible enough. It was red
by some words Clancy had hastily whispered, j be-

fore the two were taken.
Be adhered to it, with a revolver held to his head, its
cold steel touching his tawny skin.
The test satisfied Borlasse who gave over interro-
ating him, and returned to his tent leaving the mu-
to reetogo back to his own,and continucthc in-

 

they talked as if far advanced toward a etc of ine-
, briety. For all this, they were still quite sober, each
. believi the other to be drunk. _
Thong thus mutually mistaken about one nnother’s
condition each knew why he was nothimself intoxi-
cated. The rare forming a litter over the tent floor
1 could have own why. It had been dry at the com-
mencement of their carousel; but was now saturated
9 ins spot between the feet of where gin- after
i glen of strong liquor had been sp ed. Not accident-
;ally, but wit design. and surroptitiousLy; the men
| who thus poured it out concealing the fact from one

another.

I lathe mutual deco on each had his object. That
of the mulatto was get the martian in order
that he might himself take de rture from t place;
while the tter, having susp cion of his design, was
let-ping sober to thwart it.

Fernand was an astute fellow; and, thrown more
than an of the others into the companfi'eof the agave
commit ed to his charge, more than t y doub his
new fidelity.

As the irne passed on, and drink after  a;

ared to be swallowed, Jupiter began to des r.

never come across a man who could start so much
1 corn whisky without succumbing to it, as he with whom
I he was now hobnobbing.
‘ What could it meant
, Was the mama‘s stomach coated with stool, and his
i head lined with iron?
‘ Perhaps his boon companion would be m the
same reflection about him? And he might also ve
- been doing the same?
As soon as this suspicion crossed Jupiter‘s mind, he
3 determined to watch the movements of his drinking
1 companion.
i He was not in before discOvering a clew to the
‘ mytstcry, and why t e latter was keeping sober as him-
se .

With eyes turned toward the entrance of the tent,

, but twisted askant, he observed the macaw lt-ealthily

. spilling his liquor.

‘ The action was ificant. The mulatto now knew
that he himself was ing watched and guarded.

‘ But the moment before he had believed himself sure
i of escape. Drunkennea had disembarraued him of
the others. But here was one taking care not to get
drunk; still wakeful as a watch-d 1

How was he to get rid of this nt sentinel?

There woe a way—only one; and the eyes of the

 

i

—a useful obsequious servant, if that should be the

torruptcd car-o
The two half-breeds had been lo over their cups,
andto alla bothhadimbbeddee ly, since;

i .
; fugitive slave sparkled with a strange light as he re-
flected u n it. It was the lurid gleam that speaks of
s an intent on to kill.
‘ It only came after consideration. and with some
i re ugnance. But then it came quickly, and with deter-
i In nation.
He must either kill the man by his side, or give up
2 the purpose on which he had been reflecting—perm
he himself killed.
Almost as quick was the action that followed. Watch-
ing the movements of the mtizo, until be detected
him again spilli his leiguor, he stooped toward him
lzvhith a iaugh, an ask him why he was practicing
‘ e tric . ’ -

As the interrogatory entered the other‘s ear, the
blade of a bowie knife went through his heart, and" he
fell dead upon the floor of the tent, without even’ ut-
tering a groan! -

Blowing out the light Ju iter glided from the tent,
leaving a dead body beh nd iml

He glanced stealthin around, but saw nothing to stay
him. Even the chief s tent was in darknem—for Bor-
, lasso had gone to bed, and all the other robbers were
yasleep, unconscious of the tragical incident that had
i trans ired so near them. - '

g Arnd their snores, and loud stertorous breathing,
i the mulatto glided gently and silently out from among
1 the tents, an as silent] made his way to the inclosure
f where the horses were e t.

I l’ronouncing some wor s in an undertone, one of the
i animals, se rating from the rest, came up, allowing
, him to lay old of its foreloek. It was the horse that
‘ belonged to Charles Clancy, which the freebootors had
' taken from him.

Jupiter had not caught the horse without a pm:-
I pose. Over his left arm he carried a saddle and bri-
1 die. -

j The former was soon upon the animal‘s back, and the
latter between its teeth.

The corral was inclosed by the usual -zag fence of
:roughiy-s lit rails, its entrance beinga ‘ set of ham.“
‘To the od Mississip inn slave these were familiar
things and he unders ood their manipulation.

The horn were gentl let down, and as gently was
the horse led through t 9 opening.

There was no disturbance~ no noise of an kind --not
even when the fugitive, with the knife st ll 
blood, severed the thong that tied Clancy's houn a
stake, and set the animal free.-

The dog, like himself, seemed instinctively to know
that there was a necessity for silence.

And while the inebriated hooters lay asleep and
snoring, the mulatto rode off their midst, with a

 

Eu}; n his shouildgirh: pistol itrlrwhi; bel :33: bigwieg
n 9 ng aga n s rp— w g a
the horsengs heels. ’

 

CHAPTER XVII.
IT is not n

acct-1:3; to am ii... bjcct b
o seen y

Richard Burke, and whichngodve him such a scare, was

the head of Charles Clan -

Nor need it be told 37.: from it proceeded those
awe-inspiring words, w sent him OR in wild war)
over the plain, the second about ringiu after a
hue-and-cry of ve co. »

After identifying the horseman as Dorks, Clancy had
preserved silence till the latter came close up, and
seemingly identified him.

He su posed that his hour was come—now surely
come. 9 had ‘no other thought but that Darkehad
been to the robbers’ rendezvous, seen Borlasse,
from him learning what had been done, was returning
to take the life he had failed to take before.

reflected he while the horseman was in the act of
advancing u n m.

But when he latter drew with a jerk that al-
most threw his horse upon its aunches; when the
moo falling upon his face, showed features distorted
withnfear, then ’s surmises underwent a sudden

c . succeeded by others, that gave him the clew to
m of dread bewilderment.

Darke had not recognized him under the live oak. for
their encounter was in shadow, as in silence. .Since
then be had not seen Borlasse, nor- been to the robbers‘
rendezvous. He had lost his way, and was looking for
it, when chance conducted him to the spot where he
saw, asif risingoutof the and, thehcadof onehe
su long since dead n by his own hand!

ese conjectures had through ‘s-mind
quickly as flashes of ning. And with equal quiclr
nesshadheenhisreno ehowtoact.

Lifewu etinhim; ho still beating in hb

y M come; Dar-kc only needed
to ° 33‘ 30' ineg to the
w was en, seem a rue
of terror the f htoned roman 
e result was as Clancy had calculated—Dorks giv-
ing loose rein to his horse, and going oi! in scared,

hlens retreat ‘

speec .

m relief felt b Clancy at his dewure was not
very much, and on y momentary. Re ion told him
it would be but a respite, and not a ion
scoundrel would soon get over his scare,
to the robbers' rendezvous, and there .
would he surely return and as surelye lut his long-

theri vengeance; keener from n so often

wa Even if he did not what could t mattcrto
him, Clancy! Simeon Woodie might not arrive in
time? He might not be able to nd—

“ n the coyotes!"

Thus were his conjecturi cut short, by the wolves
once more making a prom And dra nigh with
renewed audacit , t eir ravenous instinc stronger
than ever. The uman enerpy on horseback had not
molested them, but gone on, caving their unpro-
toctedt. They were again free to assaii— ime
vour- .

Saluting the moon with melancholy whinesthe came
loplng u , one after another; until once more acted
around t at strange thl , that, while puzzlin , had no
long defied them. They cared it less now, an seemed
determined soon to make" themselves more familiar
with it. They spru in circles around it; now on one
side, now on no or; oing in Chm-070m“. M
thro h the mazes of a co on.

Wi their forms magnified under the moo ht,
they looked like were-wolves dancing around a _ ‘rr
head; while their 1 drawn, lugubrious walls made
appro to music to he measure. A ht and sound
terrib e to him who saw and heard them. '.

Not as before. The time of keen terror had passed,
along with the last lingerings of hope. He was now to
rigncdtohlsfm and to die. He believed
tobe certain, only ed it to come quickly."

breast.
a word

one. The
ad his way
learn all Then

 

 

 

' He felt their hot, fetid breath steami

mg, as when a c

 

,# A.

et at hav ng frightened Darke away. .
one so, it would have come uickerfiperhaps eaSier.

Better his skull had been cleft, ' ing him at once, than
still alive, to have it torn—scalped, gnawed, mumbled
over—b those jaws (yawning open so near him!

The thought stifle reflection. It was horror appal-
ling, torture excruciating!

He could not bear it much longer. No man couldf
however strong; however firm his faith in the mercy 0
th Omni tent.

The mgemained, but the first was fast failing him.
He knew he must die; he wanted to die!

He would soon have his wish. The wolves were now
nearer than ever. Within three feet of his face he saw
the white serrature of teeth, and red paintin‘gatfili; ultiisé
brow. Eve instant he expected their aws to close
around his s ull.

He shut his eyes, and prayed for death. Again
groanin out:

ii  y,

And again God heard him; for death did not come.
It was not the will of the All-Merciful.

The wolves sudden] ceased their snarling, and he
reo lied his eyes. e saw that they were drawing
bac , with shut jaws and tails drooping to the grass.
When last seen tiey were scarce three feet from his
face; the were now thrice the distance, and still in-

, ti
"$8;ng were not goi hastily, or in wild scare. 0n the
contrary, they mov slow and skulkingly, ceding the
ground inch by inch, as if with reluctaDCe, and a show
ance.
“digit had caused the change in their attitude? What
could it mean?

Clancy looked out over the plain, in front, to righthto
left—as far as he could by the utmost wrenching of is
neck. He saw nothing to give the explanation.

It might be behind; and e listened, conjecturi .

Why need he conjecture? He could have little oubt
of what was affrighti the wolves. _Darke had got over
his scare: reflected, an was returni . The next scene
in the t edy would be its‘ impale—(i; eact 1completion of
v on -t w rteddesi n— sown .

‘hgltllle (5f this? Clancy bgut listened for the hoof-stroke
of a horse.

He heard none; but instead, a different and softer
sound. The hollow, cretaceous rock underlying the
plain, acti as a conduetor, carried it to his ears.

It resemb ed the pattering of paws, as of an animal
running rapidly, but without horny hoof.

He had no t me to think of what sort of animal it
in ht be, till the sound appeared close behind his head.

on a hot damp breat struck upon his brow, while
somethi still warmer was laid ainst his cheek.

It was t e tongue of a do ——his oer-hound!

“Thank Heaven!“ wast e exclamation that leaped
from Clanc ’s 11 .

He s keyit with as much grateful earnestness as if
the an moi had already released him from his earth-
bound risen, so like to have been his grave.

The oyful emotion was but for a moment. It passed
almostas soon as felt, What could the do do for him?
Nothing. No cod could come of its mg there.

'rue, it would inder him from being torn by the coy-
es. What of that? He must perish all the same.

While he lt‘hlilii: li;eflected,l the fgitliful f(ozrizlatuhrii (an-

i ll row,v ouaowner-
med to c hild cagrilassrg its mother, with tender

ns entwini her neck.
"‘1‘ Where calligthe dog have come from? They took
him away. I saw him tied to one of their horses.
Has he got loose, and scented back upon their trail!
Or is some one with him, coming after? Might Jupi-
\er—?"
in dawni .

Egggaggon extingnugished. No hoof-stroke, no foot
step of pedestrian, no sound of any one approaching!
The first conjecture was the true one. The ound had
escaped from its1 captors, and come back of its own

rd. It was a one.

M:Acogain despairing, he turned his eyes upon the animal,
ontin its caresses.
sci'l‘llgrave Brggfort !” said he, vi the name bestowed
in honor of the famil with w ch e had hoped to be
allied. “Dear, good 0g! You have but come to see
me die. You cannot save me. No, no. Yet it is some-
thing to have you beside me, like a friend by the death-
bed! And you will protect me to the end. Ay, those
horrid creatures—you will keep them off—that on
will. Ah! ou won’t have to stand sen long. I 991
vrowin fa nter—fainter. Good Brasfo ! stay by me.
Viieni ’s all over, you can . I shall never see her
more, but some one may fln you. And she would re-
ward you for téiis fidelity. know she would. Stay
own own!’
elgflofiedi—digot obey. He did not lie down. Neither
did he continue his fond demonstrations. All at once
he ceased caress! Clancy‘s head. and laced himself

In an attitude, as about to make an at k upon it.

Very different was the intent. The animal was but
yielding to an ordinary canine instincltj as men call it;
tho h dogs, could they speak, wo (i tell us it is
tIuqu t.

like reasoning, when the great deer-hound,
wiltth zotiiegt of terrier in its blood, commenced scratch-
in up the earth around the neck of its master!

ance more the heart of that master throbbed with
hope. Here was a chance of his being freed from his
horrid confinement—one he had not ought of.

Inspired by it he spoke to the animal, encouraging it
with words well understood fellow!

“Kee on’ HMO”! so'fighfi‘s a brave fell0w!

“Chic wgiiclil-iclgi‘ckl
‘ hi —dc c
U’lllcig—dgg gontinued to claw and scrape out the earth,
sendin it in showers behind him. Despite the firmness
with w ich it had been packed, he was fast opening a
hollow circle around the shoulders of his master,

The right one was soon exposed above the 
A little more removal of the mold, and the lat-511113;?“ t
be free! After that gierefwliliiglgobiey but litt e y

b main ero .
15“” inn“ mama“... or:
i to co ate — -
ithegsitl 111111: of its-whim a pound reached his car, once
ri ' back espa r.
mfg-32s llgentgrampling of a horse—of a riggen 52:33;
as he knew. As yet neither horse nor erhi the
beyond doubt they were approac ng

Sigmlllltll p from behind
ng u .
spfi could be no other than Richard Darkegz‘ho 

recovered frOm his

fright; reflected. and W“
He would act Maren

y this time.

this last despairing moment he felt sometllili; lite   Clanc again fancied his end had come—the last hour

 

The Death-Shot; or, Tracked to Death.

of his ' e.
and Brasfort would have set him
too late! He must at le th die!

Was there a hope he might relieve himself?

He made a desperate effort—giving an upward im- .
pulse to his body.

In vain! He was still held as in a vise, or with the
we ht of tons pressing upon him.

ere was no alternative—he must submit to his fate.

Such a fate! He could see Richard Darke standing
before him; hear his taunts and torturing s h; him-
self helpless! It would be almost a repe tion of the
scene under the cy ress.

Even in that dread ultimate hour did Charles Clancy
remember his humiliation!

He was not allowed long time to reflect on it. It but
flashed across his brain as he listened to the tread of ‘
the advanci horseman, now nearly up. ‘

Then a dar shadow shot over his ead, that ke t
lengthening out before his face. With the moon {gr ,
down, it was projected forward, till it assumed the i
sha of a horse, with a rider upon its back. 1

TE: dog suddenly left off scraping; and scampered !
off to meet the approaching horseman. '

He met him, but without the savage growl his master .
expected to hear. Nor did the animal make other hos- !
tile demonstration. On the contrar , it was giving ut— T
terance to soft notes, whimperings-t at spoke of friend- I
1y recognition! i

Something une ted in this. ;

Clancy knew o the hound‘s antipath to Darke; ;

heard of its trying to tear him. Cou d it then be ,

And so near to being saved! A little longer
,free! Too late—all

he?

No! Altogether different was the horseman who, I

ridIinglaroundi htig  rlegnedéip in {{liOegtithlillm. !
oyeapedn sea,an spar n sees,asi
he behel ~Jupiter! y E
CHAPTER XVIII. ;

Possum) BY A srscrsa. 5

Ir in wild terror Richard Darke ran away from what
he believed to be a corpse, lying under the shadow of 1
trees in a Mississi plan forest, still more terrified was ;

retreat from w t he fancied to be a specter, seen
upon an open prairie of Texas. Forte his own guilty
conscience was now added the awe of the super-
natural.

The head of the man he had murdered, rising out of v,
the earth his fatfclseen in full moonlight, the eyes lar-
ngu n m,t e ips pronouncing 8 name, cou ng
it withohis crime!

How could he be otherwise than awed?

And he was awed, palsied, almost stricken senseless
with fear. No wonder he lost guidance of his horse,
permitting the animal to go its own gait, and take its
own way.

It, too, shared in the scare. The unnatural appear—
ance of a head without a body, the roximity of
wolves, the nervous shock felt by its ri er, communi-
cated to itself, the cry coming up from the earth, all
combined to affright the steed as much as its master.
From the weird spot it ran wildly away,as if the prairie
were on fire, and the flames fast approaching.

And Darke rode it like a man drunk or under the in-
fluence of delirium.

Foratime he made no effort to check his horse’s
speed, or in any way control it. It was as much as he
could do to kee his seat in the saddle. His limbs felt
weak, and his noes loose at the joints. His hands,
too: the fingers nerveless, with scarce enough muscular
strength-to retain gras of the reins.

His spirit was w est of all, despite the heart
strong! pulsing. This thundered against his ribs, as if
strugg to burst from his breast. ,

His horse galloped on, he knew not, rocked not,
whither. After the encounter with Simeon Woodley
so unexpected, so inorportune, he had been troubled
with a presentiment o mpending fate. But now that

. think otherwise.

1 Pee got here in good time.

i Ho! the dog’s been doin’

 

the other world had taken up the strife against him: ,
now that its spirits were appearing—a ghost in eartllillflvg ‘
guise calling out his name and branding him with i

ilt—it was no longer a presentiment, but a certainty. }
5% “tr “‘2 “seer amigos!“ e. h. 1. ‘

tter rosra y ea ng oug , oper-

mitted t ep horse to dash on. 6 did not even make an 1
effort to retain his seat in the saddle; and, perhaps, ‘
would have fallen out of it, but for a long equestrian '

practice, that made the thing mechanical. " h

It was Only when the animal, becoming tran uilized '
after its own scare, and blown by the burst of ga oping,

 

gme to a stop, that the power of thought returned to

in.

Then reflecting,
self dreaming. n his drunken slumber he had been i
dreaming—saw visions quite as strange as that—fearful ,
phantasntagofim—groups, with Chares Clancy promi- l
nent among the fleeting figures! I

Was he still aslee , an the sight of a bodiless head I
but a continuation 0 those terrible tableaux? Or was i
he awake, and— ;

“ 0:1 God! I am awake. What can it mean? Am I!
mad 7‘ .

Thus e the conscience-stricken criminal, afteri
hi.c horse come to a halt, and he sat staring around .
him. He no longer knew where he was; and even!

doubted what he was!

For a time he keg: his seat in the saddle, reflecting
on the spectacle tel seen, and endeavori to ac-
count for it. His ste , lo famishing, had ropped l
its head, and commenced nib ling at the scant her e.
h The moon was still shining clear, but now nearer t e

0 zon.

I-Ie faced round toward the direction whence he had
come. He saw his own shadow, with that of his horse,
projected far over the plain. That was the side on ;
which he had seen the s ter; and there lay his 1
fear. Would the hostl thing once more make its a - '
pearance? Woul the ead of Charles Clancy agal3 '
rise out of the earth, and shout:

“Richard Darke—murderer!”

No-no—noi It had been all a fancy—a spell of de-

 

i‘

llrium tremenHuch as he had experienced before, ‘ him

more than once. ‘
Glad to think it was but this, he dismounted, with the
intention to sta there for the rest of the m h . He
could do no badger, having now com letely lostfiils way. .
He was about drawing of! the ridle, to give hisi
hungry horse to the grass. when his glance was ain i

directed along their shadows, now so rated. ith
the moon close down to the horizon, be h were thrown
still further across the expanse of plain. And at the
point where they terminated, just over his own head, ‘l
..9: saw something not visible, or not noticed, by him .

on.

or trying to reflect, he fancied him- I t

,appean afiut to sink into the earth‘s hos

W59

It was a mere speck. of darkish color. It might be a

‘ stunted tree, or rocky ledge, cropping above the gen—

eral level.
One or other of these he had first fancied it to be, the

‘ fancy giving him satisfaction.

But as he continued to gaze upon it, he saw cause to
_ It was neither rock, nor tree, nor
anything fixed upon the plain, but something moving
over ‘.

Gradually the shadow of his own head and the dark
s k drew nearer one another; though it was not this
t at led him to think the latter was in motion. For the
moon was still declining and, of course his own shad-
ow becoming elongated in roportion. Hut just as the
two camein contact, meet n u n the silvered surface
of the prairie, there was a {gas from the far-off form,

‘ as by the moonbeams reflected upon a bit of looking-

lass.
More likely it was from the blade of a knife, or the
barrel of a giin?
bThuts did e interrogate himself about the shining
0 cc .
n either case there must be a man beside it?

And as he stood scrutinizing it, his eyes strained to
their utmost, he made out the figure of a man, havin
ahorse underneath him—in short, a horseman. Au
this horseman appeared to be heading toward himself,
coming on at quick speed, as if prompted by some ter-
rible determination!

To Richard Darke it seemed the Destroyin Angel.

He did not stay to reflect further. Long fore the
a proaching cavalier came near him, he gathered up
h s retililis, s rung back lilth {518 sadidlg, and was :(purrlng
over epain asi isle epene upon !

And, in truth, so it did. Spe

CHAPTER XIX.
'rnn DEATH-SHOT.

Tns joyous thrill that Clancy had 6 rienced in see-
ing his hound, was slight compared With that felt on
beholding the fugitive slave.

He expressed it in the words, “ You, Jupiter!"

“It’s me," said the mulatto, in res nse to his name
being pronounced. “Yes, Masser C arles; an‘ so glad
1 war feared o’ bein' too
late' fotheard them say what they’d done to you.
Well. thar‘s one 0’ that lot won‘t trouble you nor me
no more. But what I talkin’ ’bout, with you still in
that fix? First I muss get you out, Masser Charles.

1 a‘ready; good for the clear
ole dog! Let's finish what he’s be un."

Sayin this he drew out the lood-stained bowie,
and wit its b e commenced digging around the body
of him he called master, at the same time scraping up
the mold with one hand and flinging it backwa .

It was but a short while till Clancy, released from
his painful prison, saw his own shadow cast afar over
the plain; now from head to foot, and not as before,
only the head.

Jupiter’s story was soon told: how he had hum-

. bugged the robber crew—these were his words—along
w

t their big chief: not concealing the deed of blood
necessary to secure his esca Brasfort had brought
him back along their trail; rst to the lone tree, where
the two parties separated. There the dog, greatly ex-
cited on he scent had deserted him, and run forward
alone. He had f0 lowed as fast as he could; but in the
end was only groping his way. He had lost and might
not have foun it but for the wolves. Seeing them—
their bodies looking big in the moonlight—he sus-

ted what thei were after; and advancing toward

hem, caught sig t of the dog at some distance beyond.

He saw that Brasfort was busy beside something, and
surmised what- it was.

This was the mulatto’s tale.

For himself Clancy had none to tell, as Ju tter
already knew all. He had no wish, now, to s g of
the onies he had endured, and no time. had
been tening impatiently to Jupe’s explanation, and
could scarce wait or its end. His vengeance was still
unsatisfied; his vow unfulfilled. The man who had
made all his mise was still alive. He had but rted
figm the spot, an might be near. He could not far
0

Whether near or far, he must be followed, and found.
With this thought impelling him, Clancy took hold of
his horse; at the same time appro riating the arms
Jupiter had stolen from the tents. s a stre hener,

e availed himself of some whisky—the latter also
“its” “fingi i

en sp ng nto the saddle, and summonl

Brasfort to fallow, he said: n8

“ You stay here, Ju ; or find {our way back to the
rec. en my work s finished, ‘11 come for you."

Without waiting a word of reply, he launched out
over the plain; the bound following; the henchman in
some surprise standing stiff and silent as a statue!

After parting with his faithful follower, Clancy rides
at a quick canter. He had watched Darke as he went
away made note of the direction taken by him, and
can do this for a short distance. He soon becomes
uncertain; and must get guidance from somethi
else. This is his hound, tha hitherto trotting behin ,
now comes up, takes the trail, and glides 0n ahead of

As the scent is fresh, the dog readily lifts it, and goes
on in a rapid run.

At like rate of speed Clancly
not now going in a allop. here is a gait that better
suits his urpose; t e " ace " uliar to the steeds of
the south—above all, t o_se 0 Louisiana. Clancy‘s
animal is a native of this State; and, therefore, a
“ natural pacer."

Never more than now had the movement stood its
master in stead: for never as now, did he require to
make speed, combined With silence. And the entle
amble was just the thing for both. Darke, he be ieves.
cannot be far ahead: but_ the hoof—stroke of a allop-
ing horse would drive him still further; and his he
must not hear. The “pace ” will give him less chance
of escape; a shorter warmng that one is coming after

Going in this git, Clancy‘s horse makes not much
more noise than is hound. Both glide over the plain,
silent as specters.

Nearly an hour 388 without any result. But
Clancy, having con deuce in his canine guide, knows
that he is oi in the right direction. The behavior of
Brasfort ves m assurance that lie is not being led

astra .

Befl'we long the trust becomes verified Although not
in a direct line, the trail hitherto conducted him to—
ward that int of the plain where the declining m~ um

keeps the horse, though

om. One

A)”,

. Y3?

 

" .~-v ...-.H-uk,- 1 .

H}

I, ..-._,(.- “at ~...—-.~.-—.I

The New York

 

ii.l('(|, almost against her disk, he perceives a form, ‘ The sheltering rock, themoon dazzling his eyes, every-

easily distinguishable as that of a man on horseback. ,‘ thing is against him.
h athwart the moonbeams, and by theii'I li ht , rel—onebullet; it must not be idly spent.
c 19.8.

Tho
magnified to i antic size, be is not deceived.
no thought 0 i s being either giant or lPhantom.

For in like proportion the same

of which he knows to be Richard Darke.

He no longer needs help from his hound. He must

now put all rust in the heels of his horse.

“ At last!" he says, in solilfiug', the words passin ; After the

e “ At length
I mistake not, within reach. ;
Either that, or I ‘ fright, at least so much of it as was due to the super-

through closed lips and clench eth.
have im in view; and, if
Now, mother you shall be avenged!

shall soon join you 1"

He has done with stealthy tracking, and resolves to ‘ tempt on his life.

ride straight on toward his enemy—to come up with,

kill him, or be himself killed.

Next moment he is going at a gallop—in full stretch

across the lain

He sees t at the other is galloping, too-evidently re-

treating.

It is a question of s eed between the two horses, for ' foreshadowing his fate.

the result of which

lieaVl
stand lm in stead.

He has neither whip nor spur. If he had, there would I
be no need to use them. His horse sees the other horse 1 on hearing it.

my has no fear. He has full con- his puisuer a specter, he is
fidence in the animal he bestrides; knows it to be of the ‘ a )I‘t‘St'niiIllt‘llt of his death being
swiftest. For these qualities had he chosen it before ,
the States; with anticipation that they might

And he has himself but one bar-

'I‘hcre is no alternative but retreat to a safer dis-
t tance, and there stay~liolding his enemy in siege, until

ght enlarges a ' he can think of some scheme for dislodging him.
plunied circlet around the horseman’s head, the wearer

Wrenchng his horse round, he rides off some paces,
, and again turns his face toward the rock.

There are the two men, both still seated in the sad-
i die; one onl seen b the other. And both now silent.
ort col oqu terminated by the shot—not
; another word passes be ween them.
Darke, reflecting, has somewhat recovered from his

After all Clanc

\Vas i

5 strong under the oak?

i It must have been Clanc ! He is alive—it is he!

3 length does Darke leap to t u's conclusion. .

‘kiltldoes not give him gladness. Nor relief of any
11( . ,

l The reality is as fearful as that fancied—not less

Although no longer believi
all t e some, inspired wit

may have survived the at~
he who rescued Helen Arm-

At

natural.

near.
‘iiuultaneously, Clancy is considering how to accom-
lish it; thinking of some plan to approach his skull:-
ng‘antagonist.
yelp interrup3ts his co

tations. He turns hastily
msfort

s by his side. In the 10

ahead, divines the wish of his rider, and gallops as if ‘ chase—a trial of speed between two horses—the ho

ridden in a race.

had fallen behind. The hall. has enabled it to recover

On, over the moonlit plain, glide the two horsemen, l the distance and rejoin its master.

as fast as their steeds can carry them.

Alike silent pursuer and pursued, but with reflections

far different. The former knows who is before; the

latter cannot tell who is following. He only has fears. ; a straight run.

Richard Darke—for it is he who is chased—looks back

with dread. He had again given way to fanci'li'iif that
i

he saw a spectral head—the head of him he

nur-

i Once by his side, the dog does not stay there. In-
isti‘net tels him the game is still ahead; and, after
, giving out that single note of greeting, he passes on in

In ten seconds after, he disappears behind the rock.
, Clancy, listening, hears what causes him to loosen his
‘ bridle-rein and ride rapidly in the same diiection, tight-

tlered. Now, it is the whole body~—the complete ghost ? enlng the gras

—-that appears coming after him!
Driving the 8 rs still deeper into his horse‘s

plain.
He rides as if intendln to plun
ther'e seek safet from t e uneart ly ursuer.

But, ride as
gaining u n him raduall lesseni the space be-‘
tween. eseesit w h shud ering, wi the aintness;
of despair.

flanks

‘ he gallops on, 'ee inga straight course. It is toward "
the moon, whose ower limb now impinges upon the ‘ there sav ely assa

into her disk, and ‘

Still galloping on, he surveys the ground in front—Ito

right to left

rywhere—in search of a place to con-

flu] his

Darke secs t ‘ lioun

, light and plainly remg
too, owl had setu

coming up, under the moon-

' .rs its markings; remembers,
n him under the cypress tree,
ng him. Nemesis, w th all the
hosts of he 1, seems surely let loose upon himl

The hound is soon by h 8 side, and its hostility in the
v Mississippian forest was naught to that shown now. It

will, he perceives hat the latterls ! springs at him like a panther, o en-mouthed; at his

I down y the horse‘s side.

egs, as they hang (
ii an instant its fangs are fixed in his calves, causing
i him to shriek with amight. as with pain.

1 He struggles to shake the animal ( if to kill it—at the

same time endeavor-lug to keep under cover of the-

eve
ceal himself: The speed of his home cannot serve him. ; bowlder.

11% iinust seek safety under COVer of some kind.
8

l But his horse, sharing his aflright, no longer obeys
e

cesweeps thehorizon in quest of trees. There the rein; and, prancing about, soon parts from t
er

are none on that sterile expanse—not so much use. rock, expo
shrub—only patches of artemlsia, that would not give

concealment to a bare.
In the last moments of his agon , somethin

looms

up in front, obscurin the light of t e moon— ora mo-

ment concealing her sk.
rising above the level of the plain. It is a rock.

has the outlines of a rock,

He heads toward it, spurring his horse to a last des-

perate effort.
He succeeds in reaching the rock, and getting
further sid

on its

e.
There he halts, and awaits the coming up of the pur-
mer.
But, notwithstandin his wild terror, he has still reso-

lution left to
He will send a b et t rough the thin
whether it be the mortal man or spirit s

 

h s an, and raise it in readiness.
approaching,
em odled.

Clancy. coming up, sees his advantage; and raises his

‘ rifle. quick asfor t e shooting of a snl The closi-

I crack follows- and simultaneous with it, hard Darke

I diffs out of the saddle and falls face foremost on the
p n.

i He makes no attempt to rise—no struggle—no move-
, ment of any kind, beyond a sll ht convulsive tremor,
£800“ terminating in stillness— he stillness of death.
! Be ond doubt. he has received what was promised him
i — a death-shot.

Clanc ,dismounting, advances toward the fallen foe.
At first tastil , to hinder the deg from tearing him,
which thean mal seems determined to do.

After chlding it off, he approaches the prostrate
form, slowly, and in silence. There is no need ,for
ech, ueit er taunt nor recriininatio now. He sees

‘ t at his enemy has ceased to live; and t at before him

 

Stayed by no supfinatuml fancies, but urgci on by I is but a breathless body—a lump of senseless clay—all,

human passions, ncy continues the pursuit

. His

heart bounds with joyas he perceiv, the distance

gowfiyshorter betWeen them. He wi soon be able ‘
sa tortured him. It ' show of either mum h or exul

the thirst that has so long

is no mean selfish revenge that moves him, but a purer

im.

re a.
Thi'inspired, he presses desperately on.
He, too. up
v03 circle w ose circumference seems
ea h.

All at once the moon‘s disk disappears:
between has screened it from his sight

to mete out stern purdshment and the instest

as if about to plui e into that 811- i
rest upon the i 38.

Something I almost make him shudder.

coming .
He sees that this is a rock—that the chased horseman

has hidden himself behind it.
Notwithstandi

chance of killing him.

Perceiving the advantage Darke has
not an insta t too soon. He may
range of that
side of the roc .

his passionate im atience to kill i it, and say
’Rlchard Darke, C ancy is checked in t e pursuit.
is not so madly reckless as to give his enemy another . me, but with a diderent result.

He

ained—bls own i to think of it; but I know GM will fo
danger if he go any nearer—he sudden y rginaip. Algd v dlg'gl the world of such a wicked Wretch

wit n A
whose barrel he sees glai’i’cing by the ; attitude as when over his mother’s grave, and in like

While deliberating what to do, he is saluted by a

“ I don’t know who or what you are. But I warn you

to q ome no nearer. if on do, by G—d—'
Clancy, exasperated

the 3 ch to be finish . He shouts back.
‘6 

am, you‘ll soon find out. I’m
on

the threat, does not wait for

red-handed rut’flan! If on don‘t know who I { ized man, no Chanticleer gives note of the dAW
he man you thought
ad murdered in a cypress forest in the State of? equal

lississl ii The man who now intends killing gm, in

fairer fas ion, upon a prairie of Texas. Richard
if you have a pra say, an it soon!
as you stand be
death chat!" .

The words produce a fearful effect on him to
they are addressed.
might be Simeon Woodley; but it was not
who spoke.
Nancy; and the words would identify him.
Clancy it cannot be—he is dead'

arke.

er to
ad that rock, intend giving you your

whom

He had a belief that his ursuer . to the tops 0 the trees;

oodley
But

ap lllng

Again Darke fancies a ghost, the fancy "R’s
brim. kAnd’ still more that summons—stern, te le, as
i s on yanavenging an

Ispge still drunk, or dream ngf

His gun is gliding from his
desperate resolve, and an eifo almost mechani

But, with a last'.

cal, he

raises the piece to his shoulder, takes aim. and fires.
Clancy, waltlnfi‘hls reply, sees the flash, the jet. the

white smoke 8;:
and, alon wl it, tilp“ of a bullet, that
closeto

ear—too c1030 for himlto feel safe.

ragkyward; then hears the crack,

passes

He remembers that Darke was accustomed to carry

: double-barrel“ ,
A may be better
we the are any chance of

The report is that of a smooth-
. cannot
“adversary

i

‘l the passions that inspired it, bad and good, gone to be'
t balanced elsewhere.
For a time he stands contemplating it but without
tion. Then. curiosity
l Ermili‘pthuiflm. he s oops down to see where’his bullet
as t. odo thislie has to turn the bodyOn its
back; an act he performs gent , and without rudeness.
He has no desire to insult the .

Nor does he gloat over the featuresof the fallen man,
ex osed to the full moonlight, the appear in
eath' pallor. He sees enou h w thout t to satlsf ,
ustice has had roquitgi,
i and he has no vengeance now.

I Gill/$53 but glance to the face, he bends low over
‘ the y, and coke for the wound. He soon discover:
_ 3‘:an to himself:

“In the roast as I supposed—just where he shot
Well; that is scarce
: a coincidence, for I aimed to hit him there. I feel 3
rglve me for rid-

en standing erect, with eyes upraised. in the same

solemn tone, he added.
i " I‘ve Mother, thou art avenged /" ‘

kept my vow.

 

0
CHAPTER XX.
ran mm m nan. ‘ '
ON the far frontier of Texas, still unsettled by cifl
n.

 

’stead, the male rts salutes the sunrise with a cry
, strldulen ; and if not so melodious, quite as
home, ke. For the “ gobbling " of the wild turkey-cook
is scarce ' distinguishable from that of his tame brother

A “gang” of thede t birds, that had _roosted in
“‘° W“ "We? “22:” iéwdiivfii‘é “‘8 "2‘3" ‘2‘???
We- encam s n 9. r0 .

[e ' g e males, aspii); their wont in
' the spring season of the year, mutually sounding their

For, certain of the B tlsh farmyard.

The voice resembled that of Charles ' sonorous :hallenge.

It awoke the robbers from the slumber that bad suc-
ceeded their drunken debauch—their chief first 0mg;

espite the confusion of a brain filled With the
of alcohol, Borlasse had a conception that thl were
not right. He showed this by rushing outof tent.

5 and calling first for the mestizo; then quickly after in-

quiring for the mulatto.

, The interrogatory, uttered in loud. earnest voice,

‘ rung through the encampment. It was heard by

tho n no one made answer to it. Tlfey only re

it in e earnest tone. 1
Then. simultaneously ascended the shout. “Gone!”

accompanied by loud talk, mingled with much l3me

swea ng.

A8 at the robbers he in conjecture. No one
was sine that t aggro “’3.- not there, 05 that the
mulatto was . was known that th two half-

 

Library.

 

w ~ "Cm:

breeds shared a little tent standing apart. Both might
be inside it, asleep?

A rush toward it; aman stooping, and looking into
it' then an exclamation that drew the others around.
w o s listening for the explanation.

It quickly came. .

The mestizo was indeed inside the tent, lying along
its floor; not asleep, but dead; with blood— is own
blood—in streams, in pools, half-liquid, balf-coagulated

around him!
The mulatto was not there. The only sign of his hav-
ory corpse their eyes.

ing been there was the under
That was enough. Oniy e other half—blood could have
left such sangiiinary traces behind.

“Where was he i" '

This was the unanimous inquiry.

A voice answer .
ed, Wagon the dog along! Likely,

“ He‘s gone off; an's
too one of the horses?"

T ere was a rush roward the corral, where the latter
were kept. _

On nearing it, they saw that the inclosnre was empty.
Not ahorse inside' not even the mule which the u~
latto had been riding when made grfioner. All
was now nothinfilto surpr'se them. hey ex ted it.

On reaching t e entrance they perceiv that the
bars were down, and the horses had ot out.

They were no doubt, near at

Any anxiety on this score was soon set at rest. The
animals were found tranquil] browzinfi'tpn a 'bit of
meadow grass that skirted t ecreek. eywere all
there, the mule among them, seemingly as much at
home as any.

One only was missing—that which had belon to
the man left in‘ the prairie stocks—to Charles cy.
It was a splendid charger to which the chief had taken
a fanc ', and appropriated whimsolf. To him the loss
of the orse was nothing compared with the escape of
the prisoner. With a subtle cunniifi, he at once per-
ceived the danger thus drawn upon m and his band.
The mnlatto had been witness to their transformation
from Indians to white men. He would find his way to
the settlement, and tell what he had seen to the-set-
tlers. Certain to do this—certain, also, to guide them
to the rendezvous, the way to it being now known to
him. Moreover, he in ht be in time to rescue Clancy
from the living tomb which he, Borlasse, with too
mucéidcgnfldence in the security of the place, had con~

1m.
he. chief of the outlawed crewcared not so much
for this. His foiled s ite against Clancy he could en-
dure far better than t e tho ht of that other on
still unsatisfied. She with thougiovidng cheeks an olden
tresses was not yet in his arms, as be had 0
airely, expected. It now looked as if she never wo

Again reviewi his mischances, the brutal ruman
heaved what migh have beeh intended for a ugh. It
came in the bottom of his brawn chest, resembling
thesnortcfa bear. Forall thisitoatpressedapumice»?i
so . so rofoundh' felt, that he would have risk
ev'eorytb n —t e plunder late acquired—even life itself
—- 81‘“

Wthere Quantrelland Bosl t Hecould not to
or think. Quantrell should haveogeen able to and hill;
way back to the rendezvous. If not Bosle would; be
an older member of the band, and be r acquaint
ed with their “stamping . '
Had Quantrell, alias arke, turned traitor to them.
and was keeping the captives for himself? Had be
taken them in some other direction, Bosley being bribed

to assist l‘ He had money enough for this, and it
m ht be, at, with the rude robber fraternigé
he made up his nd to give his old comrades

all . .

8r was Darke‘dead. Clancy having killed him? And
Dooley. too—the captives at the same time rescued, and
restored to 3ft home? . ' , ,

This was rlaase’s 0 al conjecture, again repeat-
ed. Butnow,withmore ef initsbeing theconeot
one. For now, he knew , Clancy had eceived him,
the mulatto more. The cunning shown b the latter in
eflec I his escape, was evidence that whole story
was a e.

Barge chafed at the cheat he felt certain had been
p act upon him. Growling like agglulybear he

1‘ .
strode th h the ten u n comrades to
make ready or instant e um m displace.

He proposed goingback acrosstheu plain,and
if needbe,ontothev&lleyof the Sufi The ob-
Ject, to flndfiantrell, Basil“, and the

A mum n to which . fellow free
not . Quantz'ell a
what for Bill Bosleyt As for the pattiwats they’d .

lent of such in San Antone. w the:- they, were all

n The bad now the wherewithal to get, sweet-
hearts at w without stealing them; and Wilth the
use 01‘ going after a couple of dainty damsols‘ wen
:1an tag? The couldn't all have hem how; and
didn't see why ey should risk their
men in particular. For to go back over the upper,
would be data this. The prisoner ,wou
sureto reach e ttlemontmn bringthe d~dsettl
upon them. y t meet '3‘»
find them too stron They might 1096 not on y the
cash they had succeeded in securing, but their- ll
into the bargain?

Even at that momen they might be in danger? The

mulatto, mounted .as e w would soon reach the
settlement, and b back be outraged colonists,

ulckened to pursuit y the outrage perpetrated upon
em. , '

Themfme, with unanimous voice, the robbers
giggled for at once striking tents, and making for

o.

Andmsteadof oingacrosstheu :- lalnand
through the San Sign bottom, to keep 33%» ‘the c'roek,
and on by the valley of the Colored .

To combat this 0011118 of action, rlaase had to use
all his authority as. chief, with such rough eloquence u

d comman

“ he said, “it‘ll be the same in the end. We'll
get 0 enough to San Antone, and have our spree out
when we get there. But that-kin bono danger about
our proceedin’ ’cross the upper plain. We needn't if
you sayno k onufar uthoSanSaba.‘ I reek n
we'll meet 151111 , somewhere before we et that
far. If we don‘t, then let him look out for -

But.
two ought to remembenthat 'sbeen with us and air

one 0' us. It ain‘t right'to him u without makin"
aeffort toflndhlm. Alllgsko'yelapto '
the lain till we come to the big tree.

5
i
E
g
3
r:
5
as

necks or anyitwo’

 

i
i

 

 

 

The Death-Shot; or, Tracked to Death.

sa ling in the ground. I’m curious to see if ’t be there danger in what they had been doing; and ridin
sti , and if it's growin‘. Besides I’ve got an idea. that straight back to the scene of their crime did not 100 '
t'e'll find the hi ger near it, Wiether it be living or like takin ropcr precautions to escape its conse-
dead. If we shou d, there’ll be an opportunity to un- j quences. y, then, should they go that way, when
ish him for what he‘s done, and give the host of er- another and safer was open to them? By turning to
hand here some chance 0’ slee in‘. nyway, we the left, and proceeding down the Colorado, there
must, if possible, prevent the m1 atto from gottin' to would be m likelihood of encountering anyone, much
the missmn, or it ll make things ugly for us after. I less a party of pursuers. And as they had now got all
reckon you can all see that? they wanted—cash enough to give them the grandest

They all could, and did. None of them cared any spree they had ever entered on—why not at once make

at deal as to what became of Phil Quantrell, and for San Antone, and see it out, without further anxiety

is captives and as little about the after-fate of Charles or trouble?
Clancy. They were equally indifferent about aveng- To the leasant programme there was one who would
ing the death of their comrade. They were even about , not accei e, or even listen—this one their chief.
to go off without giving burial to his body! ‘, Borlasse was not satisfied to let things end that way.

But the words of Borlasse sounded very dil‘ferentl ‘ Mad about money as any of his men, and glad as they
when he talked to them of their own safety. They al at having gotten it, he was still more mad at Jessie
saw the danger of their escaped prisoner getting into , Armstrong having escaped him, and determined, if pos-
communication with the colonists. He must, if possi- sible, to have her back. He would risk anything for
ble, be reca tured. ' that.

Intiueneet by this idea, they no longer opposed the On this account did he oppose the wishes of his to]-
wishes of their leader; but gave nick consent to them. lowers, with all the warmth of his anger and eloquence.

A hurried breakfast, with a ig drink to wash it When other arguments had been used, all proving
down, was the prelude to their de arture. idle he said:

Then their animals were caug t, caparisoned, and ‘ “Well, boys, you ma have your own way, as you
again laden with the silver; this no longer in barrels, seem bent upon it. Bu if ye do, all I‘ve got to say is,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

’  ' 
’ "4

‘5» .
4’
Li,

/. «I

m . *"e/l/  
F ~:\  “57/2/25

61

If Quantrell and Boslev, with the girls. don‘t turn up
meantime we’ll have to let them slide. For if that
Charley Clancy‘s escaped, then I can tell you we‘ve got
to look out for squalls. I‘ve had to do with him of old
as some 0‘ ye know. I only feel now what a d—d fool
I’ve been for the frolic of linlf—buryin‘ him in the ground,
instead of puttin‘ him clear under, head and all, when
we were about it. He mayn‘t be alive b ' this: and if
not, so much the better. Then there is on 'the ellow-
skin to fear, an’ him we may again get hold we go
back that way, and quick enough. Now?"
Borlasse’s reasoning had its effect on his fellowdrob
‘ hers, most of them assenting to what he said.
It was now clear to all the mistake they had made in
i capturing Clancy and his follower, or rather in allow-
; ing the mulatto to get off again. They should either
i have given the two men a wide berth and let them
‘ alone—which, disguised as Indians they could have
done—or, after encountering them, they should have
put it beyond their power to tell tales.
. Thus reasoned they, under the belief that their incog-
nito was still safe, and that the mulatto alone knew of
, their masquerading.
i Thin ‘ wore a serious aspect. Their escaped pris-
oner, t iough he might be a slave, was evident] no
common man. The mode of his escape, with the b eed-

o,’i

 

 

 

 

 

HANDTOHAND.

and i that way will be likely to get your necks into the noose
[ of a rope—every one of them."
pockets. they “How?” was the unanimous interrogatory.
When all was tread fly was awning upon the valley. “ Howl Ye must be a set 0’ blind boobies, if ye don‘t
and rode Off. Jusl $5; standing in one of them the dead , see how. You all know the Niger‘s one 03, and will
The tents whell? lflood still uiiburied, lying in its gore! , be sure to make lus way to t e sett ements. Belike,
bOdY 0f the are'd the’ $0,. and commenced aseend- I he’ll put strai ht for the San Saba Mission lot. Whether
As they ente rim p “in the wild turkeys again , there or elsew ere, he 5 sure to tell all about us, and
“18 toward the WW ws_‘now with no human ear our doings, the which he knows too well. What then?

axwtgggll‘ 3011010“ no , Can a man of e afterward show his face anywhere

but stowed away in saddle-bags, bulletpouches,
rung into their saddles,

___. , within the bor efis of hcizriéizationl,l tvlilritlliouit bein’ in-
‘ stantl tuk up? ow w a 0 Y8 9- ’ 0 it?”

CHAPEE‘Rmfixi'REE‘ ‘ To '5 question the robbers could make no repl . It

_ST1;LKIthbIe plain and baton they had came upon them With a nick shock of surprise, being

Am: reacth ‘3 ’ per-woes drew up. a forecast of the future t ey had not hitherto contem-

set their faces to cross it, the des

fresh parley between the men plated, or dreamt of. They only answered interrog-

It was a ause for a . mums. and in. navel one saying;
and their 0 9L T1195; $312“ “ffgfloggd their desire to i " ’at would you have us do i”
W °f. keel“ “mtg wair doubts about the pru- “ Go back over the plain, was the rejoinder of Bor-
take 3 amen“ t’lon' - ed in fuller force. 1 lasse. “ LeastWise, as far as the tree; and from there

dance of crossing the plain had Pitt‘figir halting, an the ‘ we'can deviate to the place when we (put Mr. Charley
Th )1 or most of them were now ‘ Clancy in the prairie stocks. If we fin him sun there,
11“ Should be settled- .Ab .fo‘re them by their leader. ! then it’ll be all right;_ for we‘ll be sure 0’ flndin’ the

I ad ’amsc the plan I?“ the effects of their nightjs r yellow fellar along With him. If both be gone. I’m
Part an r'ecoveI‘ed “om me clearer, while heir agreeable to our omg that _way no further, but making
Nvelryi t 61" head“ 1W1 beweakened thro h the re- tracks in any 0t er (lll‘8(‘tl0ll as seems best; and the
31318?) F3933; (figggnigege: They knew was sooner we start in some other direction, the safer for us.
n o

 

ling corpse left behind, bespoke courage, cleverness.

land resolution; qualities that would not only insum

; the finding his way out of the wilderness, but enable

1 him, after reachin the settlements, to raise a strong
hue and cry ains them.

The more t e outlaws reflected upon these things,

,the more apprehensive they became; some already
wishing themselves on the southern side of the Rio
Grande, despite the attiactions of San Antone.

Again came the intermgatory, what had they best
do? And again their chief made answer, pointing out
his old lan of action in more detail, but now without
the nee< of an ' syllogism to support it.

“ Comrades, ‘ he said, “ ye see that we’re in a bit of a.
flx——all ‘0 us alike. And thai'for’ let’s all work thegethcr
to get out of it. Like as not the yellow skin is within

1less than ten miles of where we’re here sittin’ in our
saddles. My coniectur’ is that he'd first go to Where
we left Clancy. if so 'twould take him some time to
find the place—more especially in the night time. As
ye know he wasn’t there hisself; only at the lone tree,
And no oubt he’ll strike first for that, which he niayn‘t
find so soon or so easy. Whar he planted Clancy ah-
nigh two mile beyond, and to the .niulatto that’ll be an
, gropin‘. The hound may gl’e him a help. and from
what we see’d 0‘ that animal, more‘n 3:21:31; 1: 7:"
,Still, it’ll take a goodish while for ’em to get sight

62

Clancy’s cocoa—nut, whether the coyotes hev had their
teeth in it or not. And then there’d be the diggin‘ 0’
him out, if alive and worth di gin’ out; and anyway,
the nigger ‘ll hev to come back y the tree, or et stuck
at the big gulch that crosses the plain be on . Seein’
as he coul n’t ’a’ left the cam much a ore mornin’
and takin‘ his other difficult es into the account,
il‘aeckon there’ll still be a chance 0' catchin’ up with him.
h m. BO '5! t rat‘s the best we can do for our own sal-
vation. needn’t repeat that things look ugly an' if
we don’t take some Steps they’ll soon look a darned
sight uglier. Shall we strike for the tree?”

A unanimous answer in the afflrrnative.

“Then let‘s ride quick. If we intend catchin‘ up with
yellow skin, thar ain‘t 3. seconds time to be spared. B
overtakin‘ him it’ll be all r’ght et. If we don t, there’ i
be no goin‘ on by the Colora o. No, by the Eternal
G—d! The sooner we
Rio Grande, the safer or the necks 0‘ all 0‘ us!”

Assent to the words spoken, prompt, unanimous, de-
cisive. After which the desperadoes, tumi to the
lone tree, dimly visible in the distance, start off to-
ward it with fear on their faces, and not much hope in
their hearts.

One and all, their souls stained with crime, and their

 

conscience, guilt-laden, were oppressed with a prem

science of evil.
CHAPTER XXII.
THE AVENGERS as nov'rn.

AT the same hour, almost the same minute, when
Borlasse and his mounted freebooters were climbin
up from a creek of the Colorado, another party 0
horsemen was ascending out of the valle of. the San
Saba, their intent also to reach the upwa plain. And
when they had reached it, they, too, paused upon its
e e; showing a troop of over thirty in number.

hese were not thieves, but honest men: being the
party of pursuers from the San Saba settlement, under
he eadershi of the oung planter, Dupre, with the
hunters Woodley and awkins acting as its guides.

Almost simultaneously did both troops arrive on the
plateau edge; at the same time making stop. And
when so halted. there were still twenty miles between
them—twent miles of dry desert, trackless and tree-
less, here an there only a scattering of cactus plants,
a clump of thorn ' mezquite trees, or a stiff yucca, the
{almilla of the exicans and “Spanish bayonet ’ of
he Anglo-Americans. The only tree of large dimen-
sions seen over the sterile expanse, was that already
known as a landmark on the route to the robbers’ ren-
dezvous, toward which the colonist party was now pro-
ceeding.

On reaching the desert plain, as already said Dupre
and his people made stop. On] for a short while, and
not because they were in doub about the direction in
which they should 0. They were not staying to take
up tracks, for they ad no need. There was one with
them who well knew the way; and, nolem 1: , was
conducting them alo it.

Reluctantly or not, osley had turned traitor to his
old associates; and told his new ones all, not only about
the burglary, but other crimes of which his late con-
federates had been guilty during some three years‘
brigandizing in Southwestern Texas.

By his confession it came out, that several cases of
murder and maraud upon the people of the frontier
settlements, supposed to have been done by Indians,
were in reality he work of these white freebooters,
act under the Indian d ; and so not on]
escap ng detection themselves but very nearly embroi -
ing he State in a war with the Comanches, who had
been accused of these crimes.

Their tactics, though astute, were in reality simple
enough, both as to des n and execution. They were
similar to those they h just made use of in their de-
scent upon the new colony; though it was not often
they had the ogportunity of such a grand map as the
capturi of t thousand dollars in cash. More
frequent y their ty was a few score or hundred
horses, which they would “run " of! over the Rio
Grande, and there sell to Mexican confederates.
With the proceeds the would return to Texas, gener-
ally to its chief city, n Antonio, and there stay till
the mbling-tables and debauchery made it necessary
fort emtore lenish their exchequers by a fresh stroke
of horsestea rig, or aught else hat turned up—high-
Wifi' robbe if need be.

ost of t ese men professed the calling of the mue-
ta er—that is the catching of wild horses, breaking
an bringinghthem to the settlements for sale. There
are many w 0 thus make their living in Texas, and
honestly too. But, with the band of Borlasse this was
only a lind; all of them bein robbers of the truest
typfi, and not a few red-hand murderers.

eir principal place of rendezvous was that already
described, on a creek emptying into the Colorado. 0
it they were in the habit 0 re urning after an ex -
tion of plunder; takin the Emceeds along, and t ere
distribu ing them. ere t ey kept their masquera-
di costumes: using it as a dressing-room, before
mgfiing their 1 pp \arance upon the stage, which more
than once they nail left saturated with blood.

All this admitted Bosley; the truth having been ex-
tracted b one who stood the while holding a pistol
close to h s skull. Sime Woodley it was who had thus
forcibly confessed him.

And when the pursuing party reached the upper
plain, and Bosley seemed to show reluctance about pro—
ceedin that same pistol was again presented to his
head, ime sayirfi: _

“ Bill Bosley, tho‘ I don’t make estimat’ o’ yur life
as any more account than thet 0’ a cat, ora cur, f‘rall, I
s’poseit’s precious to you. Now, e kin save it. But
only on one condishun; which be, t at you take us, strait
curtain, to the place whar Jim Borlasse an‘ his beau-
ties air. Show sign 0' purvaricatin’, or go a yard’s
length 0‘ the right track, an’—wal; I won‘t threeten to
shoot ye, as I‘m doing now; but I promise you’ll get
your neck stretched on the nearest tree, an‘, if thar

arn’t none, I’ll hang ye at the tail 0‘ my horse. So take '

yer choice; an ef ye want ter chaw any more corn, don't
ry to play treetur."

‘I‘ve no such intention,” protested the man thus
menaced “ Indeed, no. Not a thought of it Mr. Wood-
ley. I was only stud ing what way we should take
from here. For, to te l the truth, tho’ I‘ve crossed this

plain several times, ’twas always along wi‘ the othersi 2

and I didn‘t make note 0’ the direction. One t

remember. After etti out a bit on the Elam, theer‘s
a tree comes in si it. T 6 road leads ri t past that.
The tree‘s about alf distance toward 6 creek; but
when I got to it, I reckin Ican find the otherhalf easier,
by sonic irieunlte bushes that stand here and there.
Pon't disbalicve me. Mr. Woodley. I acknowledge I‘ve

ridin’ strai ht on to the tree we may thar intercept 1

at up for some crossin’ on the .

The New York L1brary.

' i

1 been a bad ’un; but you needn’t have any fear of me sounds that better directed him—shots. Making note 0'.
turnin' traitor to ou." the quarter whence the seemed to come, he had re-

"I‘ve no fear 0 ye,” rejoined the hunter, with a con- newed his bearings. an with all haste ke t on. He
i temptuous toss of the head “ All I’ve Igot to sa is, knew that where the shots had been hear he would
, that if yur story don’t prove strait, thar’ be a cri in I find a dead body. It might be that of his master, or
i your neck soon 8 it's diskivered to be crooked. Sowaste , his master‘s enemy. He could not know which; but
no more time palaverin‘ but strike out the way ye g he had his hopes, based upon that which gave him con-
, think likeliest for sightin' the tree 8 ke o’. " | fidence. The last shot he heard had the sharp crack

The alacrity whic Bosley now is layed was proof E of a rifle!
that he had no intentions to deceive t ose he was con- l Without this, he would have been equally confident
.ductigg. Not likely, since he knew his neck de- ‘ of the result.

’pend on his proving true. Not only Woodley, but His master’s words, spoken at parting, had so in
the others were well watchi him; all interested in spired him.

, the result-all of them feeling t an affair of their own. He had taken note of Clancy’s strength and deter

5 For althou h the only real sufferer was Dupre, who mination. There was something in the air, aspeakin

. had lost bot slaves and cash, his fellow-colonists were electricity that told him the child of God would tri-

. angry at the outrage and equally resolved upon casti- umph and he of the Devil be discomfited.

, €331ng those who h committed it. The oung planter i As t rough the mornin haze he beheld a horseman,

torn himself from the side of his ancee, now re— he knew it was Charles C ancy. And, by his seat in the

, stored and safe. His creole blood was up: r0 i saddle, he could tell his young master was triumphant;
the treason of his late trusted steward as much, if not ' and that he had completed the purpose for which he

: more, than by the loss of his fifty thousand dollars. had so determined] started off.

Determined to chastise the recreant scoundrel, he was A ve few secon s suffice for J upiter’s e lanation.
I imlpatient to keep on. For ancgone is needed. His tale is to d without
, uring the night the ursuers had been delayed, words; by t gory corpse seen stretched along the
‘ groping their way along k woodland (paths. sward.
But as daylight was now around, an they had ar-
1 rived upon the upland plain, where there were no shad-
, ows to retard their progress, all were shoutin “On!”
1 The only cause of delay, was in discovering e right
’ trail—that taken by the retreating robbers.

,‘ But soon the were u on it. osley struck strai ht
’ out into the p ain, at rst goifig by guess. W ey
, and Hawkins could have hel d m, ut for the ground
being trampled over b the racks of mustangs, a drove
i of w ich had assed t iat way the day before; going at
a headlong ga lop, as the two hunters could tell. Trans-
versely was the trail of the retreating freebooters,
which they could also see but so confused as to take
up too much time in the li ting. They preferred leav-
ing it alone, and looking out for the tree of which Bos-
ley had admonished.

t was not ion before their eyes became gratified
with the sight o it, standing solitary afar ofl, against
the line of the horizon. It aim to be u n the
Emmi: of a swell, that rose a ve the general evel of

e p n.

Simeon Woodley was the first to discover it. On
sighting it, he cried out, addressing himself to the
w ole cavalcade:

“Thar it air, fellurs, an' no mistake. Tharforl 'reck’n
the skunk‘s been tellin’ us the truth. Sure as a n air
iron, yonner stick 0’ bi-anchin‘ timmer air the kun
that's guided Borlasse an‘ his beauties. Ef my recol-
leckshun sarve me right, I‘ve heern 0’ that finger-post
afore; and I guess I know pretty near the lace whar it
points to. Le’s go ri ht on to it, and t on we’ll see
what furrer progress be made. I figs thar won’t
be no great defeequiltgi; as beyont, Bill ley sa 8 he’s
better ackwented wi‘ e way. Anyhow, le’s st e for load.

'the tree, an’ as thar’s no need any longer duckin’ our And soon another is upon its back—a heavier weight
heads to diskiveratrail, wo kin make a leetle better time. for the runaway slave was a larger man than his former
We need to. For ef we don’ them berr‘ls 0’ silver master, and freedom has increased his corpulence.

ma get scattered an’ ‘twon’t so dodrotted eezy to Clancy, conscious his task is ended, now only thinks of
re ver ’em. Besi es, we moutn’tbe able togi’e unish- making way to the mission. But not with incautious
ment to the scoundrels as carried ’em off. Bu boys,
that ain’t all,“ and here Sime’s voice rose to a higher
pitch, at the same time assuming a more serious and
solemn tone; “thar‘s somethin’ else to be thought 0’:
somethin’ o’ more im rtance than eyther stolen silver
or the unishment 0 them as hev stole it. Thar‘s a

 

Jupiter, seeing it, glides up and stands over, gazing;
down upon it.

Some stran reflections the s tacle must surely
afford him? it he looks u n t e stiff, outstretched
arms, lying be] less along he grass; the hands, with
fingers curvin ke claws now nervelesS‘ he may be
thinking how t ese once clutched a cowhide, that cut
into his own back, and there left weals still painfully
discernible!

But he says nothing; and in silence waits, till his
master summons him away.

For a time the two stay under the shadow of the
rock, deliberating what to do. It is but a question as
to their mode of making journey. Jupiter is afoot, and
kvill have to travel as a pedestrian, thus retarding both.

0!

Something seen has called forth the negative.

It is a riderless horse, galloping over the plain. He is
not oing in an direct course, nt careering about in
circ es or spira curves, the rock appearing to be the
pivot. They see that he carries both saddle and bridle,
he latter trailing.

There is no in stery either about the animal‘s pre-
sence or its act ons. Clancy knows that the em ty
saddle has lately been occupied by him who lies dea .

His onl thought is how to get possession of (he
steed, an make it available for mounting the mulatto.

This purpose is followed by immediate action; which
ends in the capture of the riderless horse. -

enou his thecreature taken. Not accustomed
to be one ter a turn or two upon the open plain, it
trots back to the spot where it has lost its rider; there
delivering itself up to him who had lightened it of its

 

pent. And there is still robable per-ll to be encountered.
upiter's escape from e desperadoes is not likely to
be without results. They may come after, in hopes of
re-capturin him. And the would come that way, in
the belief t t he will in a1 likelihood make back for

man’s e in d - one thet’s dear to me, as I reck’n the place where his master has been left.
he would be to 0 ye ef ye knew him as I do. Ye This is the spot now to be avoided. Where is it?
heerd what the ole kurnel sa ed whiles we war startin" Clancy casts his eyes inquirinfilly over the plain. His

that, cost what it moat, Char ey Clancy war to be saved!“

As the backwoodsman, in his rough way, rzgeated
the words of Colonel Armstrong, the were h ed, as
before, by a burst of enthusiasm. on the ground

chase after Darke has carried h several miles, during
which he has taken no note of the direction. The deter-
mination to overtake his enemy, before again losing
sight of him, blinded him to all else Where then is

gave echo: that, if living, Clancy should be rescued, that spot, so longhis place of torture?
an reve . The position he occupies is favorable for observation,
“All right, kumradesl" cried Woodley. “I see ou‘re Th rock itself rests upon the summit of a ridge-—the

e
ivide ” between the two cat. rivers—this trending
for many miles, longitudina . with a sharply d6 fined
crest that resembles the com in of a sea-wave. It is
one of those formations, in Frenc trapper phraseology
called ooteau de ' aim.

On each side he surface slo s gently down, till it
reaches the general level the w ole eminence having a
breadth of some two or three miles.

Clancy commands a view of therfilain on both sides of
it as far as vision can extend. e sun’s position in
the sky ves him a clue to the points of the compass,

in airnest, and thar won‘t be no sech word as f As “
to them we’re arter, I reck’n we’ll soon git sight on ’em,
and then— But come; we must stop dawdlin’ hyar.
Time‘sdpreeshus; so gi’e the prod to yer critters,and le’s
strike eerect for yonner tree!”

80 3 ing, the hunter led off, the others followi , .
as if proposal were a command not to be bey .

CHAPTER XXIII.

. nnsmn rm FALLEN ros.
To return to Charles Clancy, left beside the body of

his fallen foe. as also t 6 direction in which lie the two rivers.
He does not d to tarry 10 there. As he continues attentively to interrogate the sun
The companions of thed is ever painful even roun scene, an object comes under is glan me, a.
when an enemy. th no one near, it maybeappall- once ng it.
It i: a tree, and of peculiar shape, that rtands

Something of this creeps over Clancy’s spirit as he
stands regarding the corpse. For he has now no pas-
sion to sustain him—not even anger. Hisvow is ful-
an his heart left there

u nthecresto theri justwithins htinrdis
taprfce of the rock. 110 tgfiks he rememblgrs .rt. So

thinks Jupiter, and azing at it, both become sur I.
gui ed the frecbooters retv minp

filled—his ve eance satisfied; It is the same tha

to throb with e‘gentler pulsations of humanity, as is laden with their spoil.

its wont. Later, it has similarly served the mulatto. on us re-
A shudder passes through his frame as he razes upon treat from the robbers den.

Darke‘s features—scowling even in death. In spite of
their sinister aspect he feels sad while contcg'i lath;-
them. He wishes ii had been otherwise, anct atthe
terrible retribution had been 5 him. But it could
not. It has been forced upon 'm; and let that be the

Clancy can now determine the place where he had
been planted. It is on the op to side of the tree, from
where the now are—it may two miles. In his chase
after liar e he had passed that solitary landmark
without seeing it; and Jupiter gliding after, had done

and of it. the same.
With this reflection justifyi himself, he turns his Continuing his survey, Clancy makes himself yet
back upon the co se calling rasfort away from it. more familiar with the topography of the plain; sees

’

The dog still exhib ts hostility to the dead man, and
would mutilate his body if permitted. The savage ca-
nine instinct has no generous impulse to a peaseit,
and only yields to stem words and gestures o menace.

Clancy mounts his horse, inten ing to proceed in
search of Ju iter.

But before e can part from the spot, he sees some
one advancing toward him, who must be the mulatto.

The individual approaching is on foot. This assists
Clancy in his surrnises, while the gait helps to the
identification of Jupiter.

It is he, and his story, though scarce needing it, is
soon told.

He had been following the chase, afoot.

The clear moonlight had enabled him to do this, as
also the pace, necessaril slow, from Clancy havi
i waited for the hound to 0 its work. Ju iter had los
s,ght of his master after Darke came in ew, and com-
menced that straight run leading on to the rock.

Though neither pursued nor pursuer was any lo

the direction he ought to take, as also that to be
shunned.

Unfortunately they are the same. To strike for the
tree will put him on the trail leadin to the San Saba.
But it ma also bring him in contac with the despera-
does shou d they be coming back that way.

If he should again get into their hands he can have
no doubt as to the result. To him, as also to his faith-
ful follower, certain death, and no doubt also cruel tor-

ure.

Such a catastrophe is not only still possible, but
Probable, should they attempt returning upon the trail.

t is now broad daylight, and a horseman traversing
tliiIat treeleas expanse could be seen to the verge of
v ion.

Clancy once more on his Own splendid charger needs
not to have fears for himself. It is again about his fol-
lower he is agigrehensive; for Jupiter, though mounted
i Batter than fore, would still run the risk of being to
or en.

Under- the circumstances circumspection is neces-
and the utmost caution called for.
Clancy can tell the direction

 

visible, the mulatto had continued traveling toward e 
point where they had disappeared. I sag,
thus uDCCl‘ialllly advancing, he heard f ow are they to at!

 

But, while

haste. Too much of this has he already reason to re- ,

 

_ii.__ mm;

H
u

 

 

 

J.

i

 

 

it

Q

V

v swell between hinders them from seei

' that t e second

tn which lies the San Babe. The ascending sun gives
ihe clue to this. They may strike straight for the river,
but not for the gorge going down to the bottom. Once
on the bluff they can eep along it till they come to the
swiping descent. _ ‘

I we then the freebooters may descry them from
Mar, and riding rapidly intercept them before they
can reach the ravine. in this course there will be a
tie . . It seems too dangerous to be attempted.

us other is open—to keep all day under cover, and
at ht continue their ourney.
Th 5 can bedotie wit fair prospect of safet . The
bot'vlder, big as a hOuse or hay-stack, rises to the ht of
twenty fee extending twice that horizontally. Not
only a singe horseman or two, but a whole troop
could be screened behind it. Clancy sees that they can
stay th re without any risk of being observed, takin
the. originary precautions to keep on the lee side 0
tiahg'e

r. .
And n0w there is no great reason for his hurrying on !

to’the San Saba settlement. Before, he had his fears,
even the worst. When Borlasse hissed those harsh
words into his ear, he did not know that they were
untnue. He could not. Darke might have ridden back
into the river bottom, met Borlasse and the band,
sued Woodley, and retaken the captives. Or, even ad
th‘eee succeeded in safely reaching the mission, what
in ht they have found there? The whole body of the
co onists massacred? The (ice radoes were capable of
doing this. The behavior to imself was proof of it.
Helen Armstron mi ht return to stand, with heart
torn, beside ad fat er, as he, Clancy, had done, over
the grave of a murdered mother?

These thoughts had troubled him while standing in-

terred' to the neck, buried alive, as he then believed ,

hi self to be.

e is no longer a (prey to such terrible pro ostica-
tions. Jupiter has ispelled them, by know edge ac
quired duri his short riod of captivity' and lancy
now knowst t Colone Armstron isstiliialive; fee ~
infieqlually sure that his daughters ave re oined him.

e ongs to be there too, and have a are in the

neral joy. How pleasant it will be to take de
groom that s ot, leavi dark death behind, an set his
face towarg bright liigfe—the brightest and sweetest
that ever met mani For Helen Armstrong, with o n
arm will be waiting to receive and welcome him. he
lo .night of their sorrowing has p . The morn of
thwoy is to come, and soon—its daylight is already
da ng. A short 1joumey to be made, and he W11
stand by the side 0 his beloved, his betrothed; once
more enfoid her in his arms' once more exchange love
speeches, kisses sweeter sti ——ah 1—.

Hisra ture is interru ted; the bri ht dream becom-
ing sudd‘enly shadow as when a c oud drifts across
the disk of the sun. And -it is the sun that does it—
the reflection of its light from somethi seen far off
upon the plain. The returning rays ash back not
from a single wint, 1lliutéseverai, these appearing sepa-

eac

rate' yet close er.

Experienced in prairie signs, Clancy has no difficulty
in reading this. The glancing coruscations are the
glint of gun-barrels, pistol-butts, bowie-knives, belts,
and stirrups. Afiiismst a dark back ound the shine
conspicuously; t soon becoming distinguisha le as a

of mounted men.

e{ are coming from the side of the Colorado;
thoug it needs not the direction to identify them.
Soon as setting eyes upon the troop, Clancy is con-
vinced of its character. . -

Beyond doubt the desperadoesi

CHAPTER XXIV.
raust as n Foss. .
Sous apart from the rock, Clancy is seated in
his sad le,
They have been on horseback duri their cogitation,
as to what course they should take. n as seeing the
far-oi! cohort, and  it as the robber-band,
Clancy draws his horse hin the bowlder, directing
J 5 ‘iter to do the same.
us screened, they can see the approaching party,
wilts out being themselves seen.
' This is

it approachi ?
he ques on to be determined, and at once.
Foryif so their only chance for safety will be in the swift-

nessf of their horses; since the rock can only cenceal .

them till the robbers get up to it.

For better concealment hey dismount, Jupiter hold-
while Clancy fixes his 6 es ulpon the
moving band' ng care that as much 0 his ead,_ as
must n be shown, shall appear but a projecting

art of the bowlder. A blanket, hastily snatched from
arke‘s saddle-cred , enables him thus to Simulate.

the here

Only for a short w ile is he in doubt about the direc- r

tion in which the horsemen are rig.
They are not ri towa the rock, but in a

' t line for the ridge—at right angles, as if intend-
ing 0 cross it. They appear to be h straight for
the no doubt, afterward to go on to the place he,

, such reason to remember.

‘ He breathes freely. Unless something should cause
idiom to deflect from their

{figder no immediate a prehension. But he cannot
1
Gt

reflectin , on wha would have been his fate, if
i the rarie stocks!

~’ Thrill: he pis not there is something for which to be

hankful.

While congratulating himself, be for a moment re-
tnoves his lance from the des radoes, directing it to
the opposi side—that tow the San Saba. As he
does so, there comes a flash across his face, and a glit-
tering in his eyes, for a time obscuring his vision.

When it becomes clear ain, he sees what draws
from him an ejaculation of oy, his companion giving
quick echo to it.

Another party is upon the plain, also horsemen.
They are advancing toward the ridge, in a direction
diametrically opposite to that followed by the free-

t rs.
bo'Fh: two troops are about equidistant from the crest,
the tree being evidently the beacon-pomt of both. The
one another'
while Clanc , from his commanding pos tion, has a full
view of both.

His oyful exclamation has sprung from the thought,
party may be composed of the pursu-
ing colonists. t is ckly succeeded b another
Droolaiming his certain y of this. For at ts head is
one riding a horse of a coior_no , h ‘
brindled clay-bank,“ with stripes resembling t ose
3190!! a half-bred zebra. Simeon Woodley 3 horse has
such markings. It must be the backwoodsman who

needs the party approaching from the San Saba!

Both cohorts are advancing at a like rate

ur- ?

rture ,

the mulatto, also mounted, alongside of him. ‘

line of march, he need be ,

The Death-Shot; or, Tracked to Death.

l . . .
, not veri ra idly, their horses Only kept at a brisk walk.
‘ But wit t continued, a collision Will ere long be in-
evitable.
I It is evident they see not one another—have no sus-
|‘ picion of their mutual proximity.
l On recovering from his sudden, but gratified. sur-
,‘ prise, Clancy perceives how things stand. A glance to
rl ht and le t enables him to reco nize on the one side
i f ends, on the other, foes.
: as he measures the stre
that the former is by far t e stronger, at all events, in
, numbers.
There are nearly thirty of them, while of the robber
‘ band he can scarce count twenty. At the same time he
is aware, that most of these are men of no common
character; criminals without conscience; outlaws ren-
dered desperate by their outlaw ; fellows who will
fight to the death, nowing that, i taken, a halter will
be their doom.

But among the colonists are also many
and they are led b one of the bravest, Simeon Wood-
ley. They have
lfirigiands will be doing battle under the banner of the

ev .

He has no anxiety about the result of such encoun—
ter. His only apprehension is, that it may not come
off. Something may occur to warn the freebooters,
and' ‘ve them a chance to shun it. They will be cer-
tain retreat, at sight of that enemy stronger than
themselves, and with right upon its ride.

If the two troops would only come near enough,
Clan has confidence in the superior speed of the long-
, legge American horses. But as yet full two miles are

between, and this is too much. A word of warning—a

st 1 escape.

Is there anything to give that word, or show Lign?

Clancy loo 3 to right, to left, between them. There
is nothing u on the )him.

But some hing a ore lt—buzzards!
flocks, one over each band of horsemen, accompanying

it on its march. Those foul bird: always do so, their 1'

instinct admonishing them that where there are two
arties of armed mcn. the ' "1:37; look for o. collision be-
} ween them. They cvczr :now when these arc hostile,
; and preparing to spill one cnothcr’s blood!
I Borlasse cannot fail to see those soaring over the
, colonists, while Woodley will equal] observe the flock
in ng above the b ' nds. On cac side what will be
t c conjecture? ‘l‘ s i: the question Clancy asks of
,i himself. '
1 Borlasse 27m sup se the birds, flying afar, to be
1 above the head of t e_ rttrn he has-loft 5:1 his prairie
. stocks. On his side, L'oodley may have a. fancy—at
l the same time a fear—that those he toes are about to
: descend upon a dead body—that of his old comrade,
, Clancy himself. And there may be two, for the back-
‘ woodsman will take J upitcr into account.
It is just rs Clancy conjectures. Woodlcy, from one
‘ :ide observer, 3. flock of vultures, distinct from that
Circiing over his own head. Doriasse, from the op -
site, observes another flock, having no connection With
those wheeling above his. Both interpret the sign as
too insignificant to cause them any an rehension; and
each moves on at the head of his snowing, without
‘ halt or hesitation.
i “ Thank the Lord 1" says Clancy, relieved from all
‘ further fear. “ They must meet now.”

Less than a mile now between the two hostile bands;
yet unseen h each other.

With hes audibly beating, Clancy keeps his eyes
on both. the mulatto sharing his emotion. But \.'hi‘_c
lsilentl observin

! the I sh soldier as no intention to .‘e an idle spectator

, of the conflict soon to ensue. On the contrary, he

‘ pants to take part i.i it; to assist in smiti‘x; and crush-

. ng the criminal crew; to punish their leader for the

: out e recently endured at his hands—Cor the misery

' that most made him mad.

! .He is grepared to start forth—Jupiter, b his direc-

1, tron, hol ing the horses in readiness, But t e moment

i has not yet arrived. He must not show himself too

i soon. Man or horse, ap aring in such a lace, would

’ excite the suspicion of t e irares, cause t em to halt,

perhaps to turn, and ride 0 in retreat.

They are not yet near enough to insure the encoun-
; ter. y showing himself he might ve them a chance
‘ to shun it. This must not be; and c rcmains behind
. the rock, with quick-beating pulse, alternately glancing
, from one troop to the other.

Oh! if he could whi r in Simeon Woodley‘s ear, or
make si to him! ut one word or gesture to warn

‘ him of w at is on the other side!

Is there no way tocommunicate with his old com-
rade, without vinlg alarm to the enemy? Can he steal
back behind t e e, and join the colonists, before
; thlely are seen upon its summit?

; e looks around, scans the ground to his rear, with

‘ his eyes calculating its incline.

i Impossible! To retire from the rock would at once
gisréover him to both bands, and to the freebooters
rs .

He may not move an inch. He must wait for his
: cue; which will be when they sight one another.

, Stay! A thought strikes him—he thinks of a decoy.

‘ His eye rests upon the dead body of Darke, and runs

jOVel‘ the Indian costume still covering it. Darke’s

‘ horse is beside him, between J upiter’s logs.

 

: Shall be make use of the dress and the animal, for a ‘

‘ time counterfeiting his now lifeless foeman? The plum-
, ed coronet, with the other sav
‘; him to do this. So disgui

: off.

! Shall bet the ruse? It is a question of time. Will
thfire bus; su cienthfor; himtto accomplish it?

; eg noes at t e wo roops' again measuring the
distance between, and taking hote of their rate of

i speed.
i Too late to attempt the travestiei He might be caught ‘

, in the act of preparing for it.

i d Hie abandons t e idea, and falls back on his original
, es gn.
l Curbing his impatience, as be best can, he continues

‘; to watch the mutually-approaching parties. Neither ‘ b

, is makin rapid advance. The slope, wi stee r
as they raw nearer the crest of the ridge, gniges thgem
reason for sparing their horses. But it cannot be long

; Neither marches in any order. Both are clumped ir-

, regular —the leaders a little ahead. Atortoise with

,‘ neck ex dedwould in shape symbolize their forms-

ltion. They might be compared to two dark clouds,

toward one allt'lils‘i' through a clear sky, b0th

t common. It is a before they will be face to face.

And iis glance gladdens, ‘
h of the two parties—sees .

brave men, .

, too, on their side; while the.

si n to make them suspicious-and the :coundrcl: may .

There are two ‘

their mutual apprench the son .2 ,

ltrapping, swt'Iill enable ‘
e 0W m- I
‘ self to the robber band, without fear 0 them sheeringfi

63

highly charged with hostile electricity. Wi.en thry
come in collision, surely will the red rain fall.

Up the opposing slopes they continue to advance,
still unsuspicious, each of the other. The (errain re-
sembles the roof of a house, pitched at an oblique an.
gle. Clancy's position is that of a man placed upon the
ridge, behind a chimney; while the two squadrons are
ascending from the caves. The solitary tree represents
another chimney, toward which they are. tending. But
before reaching it, both will abruptly discontinue the
ascent. Clancy knows this. ‘

His heart bounding within his breast, his blood con rs-
ing hot through his veins, his pulse beating quicker
than ever, he watches and waits—impatiently timing
the crisis.

It is very near, now. The two flocks of vultures have
met in mid-air, and min ,le their flight in sweeping g -
ratioris. They seem Jub' nt, as if anticipating a speer y
re as !

ancy measures the moments; sees they will be few

and short. The crowns of the horsemen rising against
the horizon, already al' with the tufts of grass grow-
ing topmost upon t e ri

is. Now their brows are above
ave sighted each other.I

it“ now their eyes; the
e cries out, “My horse, anei

t is Clancy’s cue.
v Mount, and follow me!"
He grasps the bridle; vaults into the saddle. then
like a thunderbolt, shoots out from the rock, and on
alonglthe ridge.
A alt, as the hostile cohorts catch sight of one an-
other; horses hurriedly ulled up! No shout; only a
word of caution from t eir leaders, each calling back
to his own men. Then an interval of profound silence.
‘ broken onl by the shrill screaming of the horses, and
the cluttering of hoofs; this last louder, where Clancy
himself (jellopr. over the plain.
Both see him now, without taking note. They are too
: intent in scanning each other.
' The scrutiny is confined to the headmost men, the
others still mutually screened by the interposed swell
of‘thc rround. And there are still several hundred
yards 0 acc between them.
But cac knows the other to be an enemy; and, de-
: spite the distance, the two hercnlean leaders have al-
ready recognized one another—~Woodley, Borlasse, and
Borlasse, oodle .
i The recognition is simultaneous; and after it the si-
1 lence ceases. From the throat of the backwoodsman
l issues a shout that pcals afar over the lain. It is a
i, cry of vengeful determination, quickly to owed by the
i command to char e.
, .Borlaczc, too, 11 ter: 9. cry; but of different intona-
tion. It is that of one suddenly perceiving danger, and
I prepari to flee it.
. In ano her itzstant both troops are going at full gal-
‘ 10 . But not toward each other. One is pursuing, the
. 0t crpurmcd.
The robbers are in retreat!

CHAPTER XXV.
n A N n 'r o n A s D.
RIDING at full speed, cleaving the air, that whistles
his ears, with eyes straining forward, Clancy sees
: e chocng attitude of the two squadrons. ,
y The conflict he expected has not come off. And it
. in? .not? . i
1 it do, Will he be in time to take part in it? The
thought of being too late gives him a spasm of cha-
grin.
4 Only fora moment does he mistrust his horse—per-
: ha 3 the fastest of all.
I gain recoveri confidence, he presses on, heading
in a diagonal line tween pursued and pursueis.

He soon sees that he is closing upon both and with
1equal 30 ,_iiiat they are nearing one anot er. The
;short-st ding. mustangs are no match for the long-
y logged American horses. Ten minutes more, and the
, two breeds must become mingled!

As yet not a shot has been fired. The distance is
stifl too great for the range of rifles, and backwoods-
}in:n do not waste ammunition by idly dischargi

their guns. The only sounds heard are the strokes o
‘ two hundred boots, with the Occasional neighing oi
, a horse.

7 The riders are all silent—in both troo s alike—one in
1 tie mute crness of retreat, the ot er in the stern
jcarnestness or pursuit. The time for clamor— f0i
, shouting and shooting—has not yet come.

‘ But both will soon_begin. As Clancy sweers along
1 the obhque line, heading for the space that serniatcs
' the two parties, he perceives this gradually diminish-

:ir .

I )goon after he sees puffs of smoke, and jets of flame

. projected out of them. At the same time, he hears
Slims; 8!? first dropping and single, their in thick rat-
thngfusrllade.

; Quick] the plain in front becomes shrouded with a

1 dense su phurous mist; in which dark forms, at inter-
vals illiimed by yellow flashes, can be distinguished

l at ghng and shouting. It is as if two cohorts of hos-

, tile emons had met in mid-air and were doing battle

[ amid the clouds of heaven!

4 it is a scene to recall Paradise Lost, as painted by the
j great poet, Milton.

; Clancy does not think of this, as he reviews it from
‘: the outside. His only thought is to take a part in the
‘ strife—to give aid to the angels, and do damage to the
! devils, who are contending within.

Another touch to his steed, and he asses throu h
the thin outer strata of the smoke; then nds himself 1)
the thick of the conflict.

Shouts and confusion around him. Men on horse-
back flghting with other mounted men; pairs in more
clutch, grappling and endeavoi'ing to drag each other
down; other pairs a art, flrin pistols; some with
naked blades endeavo rig to kni e one another!

Notwithstanding the confusion, he can see that the
conflict is nearly over, and that the robbers have been
routed. Many of them are alread dismounted and
upon their knees, crying “Quarter,’ piteousiy appeal-
i for mercy—begging for dear life:

n after the strife terminates, resistance bein no
longer offered. The victors stand over the vanquis ed,
most of the latter dead; those that still live with is-
:tols held to their heads, or blades pointed at Ligan-

Clancy has come upon the ground too late to have a
share in the st le. It matters not. The criminals
i have been chast sod, meeting the punishment due to
their diabolical crimes. His own vengeance has been
already ap b the death of Richard Darke.
He reins up, and ooks around, his eye glancing ear»
nestly. He is searching for some one he does not 
1 Where is Simeon Woodie-y? Has he fallen in the con-
, fused melee? Has his old comrade been killed?

 
 

‘cr-v- —r_.-—-~~ —.«.A ..

4-. .._. .-.

.A.._.- “five-”

’f

"4:

Half frantic with this new fear, he goes past over the I
ground, giving a glance at every group. Woodley is guinary
I tableau
Again he ! nage.
, are now lying astretch upon the plain~some on their
: backs, some on their faces. and some sideways, but all
1 dead, all gashed or ory, as the fell to stab or shot.

nowhere to be seen!

Clanc calls out his name. No answer.
shouts‘ Woodie ," and then “ Heywood!"

To this there a res use. The younfiwbackwoods-
man staggers to his sit e, bleeding and b kened with
powder. He is wounded, and badly, though not alto-
gether disabled. 4

His horse has been shot under him,
be there.

The») are his first Words on coming up to

“ Why!“ asks tho latter, anxiously.

“ Because Sime Woodley—"

“Ay, Woodiev,“ impatiently interrupts the other.
“Where is he, I e wood?"

“ Was here a minute ago, but now—"

“ 1 ho nothing has hafipened. Has hebeen shot, or
stahbe ? Speak uick e wood!"

"No. I saw no of eyt er. I don’t think he‘s been
touched, yet.“

“ Yet—what then? Where is he i“

“This minute he lloped past, chasing some one.
The smoke hinde me from scein who; but it was
a eat big fellow, bi as Sime himse f.“

‘Borlasse!" excla ms Clancy.
did they go?“

"They went that way," answers the young hunter,
extending his arm outward. “Both were at agallop.
Pbr God ssake, Charley Clancy, ride after! Sime may
stand in need of you."

Clancy does not wait to hear the final word. Giving
fresh impulse to his steed, he darts throu h the su -
phu cloud that still overhangs the fleld of ht.

As 0 comes into clear air, he sees two
going oi! over the plain one after the other. Both are
men of colossal size. ut it does not need this to tell
him who they are. At a glance he recognizes them;
’the pumuvr us Woodiey, the pursued as Borlasse.

Both are upon large
anti able to carry them. But the b
Iayahea l, and the backwoodsman
upon him.

Clancy perceives this with satisfaction, the
without some anxiety. He knows that Jim Bor is
an antagonist not to be despised. Now about to be
bayed in des eration he will flght to the bitter end.
Wood ey w stand in need of all the strength and
strategy of which he is master.

Clanc
er in t e encounter, and the tho
1 increased speed, in the hope of

c ate.

Clancy:

s evidently gaining

ht of it ur him
elplng his 0 d asso-

Better mounted than either, he soon shortens the dis- ‘ sion house suc l

tanoe between himself and them.

Before he can get up, the two have closed together,
and are engaged n deadly strife.

It is no con 'ct apart, with a crack of rifles or pis-
tols. Not a shot is being exchanged be ween them. In-
stead, the combatants are close together; have clutched
one another; are htiiifigiand to hand, with bowiu!

It commences on orse -k; but at the flrst grip both
come to the ground, dra ing one another out of the
saddle. They continue e fight on foot, hewing awi
with their blades, as if each was determined to hac
the flesh from the other‘s bones!

A grand, but dread spectacle; these two antic
gladiators engaged in mortal strife, with all the r might

rying to slay one another!

All the more terrible from the silence that accom-
panies it. Neither speaks a ward. They are too intent

_ upon killing. The only sound that reaches Clancy's ear
is their hoarse. stcrtorous soughing, asIthey pant to re-
cover breath.

,. A spectacle that might distress the humane heart;
but one that would have elicited peals of a plauso from
that demoralized multitude who witn the contest
between Spartacus and his bucian brother.

Clancy has no thought of be an idle spectator. His

heart beats with ap rehension or the issue; and with T ,
‘ the streets, having returned from, or abou

rifle cooked and ran y he rides up, looking for a chance
to send a bullet through the body of Borlasse

It is not needed.
.0024}; do grace to the chief of the prairie pirates. Before
Clancy min take aim at him the blade of a bowie-knife
has entered between his ribs, splitting his heart and
laying him lifeless along the cart !

‘ \ou, Charla Clancy!“ says Sime adding an ejac-
ulation of joy 9. seeing his friend sti safe.
the Lord for, it! But who'd 'a‘ tho
in the middle 0‘ this skdmmage?
stan‘ by me, had it been needcessary; which, as 6 see,
it warn't. Wal, for good intentions, Blme ood
thanks ya all the same. That skunk o‘ skunks won t
trouble Texas no more. Ain't he a beauty, as he lies
thar! But come, Charley tell me; what hev you
dropt from! What 'bout ick Darkef Kev you seen
anythin‘ 0' him!"

‘ I have."
m"Wal, what's happened! Have you dud anythin' to

m?"

‘.‘ The same as goo? have done to him," answers Clancy,
pointing to the y of Borlasse.

“ Good for you! I know‘d it ‘nd end that way. I
say‘d so to that sweet critter jest as Iwar leavin‘ her at
the mishin."

“ You left her there, safe?"

“ Wal, I left her in her father‘s drums),er I rock‘n
she‘ll be safe cnuf; tho‘ 1 known 0’ anot or pair she‘d
like as well hevin‘ aroun' her—preehaps a goodiah grist
better. But whar‘s Jupe?" H

- “ He’s here—somewhere upon the do .

“All right. That accounts for the hul party. Now,
let's go back an' see what's chanced to the rest 0‘ Bor-
lasse slot. I reck'n th ’ve been drinslpoood 0’ much in

a sim'lar way, and these r gurai are now cleared
of acrowd o‘ scountlrels, he went and bloodiest as
over ra over ‘em. Dog-gon of they wam‘t!“

After is emphatic declaration the old hunter stands
for awhile contemplating the body of Boriasse' the ex-
pression u n his countenance as but of one who looks
upon a w . or wild-cat, he has just killed.

Beaming satisfied, he at ien h says:

" Kum alo Charley, an ct the varmint lay! As
for vin' him rist un berril, it w'u‘d be wastin‘ both
wor an‘ time: on taintin' the earth that ‘ud kivcr
him. He‘s jest flt for what‘s soon to be dud to him—40
he ate up by them buzzarts as air do a” above, an‘

on coyoats waitin‘ to git at him. . let's along.
‘harley' anixyou. Jim Boriasse, by!"
. With this dleave-taking t e an turns
away from the bod of the dead d: cooll wipes
Jae ‘. rod from his wie; restoresi to oi: shea h; and
once more bestridlug his horse, rides . Clancy with

Those that yet
or he would not i

 

1 upon the
n

j t e vanqui
“In what direction 1 sky above shadowed with
' around crowded with red coyotes!

 

; lemnity due to the feelings of those bereav
horses, American breed, stron , ,i more pervaded the colony, 30y nearly general.
and is only a iitt e ;

3 tiful daughters of Colonel Armstrong, robed in bridal
h t : array, stood before the altar of the ancient ca and
no ‘

has confidence in him. Still, he dreads dan- '

i
‘ monks.

! Bot
4 markets of the former

Neither gun nor pistol is to give the ;

sonnges p
' interest attachod to them.
, Phtnbe: not alone, but surroun
; geny of picanninies
“ Thank ;
t o‘ meetin’ you I answered, thus: The disgrace
11‘ up in time to | ill-starred son sent Ephraim Darke to an ear

 

‘7 .;. . _."'-_”._..;'————-‘—=i'—-—‘:-L—¢‘.:r.‘f:fi"rq.-r—~ Y r ._ a..._- .._ .. .

The New York Library.

On reaching the spot still occupied by these, asun-
scene comes under their eyes—vibe terrible
resented bya field of late conflict and car-
eariy all of the freebooters have fallim, and

ve are gat cred in a group, and

guarded by settlers, who stand sentry around them.
Some of these, too, have succumbed; for the conflict

was desperate, hand to hand, with scarce any quarter

' given, and not much asked.

The stolen treasure is likewise there—collected into a
heap, in pouches, saddle-bags and otherwise, as it has
been taken from the bodies of the dead brigands. atnd
the persons of those still alive. It is all safe, none 0 it
now likely to be taken to San Antone; but sure of flnd~

‘ ing its way back to the coflers from which it came.

A strar e and sanguinary icture isthat resented
ax“ eld where the turgble struggle has termi~
a

Soon it changes aspect though not to lose any of its
heart—saddenlng eflect. it is equally dimming to look
u n that spot after the victors have departed. For
shed still remain, their bodies unburied, the
lack vultures= the earth

 

Does it need to say that our tale is ended?
The reader will make answer, that it does not. He
knows what came after, or can it, in almost every
icular. It would be like re ting an old story to
ll him, that the mic“ co onists returned to the
San Saba mission ‘ng with them their dead com-

orsemen rades, along with their live risoners; where the latter

were tried, condemned, ant hanged, even before the
former were consigned to their graves!

And when an interval of sadness had ela ——a so-
—joy once

It reached its climax, on hat day when the two beau-

em

gave consent to changing their surnames; one of I
e on

fixer after to be called essie Dupre, the other
ancy.

There was a third cogpie made man and wife on the
same da , though not the same hour. By a s ial

‘ service u and Jule were oined in holy w '
J'uipiter ma ' a vow of fe y] to his brown-skinned
b de, more li e to be'faithfu y kept, than any ever

taken by his heathen homonym.

That weddi ay witnessed a hilarity in the old misc
as it had never seen' with a festive
profuseneas exceeding anything ever attemflpted by the

For Dupre having recm'ered his olen treas-
ure, set no bounds to his hoapitalit . Whole beeves
were barbecued hampers (if wine ken open, and
boxes of. best avanas free y distributed.

Amidst the festivities there was one man who was

1 not, could not be, gay.

v It was the young surgeo§l Wharton. For his sadness
no one save himself, co d be eld blamable. He
knew this; and determined to sti e it or make an at-

i fort to do so, by devoting himself to the duties of his

.‘ profession.

There is a record that he succeeded. At least, such

‘ was the belief in the San Saba colony, ears arm

3 when it had grown to be a erous sett ement, and

' a town rose over the site of ancient mission. It
was a Court-House town the center of a district of

; cotton lantations; one of the largest and most flour-

! ishi , ving Charles Clancy for proprietor.

tattoos are still there:
ing well supplied with venisgn,

, and other me—the product of four of the truest ti on
in Texas. his will be believed, when it is known th’at

: Woodley, Hawkins. Heywood, and Tucker are the per-
manent hunters of the place.

These worthies may beoften seen maturing through
to start
forth. on some hunting ex tion.

And on one of the San ba tatth of CO]-
onel Armstro himself—may seen two Other per-

reaen in this tale it h b not without

Thgy am lue Bill and his

ed by a numerous pro-

It may be asked how these got there; a question easil
brought upon him by ha
Stave.

coon-

the town and

and at the breaking up of his establishment,
hunter came to th hammer.

As a reward for truthfulness. as also his courage
in deolaringit. measures were taken by Colonel Ann-
“?iingw £331? .1 Bl “blfiomvm' with

can v ec u , us was
his belonfiigs, and transported to a happier thome add
the far frontier of Texas.
m an.

Fillliii STARB'S NEW YORK llBiilHl
HOW BEADYu

No. 1.--A HARD CROWD; or, Gmum
Bart’s 8mm By the author of Tiger Dick. 100.

 

 

No. a—THE DARE-DEVIL: or. Tan Wm“
guns or run But. ByCoi. Proud.
m. . . . .

No. 3.-KI'i‘ CARSON, Ja- or Tu Cum;
Sm or m Wnsr. By Buc Sam, (Maj.
Sam 8. Hall). . . . me.

No. 4.—THE KIDNAPPER: or, Tm: GREAT

Snanou‘u or run Nomnwnsr. . By mm 3.
Warns, Author of “Tiger Dick,” “x-Emi
Crowd,” etc. . . . _ 100'

No. 5.—THE FIRE-FIENDS; or, litmus,
rm: Hrsousarx. By A. P. Morris, Jr. . 10c.

No. ii.-WI]’.DCAT BOB, THE 3088 33018-
ER; or, Tan Bonona Bwonnousns. By Ed-
ward L. Wheeler. . . . . 100.

 

  , ' _:.‘:;.“_:t::.::-
No. 8.—THE HEADLESS HORSEMAN. Bv
Capt. Mayne Reid. . . . «Do.

No. 9.—HANDY ANDY. By Samuel Lov-
er. . . . . . 10c.

No. 10,—VIDOC , THE FRENCH POLICE
SPY. Written by imself. . . 200.

No.11—MIDSHIPMAN EASY. By Ca c.
. 1

 

Maryatt. . . . .

No. 124nm DEATH-8H ; or, mono '
'ro Dana. By Capt. Mayne d. . 200.
FRANK STARR & 00., Publishers,
Platt and William Streets, N. Y.

Sent mail on receiptof price, or can be
had of lnewsdealnrs who keep a supp} of
FRANK Stan’s New York Library, Ten nt

Pocket Idbrary, and all other current publica- -

tions of the day.

 

 

The Sunnysitigiibrary Series.

1-n.u. nooks. By Thomas Moore. 100
8—Don Juan. By Lord Byron . . . . . . .20c.
8—Paradiae Lost. By John Milton. 10c.
4—The Lady of the Lake. By Sir

Walter Scott. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .10c.
S-Luclle. By Owen Meredith . . . . . .10c.
Flo sal ll sdeaJe wi ' .
ronobyamnew rs,or hmurw;

83% William syrup?” by ADAMS‘ vn’

The Fireside Library Series

l—Was 8h. m-wmr By Mrs Mary

 

 

 

Reed Croweli . . . . . . . . . . -\ .. ..10 cents.
S—Fladag Prom Love. By Harriet Ir-
vmg . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  ...10 cents.
8—D“ He'Love Hes-2 By‘Bnrtley '1‘.
Campbell. . . . .  . . . . .  ...10 Cents.
4—A Its-alga Was-an. By Rett Win~ '
wood . . . . . . . .  ..,..10 cuts.
5—H“. the Bill-Ill 3”. By Capt.
‘ Fred. Whittaker . . . . . . . . . . . .10 Cents.
G—Two Glrls’ Lives. By Mrs. Mary Reed
Croweil . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .10 cents.

7—8—Lady Aadley’s Basset. By Miss
M. E. Braddon. 'l‘wo Numbers in-

one . . . . . ..... . . . . . . . . . . . ....20ccnts
9-1110 War of Hearts. By Corinne
Cnshmnn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 (cents.
IO—Lol’xhton Gran... By Miss M E.
Braddon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .10 eentn.
ll—Tha Pals. W. By Mrs. Jennie
Davis Burton . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 cents.

lfl-lB—Lost For Low. By Miss M.
E. Brnddon. Two Numbers in
one...'.......... . . . . . . . . ..20 Cent-

ld—lB—Toilars of the Sea. By Victor

Hugo. Two numbers in one. 20centa
u—m Octoroom By Miss M. E. Brad

don . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .10 rents.
17—18-Unalo Silas. By J. 8. Le F-nm.
Tn'o numbers in one . . . . . . . .20 (:cntts

IO—BOe—Daad-Baa Fruit. By Miss ME.
Braddon. 'l'wo numiu-rs'in one. 
Il-WWO Kate Kirby. By l-LW.
Robinson. '1‘“ o nun-lure in one. 

' its—sown; a. man. By Mrs. Mary

Rood (‘mm H . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .10 cenis.

seam—Bares of Prey. By Miss M. a

I;r-~ili1”ll . . . . . - . . .0 causes...” 
BO—Th’at Boy of I’m-5 By Charles
IAUVil' . . . . . . . . . . . ...........10¢ellt8.
BV—EB—Oharlotto‘s Inheritance. By
Miss M. E. Braddon . . . . . . . . .20 cents.
fl—Sllaa Harm. By ‘Gcorge El-
iot. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .10 cents.

.0?
y

 

 

No. 7.~—DEATH~NOTCH, THE DESTROY-
ER. ByOllCoomes. . . . . 10c.

firfl canteen

“ to rejoin the victorious colonists.