mam AT 11m P051- Omcn A: NEW You. N. Y‘. n- Snooxn cuss Mun Runs.

 

 

V01  Published Every QBeadZe pf‘ fldams, @ublishers, Tonmmcow N0 

Week. 98 WILLIAM STREET, N. Y., July 19, 1882. 85.00 a You.

THE LONE STAR GAMBLER- or, THE MAID of the MAGNULIAS.

 

 

BY “BUCKSKIN SAM ”—Major Sam S. Hall,

AUTHOR or “DARK Lusnwoon," “mm mm, um um RANCHEBD,” “KIT CARSON, m,” are, um, mo.

MAKER AND NEARER CAME THE FIRE, U‘N‘TIL ITS HEAT WAS ACTUALLY GROWING PAINFUL, AND WITH A GLANCE INTO THE
PROSPECT AHEAD OF HIM, THE SCOUT GAVE HIMSELF UP FOR LOST.

 

 

2

I

The Lone Star, Gambler.

 

 

The lone his?” Gambler:

on,

The Maid of the Magnolies.

VA Romance 0"? Texan Mystery.

 

BY “BUCKSKIN SAM,”
(MAJOR. SAM s. HALL,)

1 ounce or “ KIT CARSON, .13.," “WILD WILL,"

“DARK DASHWOOD,” “THE BLACK
BRIAVO,” “'an TERRIBLE
sounwav,” arc.

 

‘ CHAPTER I.
A YOUNG MAN‘S FANCY.

Sm five years previous to the breaking out
of our civil'war there stood, aboat a quarter
‘of‘ a mile from the generally placid but oft
raging, waters of the Mexican Gulf, and not
a; from the mouth of the Rio Brazos, a; grand
purl most beautiful mansion, with grounds and
gardens that perfectly corresponded.

The structure was of wood, and was sur-
rounded by a vast expanse of ornamental trees
and shrubhery, having, however, from its front
minnobstructed view of the Gulf, where, from
its’wide veranda one could gaze out upon the
far-stretching deep at times when sea and sky
named to blend together in one harmonious

. whole of peace and quiet, and banishing all

trace of the horizon line. At others, when the

’ whitecepped and mountainous waves dashed

o‘vefltbe‘» black and forbidding rocks below,
warning, in the wild, strange and appalling
light of the tempest, like furious demons ever
changing their hideous forms and struggling
with each other in a desperate death conflict,
which ended in each and all being buried to
death upon the jagged breakers. Sitting and
watching the war of elemepts, one would a1-
moat inevitably be led to picture the dark and
unfathomable mystery of the caves of the cocoa
which, since sea and land assumed their re-
spective places at the vanishing of night and
chaos, has defied the invsstigations of science,
and that now seemed to deepen from a mys-
tery to a fearful curse—an anathema upon all
who strove to become its masters and con-
trailers.

Between the lordly mansion and the beach
was a graduated slope, over which grow and
flourished in prodigal luxuriance an immense
variety of tropical flowers, plants and delicious
fruits. From this a perfect labyrinth ‘of
white-shelled paths, bordered with box of the
deepest emerald, wound here and there amid
the fragrant and brilliant-hued flora. To the
north and south of the princely dwelling these
many and devious paths extended,,and leading
here and there beneath the dense cool shades
of the gigantic magnolias, whose heavy per-
fume filled the air. Beyond this, and stretch-
ing apparently for miles, was tin—immense
natural-wooded. park, tram! by'curving
drives and bridle-paths, with shaded prome-

vnades and open sunny lawns. A miniature

.s

lake, nearly circular in form, adorned its cen-
ter; and from it narrow walks diverged to dif-
ferentpoints in the main carriage-drives, while
one, more strongly marked than the others, led
to the front entrance of the mansion itself,
where a large gate was ever found to stand

. hosoitably open. . ,
To the north and scarcely more than a rifle.

shot fromtho house, were two long, rows of
small white-washed dwellings. These were
the slave quantum of the estate, and a‘little
vil '. in themselves.

. no the rear of the negro cables were the
stables, and beyond these stretched the usual
vast and almost limitless fields of cotton and
com; everything. in and around the planta-
tion, speaking of untiring'energy and thrift, of
great wealth, and of almost Oriental luxury.

If any man in the world had cause to.be
contented and happy, judging from outward
appearances and ‘ surroundings, that man was
Colonel Lafayette‘Carbm-y, sole owner of this
princely astute. Many, doubtless, thought
him new: because they'fancied that
they would be so were they in his place. But
Lafayette carbury’s happineos, if it ever

visited him, wu not expressed in his counte-
nance, or by laugh or speech; for, to speak
truthfully, he was, when not “in his cups,"
somewhat morose and surly. He had a pretty
vigorous penchant for wine and fast horses,

land, rumor had it, was somewhat strongly
given to games of chance. ' v

He was a handsome man—but the Carburys,
we would be told, had always been that-oft
the average hight, and p05sibly a trifle above
it, erect, and with rather an imperious hearing,
which was increased by the heavy eyebrows'of
purest white, which hung over his bright and
searching eyes of the keenest black; while his
pointed, military beard matched both face and
figure, and completed the ensemble.

Such was Colonel Carbury at three-score
years. ~

His family consisted of himself, wife, and
two children—o. boy and a girl.

His son, James Carbury, a young man of
twenty, was, like nearly all sons of wealthy
planters of that day, wild as a. hawk. Since
his return from college, where he had by no
means distinguished himself, in an academic
sense, he had spent the greater part of his time
in gaming, boating, horse-racing, and carous-
ing; his companions, as in most cases of the
kind, being a set of young men who were
muchbeneath him in station and education.
His face was, in some respects, a. singularly
attractive one. Though hardly of that de<
scription which compels respect and confidence
at a glance, it was, nevertheless, one, the sight
3 of which would make many a susceptible fe-
; male heart beat the quicker. r
I Neither particularly intelligent nor refined
,‘ in its expression, and with an evident dash of
(pride and willfulness in the finely-cut fea-
ltures, there was a. magnetism which many
found themselves unable to resist. His hair,
tawny in hue, and of a shade that was deeper
than the amber—colored mustache, in its care-
less amugement, had a. look which seemed to
speak of the owner‘s knowledge of its be-
comingness. His sleepy, dark violet eyes,
almost fierce at times, had in their unknown
depths some latent force of good or evil, some
undeveloped sub-stratum which the future
might, or might not. bring to the view and
inspection of the world;

Cora Carbury, the sole daughter of the
house, was the one bright particular star of
the little constellation. She was as fair as
the midsummer dream of the poet; with long,
wavy, golden hair, blue eyes, and a complexion
that rivaled the blush of the bursting bud of
the prairie rose.

She was little more than fair fourteen'at the
time of which we write, but in her' sunny
natal cllme, she had in those feI briebyears
nearly developed into womanhood.

Watching, unseen, this yOung girl, with her
soft, rounded arms folded upon the window-
sill before her, while brgnileless blue eyes
gazed out upon the sweet sky, the vivid hues
of which in their gorgeous opal seemed re
flected in faint delicious tints pubes- fair cheek
—wlth even this distant of Cora Car-
bury’s rare, childish beauty, and could scarce
refrain from givingjutterance involuntarily
to an exclamation ofzsurprlse and pleasure.

Free and H a~hird weapon: at times
gallOplng lpiuto pony-for miles over
the su ,_ I country; at‘ others paddling
her tiny batma- the waters of a wide, shal-
low bayou that was adjacent to her home, or
sitting solitarynpm the surge-sputtered beach,
and singing to the sea-gulls. as they skimmed
the water, or I‘vooped low, in their fearless
flight over hepgold-crowned head.

She was agirl whom to see was instantly to
admire; to know, was surely and steamy to
love. Young in years though she was. her
charms of mind were no less than her graces of
p'e'rscn, and the two made up a rare and, beam
flful commlngling that was well-nigh porter:~
tips. :Admiring, as all did, the glowing pres-
out igfist-fico‘aud‘form, the thoughts turned-
mnuahlystn, .promiss’of astill more glo-

,‘ 'future—as ' e. when the‘sweet opening
rose ofthe mom would be the “queen
lily sucrose in one" ofthe noonday. "

Thesaurus of the mansion, Colonel‘Car—
bury’s wits, was, and had been for some time,
in mutant, being confined, for the greater
portion of the time, to the house, and indeed
frequently to her apartment.

Aer-oaths bayou, and about a mile from the
boundaries .of Magnolia Plantation—as the
homeof :sbe Carburys was called—resided a
eve-fly widow lady who had each new in his
oi ‘ year. Wfie have said that she was
wealthy; the remark might and ought to be
amended by saying that she was generally so
considered.

The husband of Mrs. Adelaide Adler had, in

 

 

'his lifetime, the reputation of being one of the
richest men in that portion of the Lone Star
State; but at his death it was'found in settling
up his affairs, that the estate was deeply in-
volved, and a number of the slaves had then to
be disposed of to satisfy the mast clamorous of
his creditors.

But appearances go a great way, and the
Adler mansion was as attractivo and superb a
residence, in nearly every respect, as that of
the Carburys, and the landed estate was quite
as large and valuable- as Magnolia Plantation;
but having, after the d.cease of her husband,
and the adjustment of his affairs of which men-
tion has been made, but few negroes compara-
tively remaining, - Mrs. Adler was, in conse-
quence, unable to carry on planting as exten-
sively as heretofore, and her fields were now,
many of them, fllled only with rank weeds and
grass, where once the snow—white cotton bolls
hung thickly, and the tall golden corn waved in
the balmy breeze from the Gulf.

The lady herself, much stricken with grief
at the loss of a husband to whom she had been
devotedly attached, seldom visited, and con-
sequently neither she nor her affairs were of-
ten mentioned by the neighboring gentry. In
fact, though still blooming, and on the eastern
side of forty, Mrs. Adler dropped, not gradu-
ally, but at once, from the select circle in
which she had till lately moved and shone.

In this way she seemed compelled to lead a
life very much that of a recluse; the residences
of the planters, at that time and place, being,
generally speaking, many miles apart.

One comfort, one solace, the lonely widow
might have had: and, to some extent, she did
have. But Adelaide Adler did not understand,
and therefore could hardly be said to know her
own son. And yet she was a fond mother in
her way; at times fiercely. and, as she believed.
passionate in her demonstrative fondness for
her boy. She had fire, passion, force, and an
abundance of .a certain kind of cleverness in
her composition: but in genuine high principle
and true nobility of soul, she was badly lack-
ing.

Charles Adler was of a modest, retiring dis-
position, and more devoted to his studies than
any other pursuit. He was more favorably
situated in this respect than might be imagined,
for the old family library contained a goodly
store of standard works. that had been brought
from Kentucky when the elder Adler "pulled
up stakes ” in the “dark and bloody ground."
and located in Texas, at a time when the Lone
Star Flag waved over the settled portion of the
infant Republic.

Often would young Adler, with some favor-
ite volume under his arm, roam to the shore
of bayou or Gulf, climb up some huge oak or
grandiflora, and there sit, shrouded from the
burning sun by the dense veils of hanging
Spanish moss and read and dream the long
sleepy afternoons away. Occasionally he
would glance up from the page, and his eye
would wander listlessly for a time along the
low stretch of yellow sand that formed tin
soft border to the gorgeousvmalachite of the
Mexique. Far out in the distance lay the
green and glassy water. The waves rose with
a gentle murmur, and anon fall with a low,
musicil ripple. The sky, as “day’s golden
death ” drew nearer, was all aflame with the
most beautiful colors. But, although the
youth’s whole soul was fully attuned to the

melody of sound and color, neither of them

made any impression upon him. Not once
would his eyes rest meaningly upon either sea
or sky; not once would he seem to arouse him-
self that he might listen to the faint music 0!
wiud'and wave. , _

It was in the‘better days. which so soon had
faded, previous to the death~of his father, that,
children though they were, Charles Adler and
Cora Carbury had often met. In those days,
and it was little different later on, the little
golden-haired sprite .wduld roam the woods in
search of rare wild-flowers, chase the gaudy-
winged butterflies, or laughineg lave her tiny,

6qu upon the gently-sIOping beach as the tides
came lazily in of a calm day. ,

These meetings became more frequent, as
the two grew older, and as Charles Adler was
now a handsome, accomplished, gracng and
well-formed youth, a juvenile Apollo in her
eyes, and devoted to every whim, while he
was ever attention itself to her slightest want,
it was not to be wondered at that Cora grew

 

to love him; neither was it strange that she
became to him the one bright, pure angel of

pearl-tinted feet iii-the advancing waves of the ,

 

 

mans

‘..A‘.)~u -. .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

' .—

c‘

The Lone Star Gambler.

 

 

 

his dreams, ‘y (lay and nir‘l“. T‘i'opiziquity,
by itself, is potent always ill bringing about
just such a state of things, und in this case, it
was largely aided and abetted by the attrac-
‘fio-s on either side.

They were too young for words and profes-
sions of love, and yet, with the boy, it was a
constant struggle to i'e'raiu from 'telling his
child idol how fondly she was worshiped.
But Corn. seemed to expect nothing of the kind.
Smiles and glances on both sides had already
spoken, and it might have marred the beauty
of the picture and struck a discordant note in
the love-song, had he done so. For thus it was.
Neither was happy, except when in company
with the other; and that, although no confes-
sion of love had ever passed between them,
save only in the tell-tale, melting glances of
the eye, which, in their case—if not in all cases
—are more pointed, eloquent and truthful,
than oven-the most meaning words.

CHAPTER ii.
A uornna‘s THREAT. '

Tim heads of the Carbury and Adler fami-
lies had been enemies for years. Long ago, a
dispute in regard to a boundary line between
the plantations brought on a suit at law, and
this was decided adverse to Colonel Carbury.

To such an extent did Ibis exasperate the
somewhat irascible gentleman, that he grossly
insulted his successful competitor in public,
and thot in so humiliating a manner that Mr.
Adler, smarting under the insult, felt obliged
to challenge him.

A meeting was accordingly arranged, and
both men were wounded at the first fire; they re.
covered, however, and from that time remained
enemies, though avoiding each other as much
as possible.

This most unpleasant aflair occurred some
years previous to the death of Mr. Adler, and
at a time when Cora and Charles were very
young; but, children though they were, both
'had been warned by their respective parents,
that they must no longer, when they met,
recognize each other.

Love, it is said, laughs at law and lock-
smiths, and it is to be presumed, this is not
exc usiv ly confined to an attack of the malady
at matur ago. Even boy and girl love looks
upon all matters not closely connected with its
all-absorbing self, as too utterly unimportant
to be Worthy of notice. 80 it was that the
children of these implacable foes, though they
did not meet as frequently as before, did, not-
withstanding, contiuue tn bask now and than
in each other’s smiles. Unknown to those in
authority over them, they would wander, land
in hand, upon the sands on the Gulf shore, and
sit, side by? side, beneath the fragrant magno-
lias. 0ft and long-continued were these inter-
views, which, though scarcely stolen ones,
were, nevertheless, without either the knowl-
edge or consent of their parents.

Thus matters stood at the opening or our
story—Colonel Carbury, though his old enemy
now lay in his quiet grave, not only held a
most unjust and ungentlemenly spite against
his widow, on account of his hostile meeting
with her late husband and the trouble which
had preceded and led to it, but looked upon
her with a feeling that was akin to contempt,
bacause pecuniary matters were not as flourish-
ing with her as formerly. It anuOyed him.
because, having been forced for want of
adequate labor to let a portion. of her planta-
tion go to. rack and ruin, she had thus—though
from no fault of hers—depreciated the value
of his own broad acres should he at'any time

 

' desire to dispose of them.

More than this, he considered Charles Adler
as never likely to be more or better than a
worthle- book-worm; and would doubtless
havetb ht better of him had he sported,

'dmnk,“ gamed, like the illustrious scion of

his own house.

Charles well know the state of things, past
and present, and, boy though he was, could
picture to himsethe future;

He know perfectly well’ that the haughty
and vindictive old colonel would infinitely pre-
fer, in his blind and wicked prejudice, to see
his child a corpse at his-feet,‘i..ian‘ wedded‘to
the son of the man whom he hated, though
dead.  in spite of all this, the boy was
continually forming plans in his own mind to
break down the barrier of pride and llde be-
tWeen the m families, and was forever build.
lug battles in the air for Cora and himself.

Adelaide Adler had reared her son in luxury,
had had given him no education by which he

I

might, in an emergency, gain his own liveli-
hood. Oi'ten and otten had he endeavored to
persuade her to dispose of her immense tract
of worse than useless land, retire into the in-
terior of the State, and there invest in cheap
lands, as well as stock; but the lady, accustomed
to manage her own affairs, refused most de-
cidedly to permit the estate to go out of her
hands, giving as an explanation that they had
enough land under cultivation as it was, and
a sufficient number of slaves remaining, to
procure for them all the support that they
might require, and indeed to furnish all rea-
sonable luxuries, as long as either of them might
lirl. - -

Mrs. Adler was indeed much to bepitied;
for she had suffered, not only a sad bereave-
ment, but very great injustice. So much so,
that it was little wonder if she hated the name
of Cnrbury. Her great anxiety and. distress
of mind during the dangerous illness of her
husband, which ensued upon his duel with the
colonel, was now ever present with her; and,
along with this, was the knowledge that the
latter had cruelly and vindictively caused
many of her former friends to desert her in
the hour of her greatest grief, when the part-
ner of her joys and sorrows was at last torn
from her side by death. All this had imbit-
tered her, and she cared not to conceal her real
sentiments.

But, sad to say, it was the cause of the
gradual alienating of her son from her affec~
tions; for he was never weary in his sounding
the praises of Cora Carbury in her ears, while,
as often, she warned him against thinking for

father’s enemy and her own.

Charles," the said one day, as the subject
came up for the hundredth time.
dark stream of blood between the two families;
and, if you persist in meeting that frivolous,
hoydenish girl, Cora, there will be more blood
shed before it is done with. Mark my words,
boy. Good heavens! I should expect your
father’s ghost to arise from his grave among
the magnolia. if you walked past his resting-
pluce with a Carbury by your side!”

“The days of that kind of superstition are
past and gone, mother; at least, they ought to
be, with educated people. The dead do not
revisit the earth. No, thank Godl They rest
in peace, after leaving this world of trouble.
And besides, I do not believe in holding ani-
mosity against any one. I do not, and cannot
think that it is right. . We have but a short
space of time, at best,;to dwell on this little
planet, and we ought to endeavor, as far as in
us lies, to love, and respect, and treat each
other kindly. i know that you feel so, when
you try and forget the bitterness that is past.
Not only that, but my father must have felt
so at the last. Did he not wish to see Colonel
Carbury, and to ask his forgiveness, when dy-
ing! And does not that prove that, when we
get a glimpse of Heaven, when, we begin
realize the goodness of the Creator, and our
own utter unworthiness. when we see at the
last how acceding wrong-headed our course
of life has been, we ought to think more ,upon
our own faults, and, foxgetting those of others,
hold out the friendly hand to them!

“‘I freely .admit that a great many people
do not arrive at this state of feeling until it is
too late to put it in practice; but it is for the
varygood reason—or rather, bad one—that
they do not allow themselves to think upon the
subject, and continue to he ruled by their own
narrow-minded and selfish prejudices. Mankind,

. ,it moms to me, are very much what circum-

stances and surroundings have made them;
and, if this was only more generally understood
and truthfully realized, there would be much
more of that charity which thinketh no evil,
and more kindlincss of feeling (intended from
one to another, and, in consequeuoafar less
of .miseryvin the world.” .

9‘ Charles Adler; Do you mean» to - tell me,
your 'own deeply-injured mother, that you
would, without malice or hypocrisy in your
heart, take the hand of Infoyette Carbury in
friendship?” ' .

“I most certainly, and gladly would, mo-
ther, did I think that he was in a. state of
mind to bury the past, and accept my friend-
ship. I have never wronged him by Word or
act; and it would be the hight of injustice in
him to bear malice or hatred against the son
for the fancied wrongs done him by the-fu-
ther.” '

 

a moment of an alliance with the house of her .
“A Carbury and an' Adler can never mate, ;

“There isa ‘

of an Adler, or n Clarke, could not run in 459
, veins of one who-would so degrade and hum—
‘ ble himself as to court the notice and friend-
i ship of a man who once raised a deadly wen-
] pon to take his father’s life. Both your poor
father and myself belong to proud and haughty
families, and many a member of both he;
been principal or second in an affair of honor
in the good old State of Kentucky. You
should rather seek to avenge the wrongs that
were put upon your father, than thus tamely
to forgive and forget them. No, my soul
Bear yourself haughtily. now that you may be
said to have come to man’s estate. Put your-
self iu the way of Celonel Carbury, and of
that worthless son of his. Court their insults,
instead of their favor. Then challenge the in-
sulter. I know very well that your that
must have taught you t- shoot, and ins ted
upon your practicing for that very purpose.
He would not have been his own father’s son,
had he done otherwise. Indeed I believe you.
are now considered the best pistol’shot in thin
part of the country. It Was only the lipas-
ciljty that approaching death brings witbo‘
which caused my poor husband to ask for
colonel in his last hours. I do not helievg,‘I
knew, at the time, what he was saying.”
could not have done so.”

“You pain the most deeply, mothfl
I speaking in such a way. I sincerely m
above all things, that your mind and
, COHIll beso changed that you might “35E
1‘ Bed business 'in the true light. Do at,
a think deeply of what I have said in regs.de to
the worse than foolishness, the wickedness, of
nursing ill-will and animosity; and the (mp-
tent of mind which comes only from the em-
cise cf that true humanity which is, bonnet
l. charity toward the faults of other; If we
would but try so to live, that the just judg-
;.ment which all shall receive when the lqt
i trumpet sounds will pass us. unquestioned,
‘ through the golden gates, where envy, hatred
and malice can never enter!” ,

"Have you finished, Mr. Charles Adler? if
so, permit me to say just this much. _I have.
livrd a little longer in this. wwld~than you
haye; and, with a 1 due deferenoarlgmuotaho
allowed to say that I do not stand lumped-,9!
your advice. I would like. to sea amper-
spirit of pride and manllness in myonly song!
wish, more than ought else. that y aware
more high-spirited and independent, god
worthy of your ancestors. I had bond ,yqu
had, by this time, put away childish thipgn;
but I perceive that I shall have to wait a little
longer before you have become a nun. ‘ When
you shall hovereached my age, you will but
formed very difl’ersnt opinion. . 
what they are, and not what you would
them. They are selfish and, unjust,  that
continually. They will seek your moiety
when you are prosperous, and will than you
like a pestilence when you are in trouble-cud
adversity. Take my own case, if you hooligan
illustration. I have nofrlends—not oue'upon
earth—and now my only child treats a, my
counsels .wmh contempt, " , '

Turning in her 8-9817 And lmpotientzwolk
across the apartment, Mrs. Adler now 
son, and in a tone of determination, hacked by
the sterncstlook he had ever seen herweor,
while herveyesfiashed with sudden (“Us “10
exclaimed: . ~ , .

“It isomers waste of words for you and
me to talk. Hear me, once for all. . Ifyypu
disgrace your name by an alliance with that
detestable family, I shall disinherit youand
leave this planlation at my death to me
charitable institution; for thatinsipid Con
shall never cross my threshold, and not one
pennyof my money shall ever go to, sumac a
child of Lafayette Carbury l” . ,

As she paused from her sudden burst of
anger, Charles opened his lips to offer a, mild
and respectful expostulation, but, with .a My
step and a fOI bidding gcshire, the indigpunt
mother swept from theypartinent.

"——

GHAPTER III.
was: GAMBLIBS. ‘

Anou'r the same time that Charles Maud
his DIME.le ensued in the commotion
which terminated so'uupleaaautly to the for-
mer, two young men mounted upon 
horses, the animals by theirfoaui :1qu
sides showing that they had been ridden long
and fast, ambled into the open park through.
the timber in the rear of the stables of log—

 

 

“I do not believe you, Cher-lea. The blood, polio Plantation. Hm they Blackened their-

‘

 

‘; Jr

The' Lone Star Gambler.

 

pace and entered softly and without having at-
tracted the notice of any one on the premises,
their whole actions and the manner of their ap—
proach showing plainly that such was their ob-
ject.

Hastin removing the equipments of their
 they secured them 'in stalls and then
entered a small apartment to the right of the
stable door. This done, they hastily closed
and secured it.

The room was finished with planed, unpaint—
ed boards, and had various closets for harness
and the dliferent appointments of the stable,
and thevwindows had close shutters which pre-
vented any light in the apartment from being
seen from the outside.

One of the young men was James Carbury,

'the brother of Gore; the other was known as

Bank Roberts, and had of late been the recOg-
nized boon companion of the heir to the Mag-
:solias.
Young Carbury has been already described
as singularly attr active in person; indeed, both
oung men were well formed, and would have
' en considered as possessed of a more than or—
dinary share of good looks, bad it not been for

r a general air of recklessness and the unmis-

takable marks of dissipation, which had begun
to tell upon them. James Cnrbury was
slight and elegant in his build, and with the
graceful bearing of a gentleman, notwithstand-
ing the habits into which he had fallen, while
Roberts was much more fully developed, with
broad shoulders and a sinewy frame.

In the room attached to the stables, into
which we have just seen them pass, and which
was some distance removed from the mansion,
Jhe'se and other young men of the neighbor-
hood, of similar stamp, had been wont for
some years backto meet for the purpose of
card-playing, carousing and drinking; and
many thousands of dollars had here' changed
hands, sometimes in a single night, during the
stormy, which was par woellencc the idle sea-
son on the plantations. '

A goodly store of such necessaries of a doles
fizrm‘enta life as liquors, cigars, pipes and to-
bacco were secreted in a private closet, which
wasunknown to any except the parties most
interested,“and the one faithful old negro who
had tlfs" charge of the stables.

. the two young men entered this room
they at once proceeded to make themselves
comfortable, as well as to prepare for business.
Lighting some candles and procuring a bottle
and glasses, together with a pack of
from the sanctum sanctorum of the delectable

'James, they seated themselves at a table in
the middle of the apartment, and after tossing

of! a succession of stifi drinks, began the great
occupation of their lives, each placing a tempt-
ing pile of gold user at hand, some of which
was neatly rolled up in paper and sealed, show-
ing that it was only recently safely deposited
in the bank of the nearest town.

We may, however, with profit to our read-
ers, pas over some four orfive hours of the
time that followed, and again look in upon the
pair, who have meanwhile been not only play-
ing for heavy stakes, but drinking deeply.

James Carbury's long, tawny hair is dishev-
sled, his face flushed and his eyes glassy, as he
throws down the cards with an air of desper-
ation, and grasping the brandy bottle, pours
out two glasses more than half full of the fiery

- liquid.

Taking up one and clicking it against the
other, he draoh‘without diluting it, the entire
draught at a single gulp; then, pushing the re-
maining goblet across the table toward his
companion, he hastily drew his handkerchief
from his pocketand for some moments con-
tinued to wipe his forehead and eyes.

Quick as a flash, Roberts caught up the glass,

ured its contents upon the floor alongside of
' ’ and then as quickly held it to his lips,

the bottom considerably elevated, until
Carbury lowered his handkerchief; he then
smacked his lips, closed his eyes and contorted
his face, as though he had found the brandy
more powerful than he had expected, at the
same time replacing the empty goblet some-
what violently upon the table.
v Although Hank Roberts has every appear-
ance of lying considerably intoxicated, it is
nothing more than a well-assumed pretense;
he has naturally a much stronger headlthan his
more reckless companion, and, besides, he has
been vory careful to drink only when he could
notin any way avoid doing so without attract-
ingnotice. Clearlyhe might heclasasd as a
professional in that respect, whle poor Car~

 

bury was nothing more. than a not particularly
promising amateur.

Hank is gotten up in the last extreme of the
flashy style of dress, which invariably fixes the
position of the wearer as a fast man. A gor-
geous diamond pin, with heavy chain, and a
number of pendent seals, also several of the
“loudest” description of rings on his fingers;
these told the whole story. But, along with
this, his face showed deep cunning, and un-
scrupulous villainy; and these were intensified
by the potations which he had been unable to
avoid swallowing. In short, he was a repre-
sentative man of a class which bids fair never
to become extinct.

“Your deal, Hank," exclaimed his com-
panion, as he removed the bandanna from his
eyes, “and it is the last deal to-nightl I want
you to remember that. I have lost every
infernal game in the last two hours, and down
goes my whole pile on this hand, even if you
have got the handling of the paste-boards. I
wish I hadn’t poured down quite so much of
that brandy; but, confound it, how can a
fillow~help himself? The stuff is fourth-proof,
and goes to the spot every time; but a m'an
has to gulp it down every few minutes, or else
feel as squirmish as blazes. I don’t know what
the deuce you are made of. You seem-to be
able to sit all day and all night at cards, drink-
ing right straight along at every deal, and still
you are able, up to the last moment, to dis-
tinguish a queen from a. king. But I can tell
you one thing. I have been going it a little
too heavy of late, and I shall be forced to let
up, and taper off, or else, hanged if I don’t
have makes in my boots before I know where
I am, or what I’m about!"

While James Carbury was speaking, it .was
plain that he was trying his utmost to appear
indifferent and unaffected by the liquor he had
been drinking; but his trembling hands, and
wild, almost insane stare toward his partner, as
the latter went on shufiiing the cards, told too
plainly that he was on the verge of mania.

Nervously the young man clutched the cards
as they were dealt to him, glancing quickly at
the faces as he ran them through his hands.
He then looked up at Bobem, who asked care-
lessly: I

“What are they worth, Jim?”

“Just what I told you, Hank," was the
reply. “I am going to draw two cards, and
bet my pile. There’s a chance for you, old
follow, that you don’t often get; but, as I said
before, I’m getting desperate.”

“Well, I’m in, Jim, every time. I’ll ‘see’
your pile, seein’ that is all I can do, and I’ll
take but one card."

“I’ll bet a . hat,” said Carbury, “that you’re
drawing to a. flush, and will get a bob-tailed
hand. Confound the luck l- But I’m after you
hot and heavy. Sling me those blasted cards I"

Hank deliberately dealt ofl three cards, as
ordered, threw them carelessly to his partner,
and then pretended to take but one for himself.
At the same time, he adroitly secured three, by
a sleight of hand movement discarding, with-
out, ss he thought, being discOVered at the
trick. Ashe did so,hecalled out ina
triumphant way: ‘

“ l’ve got you, Jim Carhury; I’ve got you!
If you think you‘re bucking against a bob
tailed fiush this time, you are badly fooled.”

“ What have you got, Eanki” asked his com-
panion. The tone was the coolest and calmeat
that could possibly be imagined, but there was
a cunning and dangerous glitter in the young
man’s eyes. "

“ Three aces and two kings,” was the reply.

“ Show me your handl”

Bank quietly displayed his cards.

“Well,-sir,” said Carbury; “ the cards all
for the money—no question about that—but
you can’t have it, Hank Roberts!”

As he spoke, he arose to his feet, placed his
hand upon the gold and then reeling back and
forth in a drunken manner, he continued in a
voice that was strangely steady under the cir.
cumstances:

“ You will never deal another card in a
game with me, Hank Roberts; or pocket an-
other dollar of my money.‘ I drew to three
queens, and the fourth is under the table,
where you threw it. You, Hank, drew to a
pairdfacesandapairof kings, andthenfiiled
on aces by giving yourself three cards to I910“
from, in’place of one—all you were entitled to.
New, look ‘ here, Hank Roberts! You have
wo‘h more than twenty thousand dollars from
me, on my own premises, and at thii very
table. You, more than any one else, have

 

made me what I sm—a drunkard, a gambler,
and last—yes, it is true—a forger. Fool, idiot
that I have been, I never suspected or mistrust-
ed your villainous character for a moment,
and I should have been as blind as ever to
your infernal tricks, tonight, had not Dan,
the hostler, happened to change the position of
that mirror, and hang it up directly behind
your chair I” '

At first, Hank Roberts turned as pale as
death; but, as Carbury continued, he began to
assume a bold front, and throwing the cards to
the floor, sprung to his feet, his fists clinched,
and his face flaming with indignation.

“ Are you drunk, Jim Carbury, or are you
crazy! Do you mean to charge me with hav-
ing cheated, at this, or at any other game:

“I mean to say just this, Hank Roberts,"
said JameS, in a clear and defiant voice; “that
you are a professional gambler, a cheat, a liar,
a scoundrel, and a coward 1”

James Carbury’s face was no longer flushed,
either with brandy or with passion, but was
pale as marble; but his form, nevertheless,
trembled with excitement the most intense, as
he hissed the last words. /No sooner, however,
had his lips closed, than Roberts dealt him a
powerful blow, and he fell forward upon his
face on the floor.

CHAPTER IV.
Discovmw AND DEATH.
TEE gambler clutched the gold, and had just
concealed it about his clothing, when, as he
was in the act of pouring out for himself a.

‘glass of the brandy wherewith to steady his

nerves, an old negro suddenly opened the door,
and exclaimed, as he saw his young master
stretched upon the floor:

“ G01 a’mighty, Marse Jiml What de dehil
done make dat jounce on de fio’i”

At the first glance Dan did not realize that
his young master was insensible.

“ Come in, Dan,” invited Roberts, in the
most noncbalant manner possible. “Your
Marse Jim is as drunk as a fool, I am sorry to
say. He fell down just now, and I reckon he
must have struck his head pretty hard against
the planks.” ' /

With deep concern and grief pictured upon
his ebon face, the old negro, who was strongly
attached to his master, ran for water, 'and
with much fuss and lamentation began bathing
the young man’s head. Bank Roberta coolly
lighted a cigar from Carbury’a box, and pre-
pared to leave the room: but, before he could
cross the apartment, James revived, and rising
to his feet with an efl’ort, sprung to the door,
and placing his back against it, glared from his
bloodshot eyes the intenseet hate and madness,
as he cried out: ,

“ Hold, Hank Robertsl I have, been told
many tales about you in the last few months,
but I have heeded them not—well would it
have been for me if I had done so. I now be-
lieve you to be, as I have been informed,
Sneaky Jim, alias Shuifiing Cyrus, who mur-
dered a young girl on a Red River steamboat,
and threw her overboard, having first blasted
hei' life and lured her from a happy home. I
believe you are the same villain for whose ap—
prehension ten thousand dollars reward is of-
fered for having robbed a bank in New‘Or-
leans. But, whoever or whatever you may
be, you cannot leave this plantation until you
have first given me satisfaction. I am no de-
tective, and I want nothing to do with law. I
shall probably have enough of that on my
hands in the near future, thanks to you also.
You have swindled me at cards, and made It
felon of me to procure the money whoreWIth I
might pay my gambling debts to you—debts
which I never really owed. now you
have struck me!

"I am no pugilitt. Ind do not propose to
fight in any such way. I Will leave you here,
while I go td the house for my revolver, which,
11 I had with me now, you would be a dead
man. You have your pistol, and you know
how to use it. We Will have this thing out in
a fair and square way, by monlight, and
without witnesses. D don’t wow this man
to leave the stables! Pass out, and I will lock
the door.

“Hank Roberts, I am a dead ,shot. I 85811
give you a fair show, which is more than you
deserve. But I intend tokillyou. No man
Shell say that he struck a , ’30 mm
Shall do it, and live to tell of it. I shall kill.
you ’50:- that blow; I swear iteby all the

A

l
The sooundrel, Roberts would have replied.

 

l
l
l.
l'.
i



 


l,
l.
i

 The Lone Star Gambler.

5.

 

F

in the most insulting manner as ‘he sprung for-
ward; but the door slammed in his face, the
lock clicked, and he was alone.

With grating teeth, and a murderous, deter-
mined look the gambler walked at once to the
table, poured out a f 11 goblet of brandy and
drank it with despera eagerness, then, draw-
ing a long-bladed bowie-knife from his belt, he
felt the keen edge; and muttered in a soliloquy,
his low but deep and hoarse voice expressing
the astonishment and apprehension which he
felt.

the fellow get that infernal information? The
mention of that performance of mine on
the Red River brought clearly back every
devilish circumstance connected with it. I
could hear again Annette’s shriek, and the
heavy splash as she struck the swift-running
river. Great God! how cold, how icy
cold ran the blood in my veins for a
full minute. But this brandy gives me new
life. it braces me up for the dangerous work
which I feel in my‘ bones is ahead of me.
However, Hunk, old man, you are better than
a dozen dead men yet, and your usual luck
will bring you out of this scot free, or I am
greatly mistaken. I must get away from this
section, but, if I were to fly now, that nigger
or Jim, one or other, Would blow on me.
Then, of course, the blood—hounds will be let
louse. and I shall be torn to pieces.

“By heavansl they know too much here. It
is dangerous, devilishlyadangerous, and so sug-
gestive of a rope that I can actually detect the
smell of hemp and feel a choking sensation at
my throat now. But it must be done. They
must die - both of them!”

Jerking open one of the closets, Hank re-
moved a lot of harness from the hooks, and
threw the same on the floor. He then gave a
slight kick at one of the boards in the back
partition, which at once flew from its place,
disclosing an opening through which he
crawled into the stable, continuing, as he did
so, his sollloquy:

“It was an infernally lucky thing for me
that I had the forethought to saw this board
out, or I would have been in a tight fix about
now. Little did the boys think, and Jim Chi-
bury among them, that when I pretended to
be sick and tired of cards, and made out that I
was ofi“ fishing in the bayou, I was in the har-
ness-room listening to ascertain if they had
learned or suspected anything of my character
and doings in the past, as well as to learn when
and how they proposed to raise funds to keep
up the game.”

Gliding through the darkness, Roberts now
groped his way to the outer door of theistable;
but, before he reached it, suddenly'it opened,
and Dan, the negro hostler, ran against him.

“ Gol a’mightyl Who darl”

These were the last words that the poor slave
ev 1r uttered, for, as they fell from his lips, in
his utter surprise and (right, his throat was
clutched in a death-like gripe. Hank’s dark
work had already begun.

For some moments the dark and gloomy
building was filled with sounds that were un-
heard by other human ears than those of the
'parties in this deadly conflict. Sounds of the
struggling together of strong and desperate
men, mingled with a horrid gurgling and chok-
ing, and quickly followed by the grating of
steel, as again and "again it was plunged in
mad thrusts through flesh and bone. Then
came a heavy fall upon the dear, and the hor-
rible gasping of a human being in the death-
-agony, as the knife was withdrawn, and the
blood spurted against the rough boarding and
Over the plank floor.

The first part of the dark and cowardly

work which Hank Roberts had laid out forl

himself, was completed to his satisfaction.
With his gorestained hands outstretched and
holding the dripping bowie—knife, the assassin
stumbled toward the door in the darkness, and
opened it. He then fled into the dense shade
of the magnolias, his face, murderer though he
was, blanched with horror—fled from the crime-
tainted air, and the blood that was crying to
Heaven for vengeance. Away from the dread
death-struggles of his innocent victim—Dan,
the old and faithful hostler of Magnolia Planta-
tion, and once the servant of the Adlers.

CHAPTER V.
moi 'rau JAWS or DEATH.
FOR a few minutes after his mother’s de-
parture in anger, and with that gesture which
forbade hrth'er reasoning, Charles Adler paced

 

“ How, in the-name of all the mysteries, did

 

the apartment with‘a troubled expression upon
his handsome, boyish face. Then, crunching
his hat down forcibly upon his head, be rushed
from the house, wandered aimlessly for a short
time through the garden, and eventually found
himself beneath the large magnolias, in the
vicinity of the bayou.

Standing in the cool shades, the young man
threw of! his hat and allowed the refreshing
breeze, which now floated softly from the Gulf,
to fan his heated brow.

His mother's concluding words, and her
manner toward him, had cut him to the quick.
They had struck his heart with a deathli'ke
feeling, and filled his brain with the most bit-
ter despondency.

What ought he to d0? The independent
spirit, which his mother had just now said that
she regretted he did not possess, was fully
aroused within him. He made up h’s mind
that he must leave the paternal roof. He
would go, without delay, and begin the work
of carving out a name and fortune of his own.
But the more he pondered over it and led his
plans, the greater grew the difficulties -in the
way of it, and the more it seemed impossible
for him to accomplish any such undertaking.
Had his education been of a more practical
nature; had he even been taught hook-keep-

ing, or some knowledge of mercantile aflairs,‘

the future would not have worn quite such a
gloomy appearance. As it was, the outlook
was not promising.

While thus perplexsd in mind, he was sud-
denly awakened from the depths of his abstrac-
tion and meditation by a shrill scream for
help. from female lips———from lips that no
sound could ever pass without causing his
blood to quit-ken its circulation.

For one instant Charles Adler stood in his
tracks. as if frozen to the spot, and dazed with
wonder and agonizing concern; then, smash-
ing his'hat into a shapeless mas, and throwing
it from him in his excitement, he sprung in
eager bounds toward the bayou, from whence
the Sounds seemed to proceed.

Increasing his pace, as shriek after shriek of
horror and dread rent the air and tortured his
heart, in a very little time he gained the clear
space between the magnolia grove and the
banks of the bayou; ‘where he was chilled to
the marrow, as he beheld the terrible sight
before and below him.

The fragile boat of Cora Carbury was float-
ing, bottom upward, and the beautiful girl,
the idol of his heart, was clinging to a project-
ing limb, which was a portion of a partially
submerged snag, striving, with a strength that
was born of intense horror and deadly fear, to

' draw herself upward. Her feet were beneath

the-surface of the water, her garments were
saturated, and her golden hair hung over her
shoulders, glittering and glinting in the sun-
light; while beneath and near her was the
hideous, slimy head of an enormous alligator,
the monster slowly approaching, and appa-
rently about to inclose her fairy-like limbs
within his terrible jaws.

With a ringing cry of encouragement, al~
though his brain was throbbing at the same
time with the horror of the situation, Charles
Adler tore 03 his coat and boots, jerked his
huge bowie-knife from his belt, and sprung
afar out from the high blufl into the deep
waters of thebayou.

As he arose to the surface, he slipped his
knife quickly between his teeth, and lunged
forward; the. faint and despairing cries of
Cora spurring him on to superhuman eflorts to
lessen the distance between himself and his
idol. '

‘As Charles struck the water with a sounding
splash, the attention of the amphibious mon-
ster was attracted from its prey; and, as he
covered half the distance, the alligator swam
slowly toward him, leaving Cora. who, unable
longer to retain her hold on the limb, fell with
a cry of despair and horror into the dark water,
looking for nothing but to be crushed to death
the next instant.

No sooner did the exhausted and fear-para-
lyzed girl strike the surface of the bayou, than
again the slimy monster turned toward the
snag; but, before Cora'arose to the surface,
Charles swam directly up to'the head of the
gigantic saurian; his right hand held clear of
the water, and grasping firmly his long-bladed
bowie. ' ‘

Quickly the huge jaws parted and yawned
dismally, and as quickly was the hand of
Charles Adler thrust between the rows of
glittering teeth, the bowie held point upward

 

and piercing the roof of the moaster’s mouth
as it closed its ponderous jaws; the handle of
the weapon being dexterously left on the inner
side of the row of teeth of the under Jaw.

The moment that Charles had accomplished
this daring act, he dived deliberately under the
water, and swam in a half-circle aroundtha
pain-maddened monster, and toward the mag
where, to his great joy, he saw that Cora had
arisen to the surface, and was again clinging
desperately to the log, only her death-pale face
appearing above the murky waters.

In a few seconds he had reached her side,
climbed upon the sr ag, and drawing her upon
the log, clasped his right arm about her waist,
supporting himself by holding on to the pro-
jecting limb with his left hand.

Not a word was spoken by either, for both
sat silent, and with pallid faces; he, panting
with his late exertion, and she, with excite-
ment and dread, for eyes speaking the thank-
fulness that was Jew-born in her heart, and
the feeling of relief more intense than words
could express. Down beneath them, they
gazed upon the lurious alligator, as it lashed
the water into foam from the huge jaws that
were held open by the torturing bowie-knife.

For a time the amphibious monster thrashed
the surface of the bayou for some distance
around him with rage and pain. He then
plunged down into the dark depths; soon, how-i
ever, returning half-drowned. Then it slowly
swam away from the scene of its defeat, and
crawled into the tall reeds which grew near
the opposite bank.

Charles Adler bent his head, and turned his
pale, a. xions face. looking upon the uplifted
features of the shuddering maiden. whose hair,
now dripping with water from the bayou, and
the light of the now declining sun blazing upon
it, fell over his arm in waves of glittering
golden threads; her~grateful eyes met his, and
in their depths he read, as in a hook, the al-
surance of an undying love.. , a -

Bending still further, he pressed his lips to
hers, while both trembled with the intensity of
their passion, now for the first time expressed
more openly than by a glance of the eye.

“ I owe you my life, Charley,” said the
young girl. “I can never repay you. I can-
not even speak _my gratitude as I would. You
have saveg me from a most horrible death.”

These words were spoken low, and in such
a tone as was never to be forgotten by the one
who so eagerly caught them; and, .the last
were uttered, she shuddered, and hug more
closely to her preserver.

“I thank God for it, Cora,”he said. “He
has blessed me, as I believe man never was
blessed before; for I do not think there ever
was an angel like you upon this earth. But
happy, ay, heavenly as this moment is to me;
we must consider your drenched condition.
Hold on firmly to the snag, darling, while I
try and recover your boat.”

“ Oh, do not leave me, Charles! There may
be more of those hideous monsters in the bayou.
I knowll shall never dare to row again.”

The young girl’s words of entreaty were,
however, allowed to pass unheeded, for Charles
plunged into the water once more, swam to
and righted the floating skifi‘, and then’ re-
turned. Seating himself upon the log, he
succeeded in emptying the greater part of the
water from the little boat; and then, the
maiden stepping into it, Charles swam toward
the shore, pushing it ahead of him, as the oars
had been lost.

“ I shall try to enter the house, and change
my garments without being seen,” was Cora’l
remark, as her lover assisted her up the bank;
“ for, if father or mother should see me in
this plight, I should be forced to explain every-
thing, and then they would probably prohibit
me from coming to the bayou again. Oh,
dearl I shall never, never forget that horrible _
monster. I know it will visit me in my
dreams."

“ I hope I shall accompany it in that case,”
said Charles, with a laugh, “should it chance
to disturb your_slumbers; as then, it will be
for me to stand between you and all harm,
real or fancied. I hope you will not be ob-
served when you reach the house. Don’t
neglect to change your wet garments at once,
or you will certainly be ill. I would like, more
than anything else in the world, to meet'ycu
in the magnolia grove this evening, if you have
recovered sumoiently from your fright, my
darling; for I have that.to say to you which
must be spoken. ” ’

“ I will be there an hour after sunset, Chm-

p1

[ii

.43

 

‘5

The Lone“ sweetener.-

 

 

loy. Do-not keep me waiting, please; for I
am always afraid of meeting 'that Hank Rob-
erts there. Do you know him, Charley? I do
not suppose you ever associate with such ques-

tionable characters—in leed I know very well"

that you do not-—but, 1 am ashamed to say, my
brother James is almor, constantly with him.
He plays cards, I am aw “‘8. and drinks to ex-
cus, and induces my bro he: to do the same.
Some say that he is a villain at heart, and
that, if the truth were told about him, his
pastrecord is very bad. r I have never spoken
of it'befo‘re, although his forcing himself upon
my attention, in the way he has taken to doing
of late, has greatly troubles me. I have been
afraid, many a time to Venture beyond the
garden after dusk; unless when I know you
are near at hand. But, please, do not allow
my words to trouble you. 1 shall always, for
the future, go prepared to defend myself, and
I shall resent any and every undue familiarity
from him ”

“ You not only surprise, but you distress
me very much, Cora. I shall certainly pre-
pare myself to defend you; and if I witness
any attempt on his part to approach you, I
will take care that he regrets the day he was
born."

“I ought never to have told you of this,
Charley," said the girl; “and there was no rea-
son in the world why I should do such a thing.
Really, now, you mustn’t look so serious about
what amounts toso very little. I shall be
compelled to laugh, if I see you attach so much
imp'ortance to such a trivial matter. Forget
my words just as soon as you can, for I don’t
much think that Mr. Hank Roberts will
dare obtrude his disagreeable attentions upon
me again, as I threatened to inform my father
the last time he did so. Good-by now, I must
go. To-night, then, beneath the magnolias.”
And, tossing a kiss, in a careless, laughing
way, Corn Carbury ran hastily toward the
garden of Magnolia Plantation, disappearing
among the down, and she the loveliest flower
of them all

Returning to the spot in the timber, at
which he had been when he was first alarmed
by the screams of her whom he loved, Charles
Adler recovered the hat which he had flung
‘from him in his excitement, and, fprgetting
the last injunction of Core. in regard to Hank
Roberts, he sat down for a. time and brooded,
boy-like, wer this new trouble which seemed
to threaten them. Soon, however, it vanished
before the bright recollection of the happy
moments they had just passed together, and
the thoughts of those which were to come, and
he arose‘and walked quickly toward his home;
his‘ face radiant with joy and hope, his step
buoyant, and his whole being filled with rap-

- tare.

He succeeded in reaching his room without
being noticed, and having changed his cloth-
ing, descended to the supper-room, where he
was forced to take his evening meal by him-

- sell; his mother not making her appearance.

CHAPTER VI.
run run. or run summ.

Wm the dastardly assassin of the poor old
negro fled in horror from the scene of his
towardly crime, a bright moon was softly
shining down upon the weird loveliness of the
beautiful semi-tropical surroundings of Mag-
nolia Plantation; and turning the calm waters
of the Mexican Gulf, as they spread far out to
the eastward, into one vast scintillating mirror
of silver. But around the outbuildings were
many tall treu,’ and much dense shrubbery,
which caused it to be quite dark in their imme-
diate vicinity; and as, by this time, the slaves
were, as usual, all congregated about their
cabins, no one saw the murderer as he stole
hurriedly away from the stables, as if all the
aveuging demons in Hades had been suddenly
let loose upon him, and were in close pursuit.

Having made up his mind, the very moment
that he found his true character was known to
the man whom he had duped and defrauded, to
kill him without giving hin. the opportunity of
defending himself, Hank Roberts now, stealth-
ily. after reaching the thick shade of the mag-
nolins, made his way by a circuitous route
through the deep sliad0ws to the margin of the
grove which was located to the comb of the
mansion. and adJoining the gardens; the lattei
extending a long distance in front of the bones.

Here, there in he no scarcity or hiding-places;
and here, by some 01 these windine paths, the
wreich well know that James Carbury Would

ing to the stables.

The grove of magnificent magnolias stretched
from close to the beach westward for a consid-
erable distance, and then curved around in the
rear of the mansion toward its southern side,
thus forming a crescent, the open side of which
was toward the Gulf.

Between the flower-beds and the magnolia
trees was a clear, open space some thirty feet
in width; this strip of lawu was illuminated by
thé bright moon, and stood out from the sur-
rounding gloom in almost the clearnessof the
daytime. Here it was that the cowardly mur-
derer, his hands still stained with gore fresh
from his recent crime, planned to wait for an—
other victim, nnd prepared for the commission,
if it should be possible, of one more dastardly
deed before he should leave Magnolia Planta-
tion, where his secret would then be buried.
Hidden in the densest of the shrubbery come
mending a view of the lighted open space
which has been described, the magnolias on his
right hand and the garden paths leading to the
some from the mansion on his left, he waited
and watched.

But a little time had Han‘k Roberts been in
this position—probably not longer than five
minutes—when, walking slowly from the dark
shades of the magnolias, he saw, not James
Carbury, but, to his surprise and anger, a man
and a. woman whom at a. glance he recognized,
the latter leaning upon the arm of her com-
panion.

Seeing on the instant that it was Charles
Adler who accompanied Cora Carbury on this
moonlight promenade, the villain grated his
teeth in redoubled rage and jealousy. Rage
that his plan to murder the man whom he had
cheated seemed about to be frustrated; and jeal-
ousy to see the girl whom he had sworn should
some time in the near future be in his power,
walking with one whom he hated and despised,
and who now, to all appearance, held the posi-
tion of an accepted lover.

To be foiled in this way, and by a soft-
headed milk-sop, as be and his delectable dupe-J,
the sons of the planters in the neighborhood,
had been in the habit of calling Charles Adler;
at such a time, too, and in .such an aggra-
vating manner, was almost enough to drive the
black-hearted villain insane with rage and fury,
and under the influence of the moment’s pas-
sion he was on the point of jeopardizing his life
by risking a-long shot at Charles.

His Satanic Majesty is said to favor his own,
at least some words to that effect form the sub-
stance of an old adage, which, if not universal-
ly true, was certainly so in the present instance.

Charles Adler, as if fearful of compromising
bi fair companion, hurriedly pressed her to his
breast and imprinted a kiss upon her forehead,
as her love-lit features, angelically beautiful,
were upturned to his; then he quietly and gen-
tly thrust her from him, pushing her away.
and she tripped softly along a flower'bordered
path toward her home, while the young man
stood by the edge of the shadows which were
cast by the magnolias, gazing after her fast-
fading form in the moonlight.

Happiness supreme might be supposed to be
the envied possession of Charles Adler at this
moment. He had just pressed to his breast the
one whom he loved more than all else that
the world contained; he had touched his lips
to her pure white forehead, and the manner of
both showed that they had come to a. mutual“
and most agreeable understanding as to their
lhture. It was evident that the words—what-
ever they were—which, upon parting with her
that afternoon after having saved her from
the jaws of the alligator, he had said must be
spoken that night, had passed his lips, and had
been favorably receivad.

Doubtless it was the happiest moment of the
young man’s life, and no human being in such
a. state of ecstatic bliss as he was—no mortal in
a moment of such unallcyed happiness, almost
heavenly, could have thought it possible, or
even dreamed, that close following upon that
blissful vision of Eden an event would happen
that would hurl him into the depths of the
.blackest despair, and horror, and disgrace, the
deepest and most inconsolable grief, the most
insane and brain-torturing desperation.

Life is made up of just such extremes, and
though they but seldom follow so cltse upon
each other, yet now and then it does occur, in
the awful mockery of fate, as if to try the ex-
tent if human endurance, and to show, at the
same time, how narrow is the passage and how
slight the dividing walls of partition between

 

 

be obliged to pass, on his way,from his dWcll- 

 

 

the utmost realizations of happiness and mis-I
, cry.

But so it was to be. For as Charles Adler
stood in the cool shadows on that beautiful
moonlight evening, inhaling the sweet perfumes
that were borne upon the passing sophj'r,
while he gazed after the white drapery that
inclosed the angel-like form of the one he
idolized, and now vanishing in the weird and
gorgeous light of the silver moon; the gates of
an earthly Tartarus were slowly opening, and.
a fiend in human shape, unseen and unsuspca.
ed, was crouching ready' to hurl him into the
worst and most agonizing of tortures.

Having bathed his hands and soul- in tho in»
nocent blood of a. faithful old slave, Hank
Roberts, after his deadly encounter in the
stable, was in the most terrible state of mind
that can perhaps be imagined—a state of mind
that boded no good to any human beingho
might meet. Disappointed as he was, and
doomed apparently to the fate of having to,
crawl away from the scene of his crime, with
the certainty of being pursued, and the almost
Certainty of being discovered, the gambler was
now murder-mad.

After the departure of Cora Carbury, the
lurking desperado guzed with blood-shot and
fiendish eyes, filled with their deadly purpose,
t0ward Charles Adler, who stood with his
arms folded; a perfect model, in the gloxy of
his young manhood, of strength and beauty,
wrapped .evidently in the deepest thought and
totally unconscious of his surroundings, his.
whole heart and mind and soul filled with .the
rose-colored dreams of requited and first love.

Impatiently the assassin crouched among
the thick branches of a flowering acacia,
awaiting the departure of young Adler, and.
fully resolved that he would follow and shoot
him; or, if not, to lure him by some means
into the stable, and afterward denounce him
as the murderer of old Dan. These plans,
however, he had quickly to abandon; for the
low, muttered, drink-maddened curses of
James Carbury were now heard, as, pistol in
band, the young man came running hastily
from the mansion by a different route from
that which had been taken by his sister Com-
.At times he would leap_OVL-r the flower-beds,
as the path made an abrupt turn from his div
rect course, which at last brought him to the.
very spot where Charles Adler stood, unwi11~
ing to steal away in the darkness, when he
saw the man upon whose grounds he was,
coming fast toward him.

 

CHAPTER VII.
“BLoon WILL com: or THIS."

ON like a. madman dashed James Carbury,
uttering a shout of almost fiendish satisfaction
as he caught sight of Adler, whom be supposed
in the uncertain light and the confused con-
dition of his faculties, to be the gambler of
whom he.was in search; and who must, in
some way, have escaped from the stables. He:
would not spare him—who could expect it of
him? Had not the wretch wronged him in the
foulest manner, and blighted his young, and
once promising life‘l

Like a wild beast James sprung across the
moonlit space in frantic bounds, yelling at the
top of his voice.

“Fair play at ten paces, Hank Roberts!
But it is recorded that I shall kill you—ro-
member that! Justice will direct my bullet
through your craves heart 1"

“ Hold, James Carburyx' One_ moment, if
you please,” said Charles Adler quietly, as he
stepped quickly into the moonlight to meet the
brandy-crazed man who sprung tode him.
“ You have made a. mistake, CarburY- I all)
not Hank Roberts, the man whom you seem to
be looking for. Put up your Pifimlv I beg of
you, and when you are calmer, and in full
possession of your sober sensess have recourse
to the law, if he whom you mention has
wronged you to the extent that your words
and manner intimate.” .

“I have mistaken my man, Charles-Adler,
but you come in on this deal also. You
have, I presume, been walking with my sister,
or else you are now waiting to meet her, and
hence your presence on these grounds where
you knew you have no right to be. You are
well aware that Miss Carbury’s parents have
forbidden her_to speak tosuch as you. Take
thatl if you are not a coward, .0959!" sneak-
lng, clandestine manner 2331!; you
Shall fight me, nevertheless!” I p, r." f

As James Carhury spoke. he mack Charles
3 heavy blow in the face.

 

 

The Lone Star) Gambler.

For an instant, young Adler stood, pale as
death; trembling in the attempt to battle with
and control his phssion. while the hot blood
rushed like melted lava through his veins.

“Draw and defend yourself!"

Thus yelled Carbury, as in a staggering
manner he began pacing ofl the ground, and
then took his position at ten of his irregular
paces from his unwilling oplonciil. Charles
Adler was now calm.

“ I do not Vii I), nor do I intend to fight you.
James,” he said, Lut‘in a w ice that, steady
though it was. Soundud strargcly hoarse and
unnatural. “ You are intoxicated tonight. i
will reason with you when you are in afit
state of mind to understand me.- You have
grossly insulted me, but I can make some
allowances, and will pass that ovor. You are
not responsible for your base and cowardly
act; and, as for the young lady whose name
you have dragged into this unSeemly dispute, I
respect her too much to think of forfeiting her
regard by raising a weapon against her
brother.”

These words seemed only to incense James
Carbury the more. Doubly maddened now, he
swung his revolver in the air, and cried out in
a voice of furyr

“ Enough of such bosh, Charles Adler! You
and I are not babies, I supposo. Draw, or I
will shoot you in your tracks, as I would a dog
whom I caught trespissingl”

“I understand you, James Carbury. You
are bent on killing me. Be it so, then. I only
draw my weapon to save you from the doom
of a deliberate murderer. I shall not harm
you. I shall shoot in the air—remember that!
Never at you, J~L1L195 Curbury! I shall shoot in
the air."

A stifled cry P am the direction of the man-
sion came upon the soltivcuing breeze, but
amid the war of human passions it floated past
them unheard. A flutter of white garments,
in another instant, might have been seen
approaching through the shruhbery. Craze-l
and intoxicated, James Carbury raised' his
pistol, and then yelled at his antagonist:

‘,‘ Shoot at the word, Adlerl”

“ I shall shoot into themagnolias over your
head,” way the firm reply; “ and God forgive
you, if you take my liiel”

As he said these words, Charles Adler
pointed his weapon Skyward, at the same time
closing his eyes, and breathing an earnest
prayer, in which the words “Mother” and
“ Cora” were alone audible.

“ Ono—two—three l”

As the dust word died on James Carbury’s
lips, a shriek of horror, the most-intense, close
followed by a loud report of pistols, simul-
taneously discharged, and James Carbury and
his sister Cora, who at that moment had come
rushing through the shrubbery, both fell to the
earth.

James Carbury had heard the shriek of his
sister at the very instant that the word
“Three "—the very last he was to utter this
side of eternity—sounded on the air; and
his finger touched the trigger, as lightning-like
his thoughts were now centered upon Corn,
whose Voice he recognized in that agonizing
scream.

Through the heart of Charles Adler the wild
pleading cry out like a stab of cold steel. At
the same moment, he felt a stinging sens.tion
in his shoulder, and opening his eyes quickly,
he beheld a sight that caused the blood to con-
geal in his veins, and the very marrow in his
bones to seem turned into ice.

Thei‘e,in front of him, and but ten paces
away, stretched at full length upon the green
award, was James Carbury, the antagonist, at
whom he had not shot; and, at but a iew
paces to the west, and above them, lay Com,
the angel of his waking dreams. 'I he faces of
both sister and brother were upturned to the
11100“: We as if chiseled from blocks of Pariau
marble; While, down the side of the white
forehead of his darling, and mingling with
her long golden hair, ran a tiny stream of
blood. ‘

“Great Father in Heaven!
this fearful mystery?”

As he spoke, Charles Adler staggered far.
ward, his strong frame trembling like an aspen,
and knelt beside the form of Cora, his eyes
glassy with unspeakable horror and sickening

What means

, grief and despair.

He felt her delicate wrist, but. could detect
nopulsation. He placed his hand upon her
handyman touched the wound, which, to his
great relief, he found had been caused by a

 

bullet which had glanced, and therefore it
couldnot, he judged, be dangerous.

Charles then returned to- the side of the ;
prostrate form of James Gui-bury, and, tearing ,
open his vest and shirt, found that a bullet had i

pierced the young man’s heart.

“ I am lost! Lostl Lostl” he cried in the

bitterness of his heart. “Father in heaven,
pity mol i am lost, indeed. The gibbet. the
doom of a murderer awaits me, although I rm
innocent of any crime.
this dastardly decdl
could have inadvertently lowered my weapon
at the last moment. Is there no way of ex-
plaining this fearful mystery? God help. incl
I shall go mad, insane, and my gibbering lips
shall mutter nothing but bloodl”
. While the unhappy young man thus raved in
agony of mind. sounds of confusion were issu-
ing from the mansion, and soon there came to
his ears, along the shell strewn path, the pat-
tering of feet. With a. convulsive shudder,
Charles Adler pressed a hurried kiss upon the
brow, and then upon the lips of his senseless
darling. and then darted elf, as if the fiends
were on his trail, through the niagnolios, and
in the direction of his home—the home that he
had left scarce more than one hour before with
high hopes and happiest aiiticipations.

Wildly, from time to time, as he run, he
clinched his hands and rail-ed them toward the
lrlght clear heavens, as he cried out in a voice
that was choked with despair or d desperation:

“She said itl My mother said itl Blood
will come of this. I should think—so she said
-—that your father would rise from his quiet
more, when you walk past it with a Cox bury
by your sidel It has comcl It is tint. and
nothing less. The curse of my injured father
has scorched my brain. My lips are parched,
uiid blood—-—nothing but blood from henceforth
can quench my thirst. Blood, blood on my
trail; my every footprint is indelibly marked.
Blood is in the sky, and in the very air that I
bnulhe. But no, I cannot breathe itl,

“ 0h, horror of horiorsl What havo I done,
Almighty God, that this terrible wrong, this
most damning wrong should he hurled down
upon my innoeent headi_ The priofs are too
plain—too strong against me. Even she, Cora,
my own heart‘s idol, will see, and admit it, and
who her voice against me. She will detest me
in her inmost soul, and willingly will speak
the words that will bring me to the scaf-
fold. 0h, Godl this is more, far more than
I can bear. There is not a single glimmer of
light in the short and gloomy path that lies be-
fore me. Will I, will time ever—evau when I
shall have laiu long in atelou’s grave—clear up
this great, this horrible mystery?

“ Why, oh, why did my jealous feeling cause
me to arm myself, this night of all others,
against that vile miscreants? Slay l Thank
Heaven, there is one gleam of light before me!
A clew seems born at the very thought that
brings his detested image before my facel”

 

CHAPI'ER VIII.

in? son! MY soul
THE simultaneous discharge of three revol-
vers had made a far—sounding report, and it
rung through the open windows of- the Mag-
nolia Mansion, causing much surprise-to its in-
mates at. that hour of the evening. The male
5l&VtS of the household, who had not retired
for the night, rushed out upon the front

,veranda, followed in short order by the female

servants, and, all filled with wonder, they
stood in a confused mass gazing out over the
garden to the north-east, in the direction of
the thickly-grouped magnolias. But the night
was now silent as the _tomb itself. Even the
broad Gulf had the appearance of a sea of all-
ver, as the full moon shone out steadily from a
cloudless sky upon its smooth and motionlem
waters.

"Bress de Lo’d, chillimsl” broke at length
from the lips of the aged cook, “I‘s femd
sumfln dreflul’s done happened. Whar de
curnil? Whar my ole marsterl Young Mares
Jemes ghain’t- been seeld hyerabouto sence
mo’nin’. I doesn’t like dis tur‘ble kiue ob still-
ness. “ ’Pears like death ter dis ole chile, an’
I’s feared dat we-luns done got Weepin’ an'
mou’nin’ afore us. I feels bit later my bones.
Gumbo, yer good fer nufiin’, lazy young nigger.
go an’ call yer marse curnill”

The slaves huddled together and stood whis-
pering, while they gazed with wide-open, bulg-
ing eyes out into the darkness which hung over
the grove like a heavy pull, and which, to their
superstitious imaginations, was peopled with

Who cnii have done ,
It is not possible that I ‘

r

'7

ghastly forms and i’eeuful demons, conjured up
by the boding words of old Aunt Huldy.

A moment more and the negroes had de-
parted in silence, Gumbo, meanwhile, haw
insisted upon having a chambermaid to attend
him through the dark passages of the rambling
old mansion. Presently Colonel Carbury
rushed out from the door at the head of the
landing, and demanded: _ _ - ' ‘

"What does all this mean, Aunt Huldy!
Why did you have the disturbed? Whathas
occurred to call for all this noiseand confusion
at this hour of the night!”

“601 a’mighty, marse curnill didn’t yer
hear dat shootiu’l"

l “ Shooting? No. I have heard nothing un-

usual. I have been asleep, however. Where
was it? Did the reports sound as if flradin
the grenade here, near at hand? Where is
your young master?”

“ Hit done sounded, ’pears to dis chile, right
clos’t. Marse Jemes, did yer say, IIAIEB cur-
“ nili Ihasn’t sot dese ole eyes on luminance
i hreckfus.” . A

“Run out though the garden, will you!
. Call some of the boys, and theuxlend Phillis w
to Miss Ccra’s rorm and see if she is asleep.
Hal Joe, you are there, I see. Go and find
out if your Morse James has retired."

Slowly and reluctantly [WU (f_lhe aflrkht‘i
negroes lrrceeded through the garden, both of
them trembling with fear and imagining some
harrihle shape about to emerge from each
flowering shrub. The two slaves who had
been dispatched to the chambers soon returned
with scared faces, and re} Ol'ttd that neither
“Marse Jcmes ” nor Miss .Cora were in their
rooms, and that their beds had not been dis-
turbed. .

With a ver}~ emphatic ejaculation, and one
which expreised his surprise and concern, Col-

gravelod walk, lut at the same instant a pierc-
ing cry of terror buist cu the niglt air. and
the two slaves who had been sent to (splme
the gardeis came bounding over the flower.
beds from the dll ecticn of the magnolia glove,
as if a legion of ( anions was in pursuit.

“Holdl” yelled the rcolonel. “Stop this
crazy nonsense. Do ycu hear! What have
you seen, you cowardly vagahonds'!”

“Morse Jemesl” exclaimed one, with ham-
hling lips, as he glanced in honor (vir his
shoulder, and then fell flat on his face ind lay
groveling at his master’s feet.

“Missy Cora," hoarsely whispered the i ‘l‘« r,
while his eyes rolled about in teiior n: .1 LL.
strong frame qui Iered as it in an aid.“ dit.

Colonel Cai Lury visited to hcar no u ore.
He sprung crashing through shrubs and flowers,
directly toward the grove, darting down a di-

such preternatuial speed that when he saw
upon the ground before him an outstretched
human form witl the pallld seal of death u; on
its face, he could not stop himself, but gdlher-
ing his strength as at a single glance the fen-
tures of the son whom he had indulged and
idolized were pm 0 replied upon his brain, he
leaped into the al. igh over the blood-stained
body, and one wi d, agonizing, despairing cry

with a. heavy thud, as though suddenly d»-
prived of life, upon the green turf by the side
of his murdered boy.

When the bevy of cowering, terror-stricken
slaves heard the yell of their old master, and so"
him leap into the air and then fall .aenseleis,
their superstitious terrors tank complete pes-
scssion of them. Rushing toward the house,
they scrambled, screaming at the top of their
lungs, into the hallo-lay. the two -men in the
garden-path crawling uprn their hands ai-l
knees, with mild and disconnected prayeis

dwelling. I

Not so, however, with Aunt Huldy, the ven-
erable cook of the Carbury family. Falling to
her rheumatic knees, and praying for a mo-

to the room of her mistress, whom she found
already up and hurriedly dressinw.

“Don’t yer go ter bother yerself ’bout do
fuss what darn good fer-numn’ niggers done
make, missus,” said old Huldy, luau assumed
tone of unconcern. Then, without waiting to
explain or to answer the questions of Mrs. Cur.
bury, the cook quickly descended the stairs,
ran out upon the veranda and into the garden,
and from thence, walking slowly, she
toward the magnolias, muttering to. hogging 
she went: .

 

of utter horror burst from his lips as he fell.

ment or two most fervently, she arose and rau‘

onel Carbury sprung from the veranda to the _ V

a

rect path as soon as one was reached, with ,

upon their lips, up to the veraida and into tls .

F“:

‘5'?!”

v

,8 The Lone Star Gambler.

 

 

" Reckon dis ole chile as ’bout done wid dis
worl’, an do ole debil llain’t got no call ter
claim her. ’Pears ter me snmfln dreiful hes
done bu’s’ loose, an’ nobuddy ’cept ole Aunt
Huldy got my sense left. What dati Gol
a’mightyl dar am ole Mam Curnil in a dead
faint, sho’l”

One step further old Huldy made, after dis-
covering her old master thus lying upon the
sword; then, as she gazed with staring and
horror-stricken eyes upon the corpse of her
young master, and saw near him the white-
clad form and death~pale face of Miss Cora,
her forehead stained with blood, the old negress
sunk upon her knees, and trembled in every
limb, while the hot tears coursed down her
furrowed cheeks. Then she crawled toward
the silent form of those whom she had nursed
in infancy, and loved far better than those of
her own flesh and blood.

Coming first to the corpse'of James, she ca~
ressed it with her trembling, wrinkled bands, at
times wiping the tears from her age-dimmed
eyes with her faded calico skirt, as she mum<
bled prayers, and kissed again and again the
cold lips. Creeping then over the sward, and
With an awful dread tearing at her heart, she
came to the prostrate form of Cora.

“ Marse James am done gone, dat am sartin
sho’; an’ be war so wile I is mighty feared he
won’t git in at de Golden Gate. But, Missy
Coral My po’ little lubly doll-baby, my chile,
my angel! 0h, Lo’dl why has yer tuck her?
She war needed in dis worl’ jes’ es much as do
sunlight. What debil in de shape ob human
hes gone an’ done dis dreflful work? Did my
young Morse James shoot he Own sister, an’
den kill bisselfi De Lo’d bress us an’ save us!
What am we po’ worms ob de dus’ comin' teri
What am my ole missus ter do now? Dis yore
am boun’ ter kill her, sho’. De good Lo’d
makes de win’ blow wa’m on de thin-skin’d
lambs, but dis am too dreflul for de po’ weak
missus.”

With these words the old slave clasped the
small white hand of Cora, and raised it to her
lips, then her eyes suddenly lighted up with
joy and she laid the little hand softly on the
grass, and lowered her aged head upon the
young girl’s breast.

“ Bress de good Sabior, my chile am alive!
De angel am spar’d ter cheer de las’ days oh
ole Aunt Huldy 1” And the old woman rocked
her body backward and forward, grasping the
delicate hands convulsively and pressing
them to her lips, then caressing the long golden
hair, and wiping the blood from the wounded
girl’s forehead, with a loving and gentle touch.

Suddenly Aunt Huldy remembered the
colonel, and springing to her feet, she ran to
his side, and began rubbing his hands, while
she endeavored to raise him to a sitting pos-
cure.

Slowly, and as from a lethargic sleep, Colo-
nel Carbury’s senses returns]; and he opened
his eyes, glancing in'quiringly into the face of
his aged servant, and then looking around him
in wonder. ‘But, before Aunt Huldy could
control herself sufficiently to explain the terri-
ble facts, the true condition of affairs darted
through his mind with electric swiftness, and
he sprung to his feet, where he reeled and
staggered like a drunken man.

With a stare of agonizing horror bent for a
moment upon the dead form of his son, he
turned suddenly in a white object upon his
right; and, with aheartrrending cry of the most
intense and excruciating agony, he tattered
toward his daughter, his hands upraised and
pressing his forehead, his eyes fixed and glassy,
and his lips quivering with a horror that was
indescribable.

“Thank de good Lo’d, Marse Cumil, dat
Miss Cora am spar’d tar yer. She ain’t dead.
De po’ chile am stunded.” And the old slave
knelt by her master’s side, as he too fell on his
knees near his beautiful and much-loved daugh-
ter, and sobbing convulsively. ~

The flood-gates of grief had opened, and the
strong man’s brain was soon partially relieved
from the weighty avalanche of anguish which
had so suddenly come down upon it, by a
copious flow of tears.

'For' a time, both master and servant re-
mained kneeling by the side of that silent
form, clasping each other’s hands; both equal
for once in their terrible grief—united by a
common bond of angering.

Thenthe old planter sprung to his feet in

fury.
«Run, annty; run to the house!” be ex-
cldmed. “Bid Ben and Mose ride for their

 

lives. Tell them to summon Dr. Manle at
once, and then tell the sherifl to collect a poses
and come to Magnolia Plantation immediately.
The villain, or villains, who have done this das-
tardly deed, shall under a thousand deaths 1"

Aunt Huldy hastened to obey orders, and
Colonel Carbury lifted his still unconscious
daughter from the ground, and carried her, as
a mother would her babe, into the mansion
and to her room. _

All had been silent within the dwelling,
since the stampede of the slaves; and Mrs.
Carbury, her apprehensions quieted by the
words and manner of Aunt Huldy, had taken
an anodyne and again retired, supposing that
her alarm had originated from imagination,
and thus she was spared the sight of her sense-
less daughter, as poor Cora was tenderly
borne to her room, and laid upon her bed by
her almost distracted father.

The house servants, when told by Aunt
Huldy of the terrible crime that had been com-
mitted, and realized that their young master
was indeed dead—murdered by some person
unknown—and that their beautiful and beloved
young mistress was seriously wounded, began
at once to fill the air with their lamentations.
But they all strove, neverthelem, to do every-
thing that lay in their power to assist in the
recovery of Cora, as well as to secure, if pos-
sible', the base assassinror assassins; for, upon

learning the sad facts, they knew that human-

beings, and no supernatural agency, had to do
with the dread tragedy of the night.

The two men, who had received orders
through Aunt Huldy from the colonel, galloped
at break-neck speed to summon the doctor and
the sherit—the former of whom was the first
to arrive. f

The wound received by Cora proved to be
not a serious one, being but a glance shot; but
the bullet had struck the skull with sumcient
force to give the brain a somewhat severe
shock.

Restoratives were administered, and the
maiden opened her eyes; but in their depths
was mirrored an insane horror that was painful
to witness, and she raved, and tossed her arms
wildly, while her blood burned with fever.

These symptoms caused Dr. Maule to decide
that her case might be more serious than he
had at first imagined; in fact dangerous, for he
apprehended congestion of the brain, or at the
least, brain fever. He therefore resolved that
he would remain at the plantation through the
night.

“ Bress de Lo’dl” exclaimed Aunt Huldy, as
she opened a closet to hang up the garments of
her young mistress, “jes’ feel ob dem clo’s,
Marse Doctor. Missy Cora done wored dem
dis arternoon. Boy is wet, plum froo an’ free.
What kine ob doin’s hab bin goin’ on dis dref-
ful day an' night?”

The doctor approached the closet, and ex-
amined the saturated garments which Cora had
removed on her return from the bayou, after
her adventure with the alligator. .

“Has the young lady been out heating to-
day?” asked Dr. Maule.

“I ’clar’ ter gracious, I doesn’t know whar
do po’ chile done bin. I hes hed ter cook a
heap tor-day. an’ hesn’t see’d her purty face
roun’ de kitchen onc’t. An’ dat am mighty
strange too, fer little missy mos’ allers comes
tor see her ole aunty some time oh do day.”

“She may have taken cold from such a wet-
ting as that must have been; but not sufficient,
lshould say, to cause such a fever. Neither
would the bullet occasion it so suddenly. She
must have received a terrible mental shock in
some way, and I hope we may be able to learn
something in regard to what has occurred, by
what she may say while delirious. Where is
Colonel Carbury 1”

“ He am jes’ a weepin’ an’ a mo’nin’ ober po’
Morse Jemes, I reckons. Oh, Lo’dyl Dis ole
chile mus’ die ’fore longl” And bursting into
tears, the faithful old negress left the room,
holding closely and almost lovingly to her
breast the wet garments of her young mis-
tress.

At length the suflering maiden lay motion-
less, Dr. Maule having administered a power-
ful opiate; but her eyes still remained wide
open, and staring fixedly at the ceiling, as if
some fearful scene was pictured there. Her
face, new lovelier,"if possible, than before, was
white as the driven snow. Her golden hair lay
in long wavy masses, wet with the dews of

night, and shining lke glittering gold, giving.

her the look of a slumbering angel, whose gaze
upon this world’s sin and sorrow had left upon

,5»?

 

her mind, even when she slept, an impress of
horror.

And without, far down by the dark magno-
lias, the father knelt alone by his murdered
boy. He bent over the cold, stifl corpse, in an
anguish of mind that no pen can portray. His
features, before so calm and proud, were now
drawn with bitter agony of soul and self-con-
demnation, for was he not himself in a great
measure responsible for the sad, sad ending of
that young life?

Had he not, by his example, led his only son
upon the dread trail of dissipation and excess,
and did he not know in his own mind that
rum—the fearful curse of mankind—must have
been the main cause of the fearful tragedy?

But Lafayette Carbury, with all his faults,
had fondly loved his boy, although it bad in-
deed boen,“‘not wisely but too well.” And
there, among the shadows, arose the old, old
stricken cry over the dead and handsome
Absalom; “ Would to God I had died for
thee; for thee, my son, my sonl”

 

CHAPTER IX.
CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE.

WHEN the sheriff, Tom Stevens, with a
score of rancheros from the Rio Brazos arrived
at Magnolia Plantation, they found its owner
completely prostrated by grief, and unable to
give any satisfactory evidence in regard to the
identity of the assassin, or the possible motives
for the crime. Indeed the colonel was, at the
time, wholly incapable of giving any connected
account of the sad affair whatever.

Dr. Maule approached from the house,
soon after the arrival of the rancheros upon
the scene, having left his patient in the care
of Aunt Huldy. He now advised the sheriff to
keep his men inside the grove of magnolias,
and to have a careful examination of the
ground made in the morning. In fact, this
appeared to be the only thing that it was pos-
sible to do.

As the doctor made this suggestion, be
pressed a stimulating mixture upon the colo-
as], who swallowed it in a listless, dreamy
manner, not seeming to take the slightest no-
tice of those around him. The horrors of the
night had, for the time being, dazed his men-
tal faculties; but, soon after taking the dose
which Dr. Maule administered, he appeared
more composed, and began apparently to heed
what was passing around him.

“Has the body been moved from its origi-
nal position, Colonel Carburyl" asked Dr.
Mauls.

“No,” replied the colonel, in a tremolous
voice. “He is lying now exactly as he was
when I first discovered him.”

“ The best thing to be done now, Stevens,”
said the doctor, “is to select a jury, and I will
examine the wound in their presence. ”

“All right, Doc,” agreed the sherifl; and
twelve men were then marched by a rounda-
bout course, and stationed in the garden path
toward the mansion, not far from the body, in
order that they might not eflace or destroy
any signs which might lead to the detection of
the murderer, in the clear space in which the
tragedy had occurred.

The two negro men who had first discovered
the body, with Aunt Huldy and the colonel,
were duly sworn and gave their testimony; but
this only suficed to leave the mystery as great
a mystery as ever.

“Gentlemen of the jury,” said Dr. Mauls,
“ I will now remove the pistol from the hand
of poor James Carbury, and pass it around for
examination. It is, you may all perceive, a
Colt’s five-shooter, and still has four loads in
the cylinder. Now this fact conclusively
proves that the young man did not shoot his
sister and then kill himself—an act which, as
we all know, he would never have committed,
but which would be brought under considera-
tion if the evidenceshould chance to point in
that direction.”

The revolver was passed from the hands of'

one juror to those of another, until it had been
duly examined by them all.

“Who has been in company with your son
to-day, colonel?” inquired the doctor.

“I do not know. I did not see my son
alive since we left the breakfast table this
morning."

“ Have you any one in your mind who could
possibly have had any object or motive in com-
mitting such a fearful crime?” '

“ No one tlmt I know of could have had such
a motive,” was the colonel’s reply. “ My poor
boy was on the best of terms with every one in

yaw- . s. ., .

—~¢

mn—wmw‘ v.» «

J

I The Lone Star- Gambler. V

\

9.

 

this neighborhood, I‘bclieve, if I cxcept young
Adler.” ‘

“Charles Adlerl Indeed! Has there been
any quarrel recently, to your knowledge, be-
tween the two young men?"

" None, now' or at any previous time—at
least none that I am aware of,” answered Colo-
nel Carbury. /‘

As the colonel made mention of Charles Ad-
ler, the jurors glanced significantly at the doc-
tor and the sheriff, and then from one to an-
other of themseves. It was the first dawning
of a fearful suspicion; for there was not one
among all the planters and raucheros for many
miles around who did not know of the bitter
feelings which had so long existed between the
Adler and the Carbury families.

So readily will the mind, in such an
emergency, lay hold upon the faintest clew,
.and a. trifle, though “light as = c," becomes to
the man who is hungering ‘ r the slightest
scintilla of evidence, “confirmation strong as
proof from holy writ.”

“Gentlemen,” said Dr. Maule, “I will now
proceed to examine the body.” And the doc-
tor ran his knife dexterously through the
clothing of the murdered man, exposing, as he
did so, the bare breast, and disclosing the
wound.

After making a careful examination, the
doctor again spoke:

“Thomas Stevens, Colonel Carbury, and
gentlemen of the jury: i left my patient, a
few minutes ago, and came to this spot with a
hope that I might possibly be of some assist-
anc: in solving the dreadful mystery of this
murder, and the attempted murder of that
beautiful young lady, Miss Cora Carbury, who
is known and beloved by every one in this sec-
tion of the country. That hope was awakened,
in the first place, by the delirious ravings of
this murdered young man’s sister, of whom I
have just spoken. The young lady has been
struck on the head, and I am now satisfied, by
the same bullet that caused the death of her
brother. You will observe, gentlemen, that
the ball entered. the body at this point, near
the spine, and passed between the short ribs
ranging upward through the vitals, and then
left the body some three inches higher up than
the place where it first struck; consequently,
it is plain that the assassin must have been
crouched upon the ground a little to the rear
of his victim, when the cowardly deed was
done. This, in my mind, makes the mystery
deeper and more difficult of solution than be-
fore I made the examination. Why? you
will ask. I answer, because James .Carbury
could not have fired his own pistol, after hav-
ing received such a wound. Death must have
been instantaneous, besides being unexpected
from the quarter from whichthe shot came.
And the pistol, being in the murdered man’s
hand, with one barrel of the same discharged,
shows, very plainly, I think, that there must
have been an assailant in front of our poor
young friend, at the ame time that he was
fatally attacked from the rear.

“Now, gentlemen, here is the spot where
Miss Cora fell. It is marked with her blood.
You observe that she was standing very near
to her brother when struck, but on higher
ground, and the disarranged condition of this
flower-bed, which will be more plainly dis-
cerned by daylight, shows that she must have
come running—and probably to the assistance
of her brother—at the very moment of the
murder. It is evident, from the situation, that
she was on the point of inclosiug him in her
arms, or throwing herself between his form and
that of the assassin.

“ In the position in which the murderer must
have been, and taking into consideration the
range of the bullet, together with the fact that
it passed through the P00? young man’s body,
indicates—indeed, to me it proves conclusiver
—-after deciding what must have been the
manner of Miss Cam’s approach, that the! same
bullet which caused. the death of the brother,
laid the sister senseless, by glancing along her

‘ skull.

“And now comes the most important evi-
dence, when taken into consideration along
with the assertion you have just heard Colonel
Cal-bury make, in regard to his son having
been on good termswith every one in the
neighborhood,- w'lth the single exception of
Charles Adler. Miss Cara Caz-bury, whom I
gun but now left, in her delirium has repeatedly
am out: ‘Don’t shoot, Charley! I: you
lay. me, don't shootl'

, “‘Now, as I interpret the evidence, it does

 

appear positive that some person, by the name
of Charles, secreted himself in yonder shrub-
bery, and by him James Cerbury was assas-
sinated in this dastardly manner. At the
same time, he doubtless had a confederate
posted among the magnoliss, to draw the at—
tention of his victim, and fire upon him also,
thus rendering his object sure, and easier of
accomplishment. Such are my views, gentle-
men, and you must decide how much, and how
far, they are worthy of being acted upon.

“ That this has been a cold-blooded and pre-
meditated murder, there can be no doubt in
the minds of any of you. I do not suppose—
nor is it at all probable—that the assassins,
either of them, intended to injure the young
lady; in fact, as it appears, she must have
come unexpectedly upon the scene, and the
murderer, let him be who he may, must have
been afamiliar friend. If this were not the
case, why should she have called him
‘Charleyl' And what other man of that
name is there in this vicinity who could be
thus addressed by Miss Cora. Carbury, than
Charles Adler?"

Every man present stood as if petrified, so
convinced were they by the plain and positive
statements of Dr. Maule. But, scarcely had he
ceased speaking, when Tom Stevens yelled:

“Saddle up, men! Saddle upf” and the
jurors rushed, as one man, beneath the magno-
lias, to their horses.

 

CHAPTER X.
o N r a n 'r n a I I. .

“ Lu'r loose the blood-hounds! Let loose my
blood-houndsl"

Thus shrieked Colonel Carbury as be rushed
about the grounds like a. maniac, throwing his
arms about him wildly in the air.

“Why was it that this did not Occur to me
before! I would not have behaved that Charles
Adler could have killed a mouse. l But I for-
got—it was the deed of a. coward, and worthy
of the race he springs from. Loose the blood-
hounds, ] tell you! The cowardly villain has
had time to have covered miles in his flight
since committing his dastardly deed.”

After dashing up and down the garden paths

for some moments in this manner, his hands.

clasped about his forehead and his whole ap-
pea“>.nce that of a. man erased with grief, the
colt. 01 continued:

“Hm, Mose! Run for my horse, boy! I
will bid the chase—none other than myself
should to it. Doctor Mauls, will you please
attend ti having the body of my poor boy re-
moved it: the house? If it can possibly be
done without. the knowledge of his poor mother
—for I. would keep the news of his death from
her. in her weal: state, as long as possible—try
and so arrange it. Then remain and do what
you can for my daughter. Stay by me, my
friend, through this terrible night, and I
promise you that you shall not go unrewarded.
I can never forget what you have already
done for me and ,mine—Dickl Dick, I eayl”
yelling to another of his slaves, “bring me my
revolvers and bowie-knife. do you hear? I’ll

have the heart’s blood of the dastard who has,

slain my soul”

“ Calm yourself, colonel,” advised the doc-
tor. “No good ever comes of being too hasty.
I sincerely hope that I have not been the
means of directing suspicion this night-el-
though it does seem, I must say, to be a cer-
tainty—upon an innocent man.

“Sheriff,” he then said, turning to that
omcial, who was by this time mounted, “ the
man must be secured in jail, and you should
see that he is protected until Miss Cora recov-
ers and can give her testimony, He must
have a fair trial. Do your sworn duty, and
remember there must be no lynching in this
case. Charles Adler, whatever may have been
his conduct in this most sad afi'air, comes of a
good old family; and, besides that, he has a
widowed mother who has had a full share of
trouble already. Charles, too, has always had
the reputation of an exemplary young man, as
you all know. Let justice be done, I say, even
though the heavens should fall.”

At this instant Mose, the negro who had
been dispatched by Colonel Carbury for his
horse, rushed in frantically among the ranch-
eros with eyes protruding and a face like
ashes, and fell prone upon the ground at the
feet of his master.

“What in the fiend’s name in the matter
now?” yelled the colonel; at the same time
laying hold upon the man with a gripe of iron.
and placing him with a jerk upon his feet.

\

 

J

“ Speak, Mose, you worthless rue-l, or I’ll
throttle you!”

“Oh, Marcel Morse Curnill” said the poor
fellow, his teeth chattering the while; “Ole
Dan am layin’ dead on de stable 110’! Benin
all blood, Marne Curnil. De ole debil enlist
loose tor-night, sartin’ sho’l”

“Greet Heavensl” exclaimed his master!!!
horror. “What does this meant My hostler
murdered tool Get a lantern, Mose, I! quickly
as you can. Gentlemen, am 1 going mad? Let
loose those blood-hounds, I say! Where are
Joe and Jim? Have my slaves all deserted me
now when their services are most neededl"

“The poor fellows are terribly frightened,
colonel,” explained Dr. Mauls; “and it is no

wonder. You cannot blame them, under such .

dreadful circumstances. Come, gentlemen, let
us go to the stables. Colonel Caibury, “here
are the bounds kenneledl"

“In the far end of the negro quarters,! was
the reply. “ Here is the lantern, sherifl. Now,

Mose, keep your wiis about you, and bring out'

the bounds. Run, boy, I say! Lend these
gentlemen to the stables. Come, doctor,the
murderers may have left some claw in that
direction, which your keen eyes and calm
judgment may beable to make something of,-
and which no one else among‘us would ever
notice. For my own part, I am totally unfit
to take an unprejudiced view of anything."

The rancheros, under the lead of Tom
Stevens, row galloped up to the stables, and
secured their horses to the adjacent trees,
while Colonel Carbury and the doctor hastily
approached on foot. Then the entire party
entered the building, where at once aghastly
and sickening spectacle was presented to their
View. ~

The poor old negro, Dan, lay outstretched

upon the stable floor, his garments torn, as if.

in some deadly struggle and covered with
blood; while the same sanguinary fluid was
sputtered upon all sides both upon flooring and
wainscoting.

“ There has been a most desperate struggle
here—that is evident— and doubtless in the
dar ,” asserted Dr. Mauls, “ and your poor old
slave has had to fight hard for his life, and un-
armed at that. The murderer has stabbed him
at least balf-a-dozen times, with a large bowie
knife. Gentlemen, I told you more than one
man had been engaged in to-night’s bloody
work, and this new crime gives my assertion a
look of truth, which otherwise might helluva
been so plain.”

“ Poor old Dan!” said the colonel, as he took

in his own the dead hand of his faithful old,

servant. “This is the strangest thing of
gentlemen; for this. negro had been—an
family slave of the Adlers, and loved the v
ground that Charles walked over. I confess
am utterly at a loss to see what motive there
could have been, for him, or indeed any other
man, to murder poor honest old Dan.”

“I war a-thinkin’ jist that same thing ’bont
Charley an’ Dan, Curn’l Csrb’ry," spoke up
one of the rancheros quickly; “su’ hit ’pem
to me that Charley Adler air therlu’ man
hyerabouts ter hev a dif’culty, with any nig~
ger, sn‘ 'speshly Dan. Fact air, all ther blacks.
thinks a heap 0' young Adler.”

“The mystery certainly grows deeper, gen?

tlemen,” said the doctor; “ but here come the
hounds.” \

As Dr. Mauls spoke, threehuge blood-hounds
entered the door, held in leash by Mose,
whose eyes were bulging from his‘head, and
his black face turning gray in the uncextain
light.

The dogs snuffed the blood-tainted almond
pointing their noses upward, shot out a series

of most unearthly howls, that soumied terrific,

in the confined limits of the stable.

“ If we knew who the murderers ware, and
had any of their clothing. the bounds would
take the scent right ofl," said Tom Stevens, in
a decided tone of voice. “The dogs would
follow than, dead sure, and run the cusses to
their hole, wherever that may be.” -

As the sheriff ceased speaking, he stooped.
down, and began straightening cut the limbs
of the dead negro. While thus engaged he
suddenly cried out: .

“Hullol What‘s this! Here’s a clew, boys,
sure's you're born!” And he draw out from
beneath one of the legs of the murdered slave,
abloodstained handkerchief, holding it up
he did so, to the gaze of all, ;

“Loose the bounds once more!” yelled the

colonel. . . .
“Stop halt a secondl Hold the lantern this

'10

‘ one that filled thet bill every time.”

' yourselves around the building!

- heath the table.

l

 

“a

way, will you?” ordered the doctor, as he took
the s uare piece of cambric from the hand of
Tom tevens. '

After a brief examination, the last speaker~

added: ' '

“Gentlemen, here is another link in the
chain, which is more direct and conclusive evi-
dence than any yet, and seems to knock some
of our reasoning sky-high. I leave it to you

if’it'does not clear up the mystery somewhat. ‘

This handkerchief is marked with indelible
ink. In one corner there isa name, and that
name, by heavens, is

5‘" ‘Caams Annnnl’"

CHAPTER XI.
’ renown THREADS.

“I DOESN’T hear a dung!” broke out the
ranchero, who had once before spoken in favor
of the young man, toward whom the evidence
pointed as the assassin. “Uncle Dan mought
ha" picked that rag up hisself, anywhar roun’
ther bayou; an’ hit’s my ’pinion hit am jest
what The did- do. Anyway I asserwates,
boyees. thet Charley Adler never stuck Uncle
Dan, an’ I’m willin’ ter bet my sculp on bit!”

“ You appear to be particularly friendly'to
a man, who is undoubtedly a most cowardly
murderer, Phil Munroe I” spoke up the colonel,
indignantly.

“Yaas, curn’l, I reckon I’m a friend ter
all men what’s squar’ an’ white, an’ this hyer
boy what everybody is so ready ter ’spect, was ‘

 

The behavior of the hounds now drew the
attention of all hands, and doubtless brought
to an end what might otherwise have been a
war of werds; for the dogs had been smelling
about the floor for a few moments, and then
sprung, with long-drawn howls, into one of the
vacant stalls.

“ Pull your barkersl” cried Phil Munroe.
“Thor murderin’ cusses air in ther stable, an’
Charley Adler ain’t with ’em, bet yer last
doubloon on it l”

All sprung on the instant around the corner
of the harness-room after the hounds, when,
to their surprise, they discovered a bar of light
shining into the stall from an aperture through
which the dogs at once sprung.

“ Half adcnen of you go out, and station
Shoot any
man who attempts to escape from the barn, if
you cannot take him alive. Two of you stand
guard here! Now, colonel,” added the sheriff,
after, giving these orders, “ we’ll have to
Hurst in the door of the harness-room. The
villains may be secreted in the closets, and the
door is looked.” V

“ There is no need of that,” said the doctor,
who Wes again examining the dead negro.
“ Here is a key in Uncle Dan’s pocket which,
no doubt, belongs to that door.”

“You are right, doctor," said Colonel Car-
bury, as he took the key from his hand, and
bounded to the side of the sheriff.

r In a second the door was opened, and half a
doses deadly tubes were pointed inside; but,
with the exception of the dogs, that were
Mug about the table and chairs, the room
was empty.

“ “ What is all this, gentlemen?” exclaimed
Sheri! Stevens. “ More mystery here! Do
you keep a club-room in your stable, colonel?
Here 'are brandy, glasses, cigars, and cards.
Old Dan must have been enjoying himself be-
fore he got his through ticket for the unknown

' ans." - «

“Poor Dan has had nothing to do with this
partwf the business," said the colonel, very de-
cidedly. “ He never drank, neither did he
know one card from another.”

“ And I do not believe he had twenty dollar
gold pieces to wager, either," said the doctor,
as he picked up several of these coins from be
“Gentlemen, I can tell you
one thing there has been a big game played in
this room to-night. Here are papers in which
havo evidently been rolled thousands of dollars
in coin, and the paper, as you see, is old blanks
b91055“: to the Brazos Bank.”

“ The 3mm Bank?” questioned the colonel,

 

anxiously. “That is where I deposit. Let me
examine them.” i

“Open those closets, Mr. Stevens,” suggested ‘
Dr. Maule; “we may find there sonaelhing|

which may be of service as eVIdence.” i
With revolver in hand, rocked and ready, “

the sherifl proceeded ontbe inspection; but

nothing except harness was found, until the 

t onset was opened. There, to the eaten.
ument of all, even of Colonel Carbury him-

self, a set of shelves was revealed, upon which
werexvarious kinds of wines, liquors and cigars,
besides packages of playing-cards and several
suits ’of clothes, the latter hanging at one side.

“Whose are these clothes, colonel?” asked
the sheriff.‘

The colonel approached, with a new look of
trouble upon his face, and glancing at them,
replied: '

“They belong to my son, my poor boy
James, although I am at a loss to know why
they were kept in such a place.”

“ Hit’s es plain es ther nose on aalligator,
curn’l,” said Phil Munroe. “Jim an’ somebody
hes bin in ther habit o’ playin’ keards hyer.
Fact air, they hes bin hyer this very evenin’,
fer ther brandy spilt on ther table hain’t dry
till yit. Charley Adler doesn’t drink nor play
keards, I’ll sw’ar hit; so the question new air,
who-ther galoot war what was with Jemes
Carb’ry. I’m a-thinkiu’ that all ther bloody
biz commenced right hyer, at this hyer table,
an' through too much brandy at that. Some—
body’s been an’ lost a heap 0’ money fer sure.”

“ Hank Roberts was with James a great deal
lately,” said Tom Stevens. “The two Were
always together, weren’t they, colonel?”

“They were quite intimate aesociates, I be-
lieve,” admitted Colonel Carbury, but with
very evident reluctance. “ I now know where
my son has kept himself so much of late. This
Hank Roberts must be found.”

“Keep the hounds here awhile, boys,” said
Dr. Maule, who had. been standing for a minute
or two wrapped in deep thought. “It appears
to me that, as Phil has reasoned, a game of
cards has recently been played at this table,
ending in a diSpute of some kind between the
parties engaged, and that dispute culminated in
a fight up at the Magnolias afterward; or else
that James Can-bury having won, the loser fol-
lowed and killed him. Then disc0vering that
Uncle Dan had witnessed the affair, he, or
they, followed the poor old negro and killed
him also. It looks only reasonable to suppose
that James must have locked some party, or
parties, into this room, gave the key to Dan,
and then started probably for the house. Who-
ever they may have been, they escaped, and
followed for revenge. Perhaps Dan was left
for a guard, and the poor old slave was the
first who was murdered.

“Who it was that poor James Carbury
locked in this room, and what his object was
for doing so, must be found out. Then, and
not until then, will the mystery be cleared up.
It is a strange aflair all through, and very
puzzling.

“ The proofs, however, seem positive and
conclusive against young Adler—James and
his friend, or friends, might have captured
Adler, and locked him.up, and it may have
been he, who escaping in the dark, killed
Uncle Dan, without knowing that it was his
former slave. I certainly would advise letting
the dogs take the scent from this room, if they
will do so."

“ Here they go, then i" called out the sheriff,
pulling the board away from the back of the
closet as he spoke.

The hounds made a rush, their noses to the
floor, snumng here and there, with lightning-
like motions of their heads, while the whole
party went out into the main floor to watch
them.

Direct to the murdered negro they went,
and then dashed madly out of the stable door.

“Mount and follow them !” yelled the sherifi,
and in a moment after, the rancheros were in
their saddles, spurring through the magnolia:
after the dogs.

Following a winding scent, the latter at
length came to a stop within the thick bush
that had concealed Hank Roberts, where they
howled fiercely for a moment. I .

“Did I not tell you that the assassin shot
from that point?” cried out the doctor, as he
came ' running up. “The same man who
butchered Uncle Dan, killed poor James
Carbury.”

As Dr. Maule spoke, the boy Mose led a
horse, fully equipped, to where the colonel, Who
had followed him,- was standing. The old
gentleman instantly sprung into the saddle,
buckled his arms about his Waist, and turned
to the doctor to repeat his last injunction:

“See that my son’s body is properly cared
for, and watch over my wife and Core. till I
return!” . ‘

Then, yelling to the blood-hounds, as with

' terrible and ap idling howls they dashed down

the bank, he cried:

 

 Ilene StarGambler.  .

“Spur, men! Spur! Keep up with the
dogs! Athousand dollars for Charles Adler,
dead or alive!”

Away thundered the entire posse, Colonel
Carhury and Tom Stevens in the lead, and
close upon the bounds, that by a. roundabout
way led back to the stables, and to the side of
the dead slave; then turning, with savage
yelps, they sprung through the door, around.
the barn, and away like the wind in the direc—
tion of the Adler plantation.

At last the tangled threads seemed to be
gathered, and the line, if followed up, to lead
to the home of the man to whom the hand of
suspicion had first pointed.

 

CHAPTER XII.
THE FLIGHT FOR LIFE. .

Cruan ADLER, flying from the scene of
the mysterious tragedy, in astate bordering on
madness, rus. d through the dark shades of the.
magnolias, an ad the head of the bayou, and
was soon runn g at the top of his speed along:
the crescent-shaped drive that was opposite his:
home.

In a few moments’ space he had been hurled
from the hights of supreme happiness into the
blackest depths of misery and hopeless de-
spair. ‘

The future was filled with dread, and with-
out one ray of hope, and an ignominious and
cruel death was all that now awaited him.

With the glittering castles which he had
built in his imagination, but which he re-
solved should become realities, he could now
have no more to do. All the resolutions,
which he so late had formed for the good of‘
his fellow-men, were now forgotten; all the:
high principles which he had, by long study‘
and much thought, determined to adopt for
life-long practice, were now drowned in the
immeasurable and intense hatred and detesta~
tion which he felt toward the unknown assas-~
sin who had blighted his life forever.

That there could be a man, upon the earth
so fiendish, as to contrive and accomplish so-
devilish a deed he would not have believed one
short hour previous. And he now felt assured
that the same man who had been acquainted
with him from his earliest childhood, and had,
in spite of all his prejudice, never known him
to swerve from the path of duty, truth, and
honor, would, in a few short hours, be clamor--
ing for his blood. Not only‘ this, but—the-
thought seemed to tear through his brain like
ajagged bullet—she, the angel of his adora-
tion, would doubtless herself bound on the
mob upon his tracks; her testimony would.
condemn him to the deadly noose.

No wonder that the young man’s brain grew
like molten lead, and reason tattered in the
balance.

Springing upon the veranda—two steps at a

time—his hair flying in wild disorder, his
clothing torn and stained, as were his hands
with blood from his wound, Charles halted at.
the main entrance to the house, for, stretched
across the door-sill, was a little negro, fast.
asleep.
“ oor little Pompl” he muttered. “It is a
pity to awaken you. I would gladly, this
night, change position, name and race with.
you, for nevermore can I know rest or peace;
upon the earth. The blood that has been
spilled by another brands the as a murderer. I
must not awaken you, or you too will be a wit-
ness against me.”

Rushing up the stairs to his room, he quickly
lit a candle, and then threw himself upon a
lounge.

“ Great heavens!” he exclaimed; “ my cross-
is heavier than I can bear. Blood. blood upon
my hands, and upon my clothes) Blood upon
everything that I touch! I shall 5:9 mad, and
in my despair rush back to meet the mob, who-
will at least relieve me through death of my
horrible torment l”

Bathing his hands, he threw the water from
the window, and then loved his head.

He then removed his coat, and discovered
that the sleeve was perforated by a bullet, also
that it and his undergarments as well were
stained with blood—his own blood, thank Godt
and not that of a fellow-creature; and, though
he realized that he had been wounded, he felt
thankful, amid all the horror of his position,
that he was guiltless of that of another. ,

Upon examining his shoulder, he found  '-
the ball had merely plowed a furrow, , .
the surface flesh, and, washing the-wound. he
applied some healing salve, and then rseme
strips of adhesive plaster. He now knew that

~" I

Jame-Carbury had indeed fixed his pistol at
him, and that some third. party had shot his
opponent dead, and wounded Cora. The re-
port of the revolver had beervery load; this
he remembered, and he knew that some person
or persons must have been secreted ll. the
shrubbery, and had taken advantage of his po-
sition in the duel‘.o into which he was forced,
to fire when James Carbury gava the word—
thus, for some unknown reason, killing James,
and fixing the murder upon himself—for mur-
der it would in any event be considered, as
there had been no seconds.

That the same bullet which killed her brother
had wounded Cora did not ,0ch to Charles, as
there was no reason in such a supposition, and
the. fact that she had been wounded was to him
the most mysterious part of the whole mysteri-
ous affair.

However, it did now occur to him, and very
forcibly and regretfully, too, that he had been so
excited and so overwhelmed with horror, that
he had not looked about the scene of the duel
and ascertained if other parties were in view,
or searched the shrubbery for a concealed as-
sassin.

After hastily removing his clothes and attir-
ing himself in hunting costume, he opened a
trunk, took from it a pair of Colt’s navy revol-
vors and a bowie knife; these he buckled round
his waist, saying to himself as he did so:

“Little did I think when I purchased these
pistols that I should ever need them except in
the chase; but now the weapons may be useful
in defending myself against my maddencd fel-
low-men. Had I taken the life of another, un-
less it were that of some rufiian which I had
been forced to take in Self-defense, or to save
that of another, 1 would gladly welcome deulh
in any shape or form rather than suffer the
hell upon earth into which such a deed would
plunge me; but I am innocent of harming any
human being, even in thought, and 1 will live!
It is my right! I will live to see justice done
upon the fiend who has committed this base and
cowardly murder—yes, I will track the demon,
in the guise of mankinl, to his death, and I
will choke a confession from his dying lips.
Justice, 1 dedicate my life from henceforth to
thee! James Carbury shall be avenged, and
my name vindicated. Cora, my lost darling,
the day will yet come when you will wish the
bullet had been buried in your brain ere you
spoke the words that branded me—an innocent
man—a cowardly murderer!”

As Charles Adler turned he saw his reflec-
tion in the mirror, and he started back aghast,
exclaiming: .

“ Heavens, what a change! I would not
have known myself. The scenes through
which I have passed in one hour this night have
aged me more than years could have done. But

V I must hasten.”

Brushing out his long, dark-brown hair, he
hastily thrust a black, widelbrimmed hat upon
his head, and, putting what money he had in
his possession in his saddle-bags, he rushed

_ down the stairs to the front entrance, and lay-

ing hold on the sleeping negro boy he set him
on his feet, saying. as the little fellow yawned
and rubbed his eyes:

“Come, Pomp, shake yourself, and saddle
Thunder Cloud. Be just as lively as you can
about it. Then stay by the horse until I come
to the stable.”

“ Gollyl Mane Charley, whar yo gwinel”
asked the little darky in amazement. " Dis
yere ain’t no night for coons an‘ of you isbouu’
her go to de bottom, we-’uus doesn‘t want no
hosa’

“Do as I tell you, Pomp. Iam not going
to hunt; but I am, or very shortly will be,

. hunted myself. I am going away, and may

never see you again; but don’t you ever behave
anything wrong that anybody may say. about
me, will you?”

“Gel a’mightyl Marse Charley, you isn’t
never done nuifin’ out do way—I knows dat.
An’ ef you’s goin’ away dis here little nig am
jes’ gwine tar cry hisself ter defi’. Don’t ye go
for tor tell me dat yer is, Marse Charley 3”

"It is true, Pomp; but hurry up. You
don’t want the blood-hounds to tear me to
pieces, do you? I am in great danger. You
will know all about it in the morning.”

Filled with the greatest perplexity, anxiety
3nd grief, little Pomp ran to the stables, tak-
 iris young master’s saddle-bags with him,
‘ Charles turned aside into the library, and

_ f of two letters—the first tohi‘s mother,
which he left upon the table; the other, he
healed, and addressed to

 

The“ Lone Star Gambler.

“ Miss Conn 0mm“,
“ Magnolia Plantation."

This done the unhappy youth walked briskly
to the stable, where Pomp stood holding by
the bridle a powerfully built stallion, black as
midnight, that neighed at the approach of his
master.

“Here, Pomp,” said Charles, handing the
boy the letter; “keep this until you can
deliver it secretly to Aunt Huldy, over at
Magnolia Plantation. Tell her to give it to
Miss Cora, when no one is about to see her
receive it.”

“ 0h, G01 almighty! What am (lat, Marse
Charley?” cried poor little Pomp, trembling
with fear as he took the letter.

“ What is it that you see, Pomp?"

“I doesn’t see nuflin’, Morse Charley; but
doesn’t ye hear datl Listen I"

“They are after me, Pomp! Kids in the
stable, my boy! The blood-hounds arson my
trail. Good-byl”

Springing into the saddle, Charley Adler
gave a low whistle, as Pomp darted into the
stable, and the black horse Thunder Cloud
bounded away up the Brazos toward the west,
like a dry leaf before a norther.

 

CHAPTER XIII.
OFF THE TRAIL.
CALM as the placid waters of the Gulf, was

the broad expanse of prairie, over which Colo~ |
no] Carbury, Tom Stevens and his posse rode ‘

more slowly, on their return from their fruit-
less chase on the day that followed.

Calm and broad, seemingly limitless in its
expanse, stretching away until sky and savan-
na seemed to meet, was this boundless ex-
panse. It was now the afternoon, “in a land
where it seems always afternoon,” of the day
succeeding the one that had brought death, and
a sorrow that was worse than death, into two
homes which had been before, at least, peace-
ful ones.

The glory of the long summer day was slowly
fading before the approach of tho co-:l and
lengthened shadows, and the prairie bnal all the
appearance of resting, like the son in a calm,
with no object upon its broad liosu'ni to break
or to mar its solitude—11011:, crimp: the ex-
hausted steeds and their equally “om-out
riders, returning to Magnolia Plantation, de-
jected and disappointed in their thirst for
blood.

“ I will find him yeti I wear it i” said the
father of the murdered man, now more mad-
dened by his great grief than ever. “I will
find the cowardly miscreant, if I track the wide
univcr-e from end to end, until my dying day.
He sh all not escape mel’

“ We are of! the scent for the present,” said
the sheriff; “ but never fear. We are dead
sure to get track of him yet before 16 reaches
the Rio Grande. What do you think, Phil?"

“I hopes that we may, Tom,” was the reply
of Phil Munroe, “ ef ’tisa younkcr vx hat I hes
allers banked heavy on. But dog’d of I be-
lieve it outer him till yitl”

It is needless to say that the subject of these
remarks was Charles Adler, whose trail they
fully beliuvud they had struck, when, leaving
the stables, to which the murderer had evi-
den' ly returned after the killing of James Car-
bury, he had gone direct to those of the Adler
plantation, beyond a. doubt to secure a horso
for his flight. Phil Munroe, it will be seen,
was sill faithful in the face of the most con-
vincing appearances to the contrary.

But the pursuers were speedily bafied on
leaving the home of Charles Adler. I

Scarce five minutes after the young man,
mounted on Thunder Cloud, the fastest steed
for many miles around, had fled like the wind
'from the coming avengers of blood, and his
little negro body-servant had crawled tremb
lingly, and with suppressed sets, into one of
stalls, the blood-hounds dashed wildly into the
stable. Around and through it they scoured,
darting out almost instantly, and without
pausing to notice the terrified Pomp, who lay,
crouched in the smallest conceivable compass,
in the darkest of the gloomy corners.

Across the lawn and through the heavy tim-
ber, followed close by the horsemen, who, by
this time, had come up with them, went the
dogs. But the dark and sluggish waters of the
bayou lay near them, and here the scent was
lost. Following it up and down for some dis-
tance, the band having divided their forces for
the purpose, they sought in vain for some
time to strike the trail. Then they crossed the

bayou In a. body, feeling confident they could
not fail to come up with it on the opposite
side; but the search was still fruitless. The,
‘ hounds were completely bullied, and the long

night was one of labor and disappointment to

the sherifl and his retainers, who had started
. on their quest with the full assurance of a-
‘ speedy and successful issue.

After a. rest of some hours, and having pam
taken of refreshments at a plantation home
some miles distant, they continued the now Im-

 

it was almost certain the fleeing assassin would
touch on his way to the Rio Grands—for i;
was taken for granted by every member of the
party that the great frontier stream would be
the fugitive’s objective point. The place, for
which the early dawn found them riding
rapidly as before, was one which the murderer
would be able to reach by going in any one of

failed in striking the trail, the suggestion of
Tom Stevens that they endeavor to come up
with it at the blasted oak on the edge of the
(lanes, was received with universal favor. Hero
they all believed it would be next to imposdbh)
to miss it, and they did not despair of getting

old Texan hall-breed who lived Upon a. ranch
near at hand. But the blood-hounds ware sti'l
‘ at fault, and tho mestizo rauobero had neither
! seen nor heard of any one answering the de.
scription given of the escaped criminal.
Charles Adler had passed the blasted oak, if
indeed he had come in that direction, at an
hour when everything at the ranch was wrap-
' ped in sleep, and there was no trace at his hav-
ing halted. Besides, it was now Certain posi-
tive that he had not touched at this point in

 

l with the trail. The scent, which will not lie
. on the water, had been dropped at the bayou,

anti the point at which they would be able

again to take it lip—whether up or down the
‘ stream from the place at which it was oxidant
that the fugitive had crossed—had not been
discavered. Hence the return of the oavalcado,
weary and dispirited.

To Lafayette Cartury, who, in this long and
almost silent return from the chase. there was

The reflections which were ever uiperinox,

of the grief that by this time was ccip hi.l
noiseleSS, were of the bittcrest kind. It “on i
seem, he thought continually, that the s m,
not only of his youth, but of his manhood u:. l
old age, were now, at the late eventide, conil- ..;
home, like the Well-known domestic fowls, to

roost.

Reckless be had been through the six decades
of existence which had been his. Neither by
precept nor example had he ever sought to in-
fluence for good those around him, and least of
all, the poor boy who now lay in his winding-
sheet at the Magnolias, and whom he had in-
dulged in every whim and folly and excess,
forgetting that sooner or later “ the end of
these things is death.”

More than once in the years that were put,
had Colonel Carbury brought himsélf and

at the card-table; but this was neither known
nor suspected. for he was never irritatle over
his lo;ses, and the consequence was that even
those who knew their amount, mver loomed
them to he of material importance with him.
But the fickle goddess never deserted bir
volary for any length of time, and soon he
would find himself again upon his feet, and
that more firmly than over. His own success,
and the fact that, notwithstanding he had al-
ways been in the habit of imbibing ardent
spirits to a greater or less extent, made him
easier on the subject of his son; though he
was far from knowing the full extent of the
young man’s gambling and debauchery. But,
suddenly and fearfully, had come the culmina-
tion of it all, and the feelings of the bereaved
father—and a fond, almost criminally fond

pen can portray. In his bitter self-a tions,
as well as ‘his sorrow for the den , and his
mad dream of vengeance, he never on!»
through the long day thought of these who
might, or might not, be still among the living
at Magnolia Plantation. 0f the bereaved
mother, to whom the stroke could scarce fail to
be fatal; and who must, ore this, have been -
formed of the tragic fits of her. boy. ~31
Cora, wounded and perhaps dying, tossing“
the wild delirium of fever on her couch, and

\

 

.11,

certain pursuit by riding to a point at which »

some half a dozen directions, and as they had ‘

information that would identify him, from an '

his flight, since the dogs had failed to come up .

abundant space for thought and retrospection. '

rising and floating above the hitttr point-nun,» ,

family to the verge of ruin in a single night. ‘

father he had been—Were more agonizing than ‘

I.»

.n ma.

~u- :

«floor-m3 .mm:_‘  <-

12 The Lone Star Gambler.

 

with the one appealing cry hardly absent from
her fevered lips:

“Don’t shoot, Charley!
don’t shoot!"

The shadows were fast falling upon the
prairie, and faster and heavier upon the heart
and the brief years that remained of the life
of the master of the Magnolias; shadows which
no bright sunlight could ever drive away.
Longer, deeper, and darker they fell, on the
face of the broad prairie, and into the soul of
Lafayette Carbury. Soon the bright beams
from the day-god were extinguished in “ day’s
golden death,” and there was gloom upon all,
and upon all around. Then, the pale moon
sailed upward into the blue depths of the
mighty canopy, and cast its silvery radiance
upon the ocean of land beneath—land which
now fanned by the evening breeze from the
Mexique, had the strongest likeness, in the
billewy, undulations of the long prairie grass,
to the waves of the sea.’

Though still erect and of fine physique, Col-
onel Carbury had for a long time previous to
his introduction to our readers, the look of one
who was old for his years. Though tall, and
well-formed, as well as passably handsome,
his face had never been one that would com-
mand admiration, or even confidence. The
life of a fast and decidedly selfish man had
made its impress, as it never fails to do; but
for all that, the colonel had been up to this
time a fairly presentable and tolerably well-
preserved gentleman of sixty.

But to those who rode by his rein this day,
on their long ride back toward the Brazos, the,
stern old planter seemed tohave at once grown
bent, as though by years, and enfeebled, as
though by physical suffering. He had set out
on the trail of his son’s murderer with all the
fire and energy of youth. He had sworn to
lead the chase, and he had done so while it
lasted. He had vowod to lave his hands in
the heart’s blood of the destroyer of the hope
of his house, and he was returning, with the
look of a man aged and broken, his vow un-
kept, his vengeance still doomed to sleep, per-
chance never to awaken. .

Yet, foiled for the present though he was,
and, after the undue excitement of the terri-
ble night that was past, and which had buoyed
him up for the moment, had left him, weak
almost as a child, he never faltered in his
sanguinary resolve.

“1 will find the dastardly assassin,” he
would repeat over and over again. “I will
find him, though it be at the end of the-world,
and the end also of my 1i fel”

He was almost at his home now. The
motley-looking equestrian party, coming across
the wide open space in the clear moonlight, at
length saw in front of them the dark shade of
the magnolia grove. Here, at the entrance

If you love me,

. to the plantation, they were :to separate; Tom

Stevens, to his home to lay plans for the mar-
row; his mounted escort, to their respective
habitations, there, it might be to await further
orders; and Colonel Carbury, to his own he-
rea ved household, by himself.

And what might not be before him now,
when he crossed his threshold once morel
What new horror might not the past four-and-
twenty hours have brought down‘upon the
once tnltroubled calm .of that domestic seal
Tur bic' though its depths had been, the surface
had been our oil led until now; but, once shaken
to its depths, what fresh form of evil might
not come uppermost? God knows, there was
much that be well knew of, which himself and
his now dead son had done and left undone,
that might bring down a speedy retribution!
The bitter end might not be yet.

Ligh’s were visible in two or three of the
upper windows, although it was past the usual
hour for such asight in that retired home.
But the time was anything but an ordinary
one.” A dim illumination was also visible in
the large square parlor on the ground floor.
This he noticed; and then, the half-score or
more of sleeping negroes, resting in various
attitudes on the floor of the front veranda.
Not one of these stirred from his position, or
was aware of the arrival of their master, until
having dismounted near the entrance and ap-
proachedthe steps, his two favorite watch-dogs
recognized his approach, and greeted him with
a friendly bark.

Then his man, Mose, started up with a cry,
and ran forward to take his master’s horse.
It was no word of welcome or salutation which
metthe ear of Colonel Carbury; and, failing

the face of the negro. With a pathos that
is indescribable, the two brief words were re-
peated: '

«My minim!”

With the strength of youth, or rather of the
night previous, with one bound, Colonel Car-
bury without a word sprung upon the veranda,
and in three or four more, reached the lighted
room above.

 

CHAPTER XIY.
AND ALL FOR NAUGET.

“ GONE! And for what?”

It was a lady, and one in the prime of middle
life, still handsome and of a fine presence, who
thus exclaimed, more in anger than grief, as
she glanced over a crumpled and blotted sheet
of note-paper which she had just found on the
library table. It was the morning after the
tragedy at the Magnolias; the scene was the
Adler mansion; the lady was the mother of
CharlesAdler.

Adelaide Adler had not set eyes upon her
son since their parting in anger, immediately
after their early dinner on the previous day.
But she was an aflectionate mother in her way,
though a narrow-minded and somewhat selfish,
as well as passionate and prejudiced one, it
must be confessed; and knowing, too, the fond
and amiable disposition of Charles. had looked
forward with pleasurable anticipations to meet-
ing him this morning at the breakfast table.
The reader knows of the disappointment that
awaited her. ‘

There had been no news brought up to this
time of the tragic aflair at Magnolia. Planta-
tion; and little Pomp, the only one of the
household who had been disturbed the night
before, kept the little which he knew as closely
as he did the letter that had been given him
by his young master for Cora Carbury.

After her solitary breakfast, Mrs.‘Adler, in
no very pleasant mood, sought the library,
hoping there to see her son; for her offended
pride would not yet permit of her going, or
even sending, to his apartment.

So it was that her eyes at once fell upon the
letter which Charles had written so hastily on
the eve of his flight.

“ MOTHER, my dear mother," it began—“ you will
let me call youso. if itbe for the last time—I am
leaving in home—I go to—n htl Believe nothing
that you ear excep that am innocent. James
Carbury is dead—murdered—but not by my hand.
We met indeed, as you wildly hoped we one day
might do, in a hostile manner; but he was mad, in-
toxicated—and I was forced into it. He fell, shot by
some one whom I know not, but whom I am bound
to trace. 1 shot in the air. You may believe this,
my mother, for I swear it. Cora was also hurt, but
by whom is also a mystery. I cannot fail to be ac-
cused of the crime, for she saw and reco ized me.
There is no safety but in flight; and t on h life
without Cora Carbury is not worth flying for, must
live to track the murderer who has to—night blighted
my whole life.

‘ Farewell, my mother. May we meet some day,
when we shall be more in sympathy than we have
been of late. Be good to poor Cora, for m sake,
should it ever be in your power. If I live— t no
matter. May bless and comfort you!

“ I feel that the blood-hounds will soon be on my

rail and I must not  Good-b !
' ‘ Your wre’tched son,
“ Guam

“ Gone! And for what?”

Like most mothers of only sous, fond though
she had been of him, and selfish in her fond-
ness, Adelaide Adler had not been without
matrimonial visions for her boy.

The one thing needful, in the poor lady’s esti-
mation, was that Charles should seek for more
money in the bride he was one day—and she
hoped a not very distant one—to bring to Fair
Oaks; the home to which she was so much at-
tached, and which she resolutely refused to
part with, but which, since her husband’s death,
had been so sadly embarrassed and shorn of its
splendor. This had been her hope for years.

Her boy could afford to dispense with family,
that great desideratum with the upper strata
of Southern society in the old days; if he could
not—a scion of the houses of Adler and Clarke,
with the best blood in the blue grass region in
his veins—pray, who was there in the whole
land that could?

Charles was, it was true, of a silent and
rather self contained nature, never demonstra—
tive or elfusive in the least; but then, therehad
never been a vein of positivism in his compo-
sition, and the geod lady‘s plans for him did
not seem at all difficult of accomplishment.
This, of course, Was previous to the effectual
opening of Mrs. Adler’s eyes, as to the true
state of things between her son and’ the heiress
of the Magnolias.

The pretty little Cora, had she stood alone,

0.

 

tocatch its import he looked inquirineg into

though not entirely upon her ownsweet merits,

would have been quite acceptable as adaughter-
in-law. Her dower would have been sufiicient ’
tohave added the much wished-for finishing
glory to Fair Oaks; but she was a Carbury, and
nothing but the waters of Lethe could wipe out
such a stain.

And Charles, the amiable and yielding

Charles, had withstood his lady mother to the
face. He had declared his desire to be on
friendly terms with the whole race of the adver-
sary. He had denounced his mother's feelings
in the matter, as heathenish and wicked, and
he had wound up by declaring that Cora Car.
bury, if possible, and none but she should be
his wife. To the widow of the injured Kenton
Adler, this, from the last scion of the Adler
house, was well-nigh insupportable. Was the
feud of the Montagues and the Capulets to end
in such a way? No! Rather let it close, like
its prototype, in the tomb of the lovers!
So she had said in her heart when, in her
anger, she had slammed the door in the face of
her boy—the face she might never look upon
again. Blood, she had warned him, would
come of his unnatural going over in this man-
ner to the enemy, and blood had indeed come.
But by whom? And for what? These were
the questions which she put to herself now in
vain, and which poor Charles himself had been
unable to answer.

One thing alone seemed certain. James Car-
bury was dead. Yes; Charles had declared
that he had not shot him, although saying that
all the appearances were against him. And,
strange and dreadful as it may seem, the one
regret with the haughty and injured woman
when the crushing news came to her, was that
he had not fallen by the hand of her son. Who,
but the son of Kenton Adler should have been
destined thus to bring retribution upon Lafay-
ette Carbury? Fate, in dealing thus harshly
with her enemies, had, she felt, dealt unkindly
and inconsiderately with her.

Charles had asked her to believe in his inno-
cence in the face of everything; and she would
do so, for be was truth personified. But, in her
heart of hearts, she would have gloried in
knowing him to be guilty. If, when forced by
James Carbury, as the letter said, to defend
himself, he had shot and killed his assailant,
she would have felt that her husband could
now, at last, rest in his grave.

And for this—for what? as she asked herself

the question—her boy had gene; was hence-
forth to be a fugitive and a vagabond on the
face of the earth. He had fled, not that he
might save his life, he said, but that he might
devote it to tracking out—whom’l—the man
who had rid the world of her pet aversion,
James Can-bury!
, That wretched doll-faced girl had caused it
all, and he would be true to her now, even
unto death. She, too, would probably cling to
his memory in spite of everything, and believe
in his innocence. What if she had seen and
recognized him, as he declared? Cora Cerbury,
in her sweet simplicity, was just the kind of a
girl who would never lose her faith in one she
loved, though the whole evidences of all her
senses should be loud against him.

One would suppose that such a thought, such

a belief in the stricken girl, would have soft-
ened the heart of Charles Adler's mother
toward her, but it had just the contrary effect.
What business had Cora Carbury to believe in
her son at all? It was just as unnatural and
uncalled for as her son’s desire to be on ami-
cable terms with the Carbury family.

She could have endured the banishment of
her boy with the submission of a Spartan
mother, had he confessed to her in this fare-
well missive that he had taken the life of his
enemy. She would have shut herself up in
her haughty seclusion more closely than ever,
as feeling that she had nothing in the present
to cling to, that the future held out no how of
promise, and that she must henceforth live only
in the past. But she would have done that in
the bravest, though it might not be the best
spirit in the world. Her son, though she
never again might see him, had been the Nem—
esis of his race, and the avengiug blow had
come from the Adlers.

To a woman with the proud, unyielding
spirit of the mistress of Fair Oaks, to say
nothing of her vindictive and unforgiving
nature, the situation in that event would have
been akin to ahappy one. She was as relent-
less as a Comanche. Some strain of hdial
blood in the veins of her much-boasted ances—

 

tors, the Clarkes of Kentucky, hadthe mastery
with her; and, when we think of its very

mm. ,.

The Lone Star Gambler."

 

19:

 

pessimism-nits under-circumst that would
favor its Execution, we mflygmritnhlythope
that it was lessin than insunilyr  

But how would it be now? She imagined
m'wenld be'eilent, no matter what came of it.
Name should ever know from her whetbenher-
son had left even a word of; farewell. She
could safely say that she had" not seen him once
on that terrible night. Proud, colder, more X01,
servod than ever, she would become during the
remainder of her life. Its reminder—ray"
there was the rub. She mustJive on. for long,
years,- perhaps, though thereiwu nothing new
on earth to live for. Theuboon of death, ‘0
often rasth and pitsously- prayed tor by
weaker. women than harselt, can never be had
for themskinzl .: .c?  » a w

“ No one ever understood me, ” eaid:~this
worse thembenored moths, as she destroyed
the note which she had read and re-read. “L
neme act like the common herd. I can-,
nothe tame, and self-repressed, and prudent,
as it is the fashion tony instead of hypocrite?
cal. With me it has alwaysbeen—do all, dare
enrich all, whether I eufler or am happy.
Well, I have miss-id my vengeance, it seems.
Ithas slipped out of my hands. But'I will not
weep and fret over it, though the fates have

been so adverse. Neither will I lament over ‘

the disgrace and banishment of my son!”

Thus did the lonely lady at Fair Oaks steel
her heart to every softer feeling of woman’s
nature, and, only exclaim in bitterness, whom
she thought oi the .good. and-noble boy who.
was now outlawed—“ Gone! Andfor whetl”~

. 9“??—
-CHAPTER XV.
ran SON or um sonILOW.

Tm: patient, loxig-suflaing wife. of Colonel
Ctr-bury was dead.

Life may be borne for the entire length of
thevallotted periol be‘foremrrow looses the sil-
ver cord; but sometimes, in mercy, the bitter
tie which funds the sufleter to earth is severed
with but little warning. So it had been with
her. -Li“e, it issaid, is impossible without hope:
and, as tue only anchor of the poor, feeble wo-
man for years had been the frail one now cut
loose, asie a moment, she .no longer! clung to
existence. '

The love of Lafayette Corbury for the once
beautiful woman, who had been '

“ The more than illicth of his bkiom.
The Abishag of his age,“

if we may dignity his evanescent passion with
the name, had scarcely survived the birth of
 hiuhehed centereddl if.” of-
teotioneminee-thnt meant, and“ I!an deal-
c- a! my motion which the em mightaexx
htbit toword his mother. But Jamaican eut-
guvexv this. To his wife, Colonel-Corbury was
always studiously polite, and in her presence
We: very rarely rude or boisterous. The
truth was, she was one out these gentle little
creatures. with a perfect repose of manor,
who always act aha sedative on anion mercu-
rial temperament. All the-same, however, the
colonel was feverishly courteous and consid-
erate in his treatment of her, especially after
to become» inneh of an invalid, and the
probability ia'tliat the thought one: on *e '00-
man to him shaman. might hove anything
whereof to complain.’ \ . a ‘
 ill-feted Jamar—he had loved

vo y? owthgt hem sensible panel.
ble that, in.  goat. mow,” might have
been drawn .m to .tl- complaining
woman who had shared his joy: and sorrows
for more than a quarter of a‘century. But
now, shehadbeentabenfnnmhlneho.‘ L

There was Cora, it wu- true «though uh.
had never been more thanmseconzhry predi-
Wt she might be, even- now, on he.-
deathbed. There was nothing, the stricken
man W inngony of spirit, left for him to
live for. Under the first stroke of fills new
heavement, h tor-got, for the time, his oath
cl vengeance.

Poor Mm 01mm! The end haul come
My. Kindly and u cautiously as it could
be done. Dr. MEMO hed‘ commuuiCated to the
invalid mother the tearful news, when it was
mlonzespegsihle tokeep rebinowledge from
her. Contrary to his fears, she: had received
it mildly and emu-may, arithmedmnfie out-
we; of grief; but, nonothe less, to: heart was
m h «was the 1m stroke thatch. spirit,
«rang W~ to its um cum
hen. There mount snflcient'vitelity left in
her outset-led frame to make the faintest
s ruggle to inmris in its immortal tenant. The
(30cm! lit-id llc.‘ mould, and soul, in his kind way.

i ' ’

 

the \platitudes which” W' the my
thing to be said on such mman¢fiho
midtown Mint until“! Gad
smile when he had finisth hen“ the”.qu
padVerowayt she. took the. cute 3 tion
whichhe 'cistered, and which sheep ttle
needed, an soou fell into a quiet sleep. _ ,,
An hour-afterward; the‘physioian, who still
lingered at the plactstlon,,ce.rryiug out the
injunctions ,ot .the eolonel,,left..thewbedaide of
the now sleeping Core, and named the apart-
ment or “smother.  .. .
Mus. Carburymo longer slept. ~ Thgawalnene
ing had come; but it was on the on” side. ;_
._It fives not .ending for such . u v lite. JI'he
bittercup that was held; to her lipeat molest.

.aha had: barely tasted; thee smiled sweetly.

and fell asleep. :1 . i e, . v x.»

flan Mined-no mmmon. 10min Allie.
Recognising the fact labourer-husband’s.”
wasino longer-hers, she. threw out all the terr-
drilsof her ,fond, true heart to .herfiratboru.
He grandmas! as so my d0, can- (>ch all
unworthy. of it; hut-whet; of that? All the

more foudlyand passionately dld‘ she lovofiln. '

bog; although, in her. case, ,untort‘metely for
her peace of mind, love'wai; anything but
blind. To his doting father, James Csrhury
was to the last, Benjamin, the sun of has right

‘ hand; to his patienulmpetul mother,  was

Benoni, the son ol her narrow... r I . .

But she forgavo him everytbln ,‘glld loved
him, it ltwumbb- to dose, 0 yvthq more.
EU whole - being - bed gradually become
absorbed in him. She loved him, from the
first hour 0! his birth, with all the intense
strength of a really strong nature—strong to
endure and under. The Pretty girl-baby, who
was born to her. some seven years later, was
her pet, but the boy was her idol. She almost
literally gloated over his brightjand vivid
beauty, his wit and intelligence, and his really
loving natnm. If she knew his .Iaults, which
she did, and believed in her heart that he was
tulllnminto habit: of dissipation, she still hoped
and believed that her love for him, (twiddle for
her, would be his suleguerd, and that she
would live,to see him honored and beloved by
all. f . ‘ .
This hope, as has been sold, was her sheet
anchor. It was out levee, and, the frail bark
could only drift; but it soon was watted into
the haven where she would be. - , _

It was upon this quiet wreck of one of his
few remaining hopes, that Colonel Carbury
cane, when lie-dashed so wildly-up thermos.

and biotin.- chetnbeq'where. after é‘lila’av

m Muffinmtleedeul help-mate
adept "mu, . ._ I", .   ‘ ‘ ,V
Flinging himself, with‘o deep green, that

seemed drawn agonizineg from. .tlieiinoermost,

(16pr othls-aoul, bytho side, at tbemh
whereon all that was We! of her rested, he
lay there prone upon the floor, u out. in
body and spirit, untllasnewdny owned um
them. Then, ouee  the cold, gray, (or
We realities of daily life forced. them.
selves upon him. The thatch“ o! thalamu-
ter who was-alive,- had, theson who we dead,
and which had non visited-him meatball”
shoot had come- to. him, now muted..- The
new day brought with itmcl (1% Mdutipfl
which must be pariunmed. ,

Suns ariseau sldoein this world, end. they
shine autos brightly upon the dead as new
thelivinz, upon it mfiurld u WI dial. The
dread white stud and its aim rider you
over the earth: to their-cam at .de-
struaion, planing here and these. but leaning
tow; mks upon tlm mil. endlewwoutwerd
sleu- npon cthoeewrho vim ind survivh it.
With-ignores: aonoioutol— a youthful taco, an

added line or two on an older tumor: a for

"moniker thumb hfithe chmginghaire these
are nearly over the only tank”, which tell 0!
wrecked hearts, and ruined hopes, and oil the
terrible domino! anguish which .0 stirred the
depths, audJeft—ealm though the surface be
now—xthe precious freightcge, whicth car-
ried though dile’s voyage, ot. the bottom!“-
ever. - _
The new fly saw the remains of Junee Cab
bury and his mother laid side by side under
the shadows of the magnolias; ad the bus-
bend and. tether, in». his double anguish, be-
lieved at the moment, tint they were eqmllg,
mourned.th » ' A ,
Cora «in ley mien, III lever akin
hightybutehe no longer called the hamster
Charles Adler, in the raving: of her delirium.
This was well, for the colonel would have
found the sound hard to be listened to. ,

Tom . membenw the funeral was. over.
remained to acquaint theoolouel Ul',-,l;i.~' playing,
and  hopes that lie. hull. of captiu'ing'tho
smell). But the oldpleqter. though he heard
it all with the some interest as baffled-Unwed.
depriiyid ot a. mddenvot, the energy humane: -
minution which bed been his~ at the, that. He
had no Ewell resolve to lead the chase. “lie
expressed no intention of going on the “trail.
The subject Q1 offering a large rewandg which
the logul auihoritieuwould,s undoubtedly do, for
the 'cupture offlh lee Mler,__yv§s alludedto
by mesherifl’, and niche] CuliberchI-gllt at
the, suggestiqnhand instructed Stevens, to an-
nounce, his lager.» of five thousand dollars m»
hug, deed or alive. Others came, and he wus
no without .hisztlnrv. 01. imam-be comforters.
The, HBOIOLWM.” the primitivevttizee m
the land of Uz seems likely to stretch, like
Mao's royal dynasty,“ till crack glider)» ."
He heard them in silence; undestranse to ray,
without even new! of impatience. . Hiwld-
time spirit was too much mend {it e390

It was 'dlflerenthhowwer, when Phil Mun-
rOP, as the lull: ,ot. the neighboring photon, and
rancheros, were taking their leave, again es—
serted hie belief in the innocence of the ac-
cused. » , ‘

Someone spoken! the loot that no one at
Fair 04k! had seen Charles Adler since on
early hour on the eveningof the tragedy, and
that the time and mama-o: his» leuving home
Was evidently unknown to the neg: om collie
mother's pleutation. m tallied with all that
was alreadyknewn and suspected

“ Thar hein’t no doubt but what the youn-
her hes levanted,”said the ranchero; "but for
all 0’ that, hyer's oneth ’11 b’lieve Charley
Adler is a cowardly cut-throat when he hears
him confess ter hit, an’ not beforel"

“ What will you believe, then, Munroe?"
asked the colonel, with a glimmer of the aid
excitement of manner returning. '

,“Jest what I sees with my  eyed cur.
n?l. Bit’e dog-zoned Queer, I_ will say thet
much, but I knows the boy, and I stan’s up fer
hit that he‘s squ‘ an’ white."

Colonel Caithury’e pale face flushed with not
gar undJlsguet as he turned away. Phil
Wald, apparently. make but few converts to
his charitable opinions. It would , be wen.
enough, so everybody thought, to talk of gir in;
young Adler the benefit or the doubt when any
reasonable doubt should arise. Yet, like Goli-
100. the one friend .0: the, “ascending alleged
murderer held to his belief, even in the face of
 Hepersisted ‘thathgkhew Char-

ey Adler, and momma-enamh tor, him. _,

untiean was not to heme at; her he
had yet to listen) to the: which was still. more
unwelcome, end tram where it vm lent tx—
‘ CHAPTER XVI. .

,_ I'll FAG! “ORG {FBI-FLOWERS. .

Tan (1th had passed. Wild! .00“ Caer.
and showdqu came been!) lite. and w a
realization of what that lit. must bracelet-tie

be: V I - . .. ,,.
’ Although in her latter delirious utterances,
the named herblm'm ceased lo bl men-
tioned by her, themed ot the poor girl will
melt am the homes «the last m that
Mlmwiukd itmlt umber brain. It seemed
impassiblefor henmbether elasting willing.
to Milt trom her. And every word,,evaiy
allueimi whiohehehsd made, mneto protein
Dr. Maule’l hypothesis of the murder. ‘
“Iuw ' —I d1dl”,Cora would 'exclalm,
frm thus to time. "I saw his fine, ihat
wicked tees. among the bushes. and the 3am-
mine blooms around it. Ohl that evil eye,”
and the raving elflweuld shudder» “That

mine!” . , 1

Over and over awn would she. cry cut. in.

wing wright, as she lived over in her
 imagination the dread tableau in
which she had taken so prominent a part. But
still on name was spoken.

“53w:qu and ran," she would say, “,he
run like a dog through the shrubbery, He will.
escape!” , ,

 “You, my poor child.” the oldcolonslwould
wreaths-at bv the bedsidenf his Melina
child. and held her “litmus hand; “he has:
escaped, but we will havetha cowardly fiend
yet. Your poor brother’s dastardly mama»

 

will be avenged.” ~
Strength earns slowly back to Cora Car-

._«rm~ the colonel ohm hear. no. M'l'uh 5m;

evil eye among the sweet blossoms of jessr

.4

- A . ¢~4=n+hzi¢42e¢

n a

s

mfi<~.3..;-c

 :- Wu. ..- I“. 

' Maids.

The Lone Star Gambler.

 

2 I
bury, and the dayoame when she had to be
informed of the additional loss she had sus-
tained. But, though she had loved her mo-
ther iondly, the sad news that she would look
no more upon that mother’s face in this world,
seemed scarcely to agitate. her. It was but
one blow additional, and in the bruised condi-
tion of her spirit, it seemed insensible to suf-
'fering.

“Did he shoot all three!” she asked. in a
tone'whioh held more of anxiety than any in
which she hadpreviously spoken.

“ Yourpoor mother? Oh, no,” was the re-
ply ‘of the colonel. “ Her death was calm and
peswhsl, quiet as even her life had been.”

“I mean—you know whom I mean, papal
was'Charley—was Charley Adler killedl"

Colonel Carbury'sprung up in great agitar
tion.

“Killed! No, my poor child! Would that
hehadbeenl But he escaped," you feared
he would—the cowardly assassin of our boy
James has escaped.” '

“ i knew he. would get away. I felt that he
had done so; for no one but myself—'not even
Jamie—saw him. But I saw his face as he
was on the point of firing, and I saw him as
he stole away through the shrubbery. His
eyes—0h, they wore terrible, papal but I r'e-
cogniaed him though he lo<ked 'so diflerent, so
fiendish!" ‘ .

“To be sure, you did, my child; and we
will capture the misoresnt yet. Charles Ad-
ler shall atone for it with his lifel?’ .

“Charles? Oh, papa, he did not shoot! I
know that he did ot. Icalled to him, not to
do so. James, 1know, shot at him, but
Charley—no, never-l And that horrid: face,
those wicked eyes—and’ll‘amie never knew it.
He shot, peer Jamie did, at Charley! but he
was ‘not killed, as Jamie was? 0h, say he
was not papal Tell me that Charley is not
dead!”

The girl’s excitement was now so intense as
to be alarming; and Dr. Mlnle, coming in at
that moment, thought it best to administer a
.soporlfic, fearing ‘e return of the fever.

" She has been telling you what she saw, has‘
.she not, colon‘eli" inquired the doctor.

“Yes, poor child, she insists that there was
another, though she does not name him; and
that he was concealed in the shrubbery. She
says that my son did not see his murderer.”

' “Vs likely“ DutMiss Cora saw and re-
cogni him!” a -

“ So she says, doctor; but she has‘not called
his name!" '

“Not 'of late, I have noticed, but she did
constantly in her delirium at the first.”‘

“She still says," was the reply of Colonel
Curb , use: shesaw young Adler, and,
called limhnot'to sheet; and she will have
it that he did-not do so.’ The ether, the con-
cealed assassin, she contends was the one who
did the shooting. It is strange—passing
'et a.” r '

“Not at all,'colonel; it is very probable.
Adler’s coufsderste, as he must have been-J

"Yoth the'yiwere lsagued together?’
said the Ml, quickly. ' 

“Not the least doubt of it,” replied Dre

“ It must ‘besoinde‘sdfl'Colencl Oarbury ad-
mitted. "Irentflle first! was pumledto'lnahc
out how  villain had been equal
to the dehd iby hlmwlf. But peorold Dan-
whoythink‘you,’ butcheredathe hustler?" " - "

“Young Adler Of course,” was the answer.
“The bandwiefl’hund under the negro’s
body. is proof conclusive on that point."

“ It seems so," said the colonel; “but I
could as more readily have believed the other
assassin to have been the guilty one there.‘
Charles‘Adles- was always an especial pet with
Uncle Dan, and there is no mature apparent in
his case.” . ,

“ There need not, necessarily, have been
guy,” said the doctor. ' “Adler may‘ have felt
coupened to silence a probable witnem;
dark-stilt was in the stable, he very possib y
did not recognize his old colored friend.” '

“True, very true; but this other? That is
what we must first find out. Who can he

“Can your daughter not identify him?”

r “fie said distinctly just now that she knew
him; butane-suddenly became so agitated—”

“Yes, and no wonder. I am glad that I
happened in when I did. She must. not be
disturbed now, colonel. When she is stronger,
and her names in better condition, will be
time enough to find out all that we wefld

r

 

know in addition to what is already known be-
yond peredventurs—J’

“You believe, Dru Mauls, that the nor-
derers camped in companyi”

“ We had but one trail, you know, and that
led tothe Adler plantation. Straight to the
stables, where they went at once for their
horses, and than first to the bayou, where the
dogs lost the scent. I have little doubt that
they left in company. Charles Adler was, I
take it, hardly sufloiently up to the ways of
the world, depraved at heart though. he seems
to have proved himself, to exact such an ce-
cape by himself.”

"So I too would have supposed. But do
you credit the universal tale among the Adler
negroes, that none of them saw their young
master on his return?”

“ I doubt very much if any of them did so.
The hour was one at which they would very
likely be all sleeping, and the trail did not lead-
tothe house, but ouly to the stables. No, I
don’t imagine that any of the slaves saw them.
Had they done so they could nfver keep it to
themselves. The distinction 0 being the last
one who had seen and spoken to “ Marse Char-
ley ” would be too much for their discretion.

It was some time before Colonel Carhury
was able to renew the conversation with his
daughter, which her nervous excitement had
interrupted; and, when he did so, he could
glean nothing that was satisfactory. She con-
tinned to be very weak in .body, and evinced no
anxiety on any subject but the escape of "her
lover. ' This, as may be readily believed, was
anything but pleasing to her father. Seeing
that all were averse to speaking of Charles
Adler, she at once grew very reticent on the
subject of the mysterious individual in the
shrubbery. -

“Why should I speak of him?” she would
cry out. “ You think' that Charley killed poor
Jamie, and that I have imagined there was an-
other. It is wrong, it is wicked, and I will
not talk of it any moral Charley never shot at
my brother.” '

It was not wise or expedient, so every one
felt, to trouble the poor girl more than was ab-
solutely necessary until her convalescence was
more fully established. 50 Cora was per
mitted to meditate on the bitter past, and to
build, ‘11 her weaknem, .what air~castles she
might lor the future. .

- ‘As for the colonel, a. sense of failure had the
effect of. ifnbittering his mood against every
one. He would have felt relieved could he in
some way have punished his daughter for
clinging, as she did so persistently, to her‘
affirmation of Charles Adler’s innocence.

Athisbestestateflolouel Carburyhadbeen

'a man of evil temper, whom it was not sale to
thwart. and positiver dangerous to arouse._
'He had grown masher since» the crushing

weight had fallen upon his. heart, and he felt
besides the-necessity that therewss in the'
present lease, for self-repression. Whenrbil
daughter would answer his appeals for use.
light upon the mystery of the magnolia shades,
by demanding to know if Charles were safe, or
by declaring. most positively that he had never
shot her brother, the anguished father, in his
suppressed rage, would stay 9 hear no more.
With a bitter though silent curse upon his lips
he woulddart'from Gore’s room, stride madly
down the stairs and out into the new neglected
garden, kicking savagely at dog or young
negro that might chance to be in his way.

The house—servant who might be lingering
about the balls at such times. would scemper
awayatthe sound of his steps, for. theyweil
knew that his wrath would fall like esledge’-
hammer on any unlucky creature who might
happen to cross his path. . » - .

I-Iewould go out and Wuhan-headed
through the gardens and themes of magno-
liss until the dews of night were clinging about
his clothes and his ‘long white hair, and than,
when the fierce tumult within him was some-
what subdued, he would raturn to the,houee.
His face, pallid as death, and now washed with
deeper lines than of old, would frighten, on
such occasions, oven old Aunt Huldy, who was
ever ready to anticipate his wants, and was
willing. besides to throw her privileged old
bodyvinto the breach in order toast aloud ex-
ampleto her- fellew mania. _

But the time came when Cora usable to
leave her couch and Wu massively
interest-inflict“ passing-around has. fine
was tar from falling into a listless way, he me
would be apt to imagine one so delicate and of
such a temperament to do; on the contrary,

 

"

she seemed to have left her volatile drlheed
behind her, and to have become equal at once
to the sad situaflon which was hora

More than this, she evinced a desire to grow
strong and well immediately, and took the
greatest care and precaution in that direction.
On one, and that the all-absorbing subject in
the household at Magnolia Plantation, as well
as through that entire section of the country,
she was averse to holding conversation. No
longer excitable, she nevertheless would put
away from her pll quefiionings in regard to
what she had witnessed on the night of her
brother’s murder, with the same reply.

“ When you tell me that you believe Charles
Adler to be innocent, then I will tell you who
I am certain and positive, is the guilty watch;
but not until thenl”

“But, Cora,“ her-father would plead, sup-
pressing at the same time his anger at her ob-

stinacy; “haw are we ever to know for whom I

we are to hunt, for your,er brother’s death
must not remain nnarengedi"

“ Go after the man whom you believe to be
the assassin,” she would say; “and bring him

.back. Iwish you would.”
“You forget that there were two, my ‘

childl"

"I do not, papa; there was but one.”

There was no shaking this constant assertion,
and evident assurance of the young girl, and

the colonel began to believe that the mind of .

his child was seriously aflected. The time was
near at hand when he would be confirmed in
this sad belief. -

The moon had not yet arisen, but the stars
had begun to speck the misty sky, one quiet
evening, when Cora, after a day spent entirely
in her room, and occupied, as had been a mt
part of several previous ones, in a manner that
was unknown . even to her own maid, was
standing by the window, looking thoughtfully
in the direction of the Rio Brazos.

A light step was heard in the apartment be~ .

hind her; and, turning,‘she saw Aunt Huldy.
who handed her a much worn and soiled
envelope, and at once withdrew. .
It was long months before the fond old
negress looked upon her young mistrem again.

 

CHAPTER XVII.
m cams or burn.

Across the wide prairie beyond them
astridc of a noble white steed, darting like an
arrow from a bow, and disappearing over a
rise in the undulating open, rode a young man
in the well-known costume of a frontiersmau.
Theyformed the only object thathrohe the re-
pose of the immense solitude, andwers lollow-
ing a trail that wound caress the prairie, and

disappeared amid a range of hills which arose - '

in fantastic shapes toward the south-west.

The face of the horseman, all M though-
it was from exposure to the sun’s says, and
with along silky brown beard completely cou—
oeshag its lower ieesures, wanavorthelessone
to be remembered. .

His eyes were a marvel rod beauty, hie fore-
head was breed and intellectual, and a wealth
of dark wavy hair clustered around his shape-
ly head and fell upon his neck that was like a
column of bronze. Tall, well-formed and
handsome, he was, with a physique of iron and
a visage that would have commanded admiral
tion even among a gathering of notabilities, he
was, on would have saidat aglance, cute!
place in that wild sceneon s Texan prairie,
cladinahuchskinsuit, wearing abroad black
sombrero,”de likeadsspersda'

With his eyes fastened on the trail ahead of
him, he urged his horse onward, although the
noble animal was beginm to show signs at.
fatigue, and had evidently been ridden tar and
furiously. -

“I don’t know why I Should be in such
haste,” ’he said to himself, “for the day is
young, and I can easily reach the motto where
[intend tocamp ysunset. But somehow I;
can’t gettheideu I danger out of this shal-
low pate of mine. Psbawl~ I am growing
superstitious. There isn‘t on Apache within
fifty miles of me.”

Though in a land where it that “maths
Ind-isnls war-whoop was more frequently heard
thsuths crack of atesmsterb wlip, yahflrs
scout-know thoroughly well usher-cothspoka
No one was better acquainted thanhefith any
hostile body in their mavements from to - Prin-
sos to the Rio Grands. ‘

For days past he had been conducting, under

\

z

-§-

l

The Lone Star Gambler.

 

=3 _

 

his sole gntlauce, a considerable wagon-train,
made up of men with their wives and little
ones and other belongings, slowly marching to
their distant homes for to the south-westward.
They had passed through the land of r the red-
skinand the equally dreaded white road-agent;
but their guide know every possible impediment
in the way of their progress, and how to avoid
them. He was now, instead of returning to
the place whence he had set out aweek before,
on his way to join a couple of old'pards whom
he knew to be camped at the present time on
the Medina, and with whom he had for-\some
time been projecting a visit to the Alamo City.
An occasional look-in on the scenes of civiliza~
tion would seemto be necessary to this young
man’s cxistencp, for no pilgrim to. a sacred
shrine was ever more regular and methodical .
in his am than was our friend in his
journeys to and brief sojourns in every town,
of importance in Western Texas. As he
neither-gambled nor drank, and had never been

~ accused of a penchant for either American

beauty or senerita, this “ method in his mad-
ness" would seem to imply business; but of
what character it might be, if such were indeed
the case, even his pards were in ignorance. '

After laughing, as we have just heard him,
at his superstitious fears, he rode along more
slowly, until the prairie became more rolling,
and in the dim distance it merged into the foot-
hills of a lofty ridge of wooded land. The
motto for, which he was riding waealittle to
the southward. and though not so distant as
the range of hills which arose upon his right,
was not yet visible.

As if forgetting the assurance he had given
himsell'that no enemy was within a day’s ride
of him. the scout cast occasional glances behind
him, and acted as if he had some cause of
alarm which he could not define, and which he
would not admit to himself could exist”

The afternoon, now drawing toward evening,
was an unusually lovelyrone, even for Western
"Texas. The rays of the semi-tropical sun,
though not obscured, for the sky was cloud-
less as an Italian landscape, were mellowed by
the .soft base through which they fell, and
which seemed to arise, a mystic rather than a
misty exhalation. from the flowenbespangled
prairie. The mild sephyrs from the distant
gulf, swept unreeisted along the broad expanse
of low level country, with a wealth of new life
and stimulus in every breath. Soon it rose,
and began to blow steadily, stirring the long
grass into billowy waves. . ~

Th  turned, as he had already
done. semaltimes, and Ilachened the pace of
his-steede a walk ashe listened. . Thatasound
had caught his ear, borne upon ‘the rising
breeze. was evident from the expression which
his face suddenly asmmed. Au-enemyl could
it be, when he knew so well the movements of
every hostile party on the .frontiersl Yes, an
enemy of whom he had often heard, but whom
he had never yet encountered. One whose
way were pest finding out; cruel as a
Comanche, releutless in its pursuit, as. any
Apache.

In the first real terror that had ever yet
struck the brave heart or this pilot of the
gem-lee, he named the nameof the pursuing

“The pralllo is on lire!” ,

Scareer had  spoken, striking his. spurs
(deep into his steed as he did so, when he saw.
through av narrow. opening which divided the
ridge of low hills, which he had left on his
right, a towering column of flame and smoke,
running like“ some. huge, fiery serpent, before
the wind and across the prairie. On he dashed
wildly and desperately. _ '_

“The we is behind me, and it is still
~rising and blowing strong! I must ride for. itl’”

Yes, he must ride roi- it indeed—for lite; for-l
the little hope of life that remained, the one
M chance that might be his. ‘ ~

The scout was calm amid it all, and kept his
presence of mind. although the prospect of
escape was Blight; for, last as his horse was
the roaring demon came faster. Another
glance behind him showed that the fire had
reached. the prairie on this side of the ridge,
and was now extending its flaming legions on
either side, aal was. rapidly inclosing the vast
plain in its binning embrace. _

I .‘fOnrfleltml . 01:, old fellow!" he cried, but
am. .m which was more aflectionate than
that with which he was wont to address the
noble animal, forgetting himself almost in his

 

concern for his nobly-struggling but already
nearly exhausted horse. Knowing, however,

i

that in the speed of Selim was his only hope,
he. gave the noble beast rein, and he sprung
forwarder if fresh upon the trail. Run

by the wonderful strength, speed and endur-
ance of his stood, the young man momentarily
forgot his danger, until recalled to it by a
loader rear and flower crackling than before,
as the flames struck a richer growth of the dry

grass. .

As though bent on showing his master that
he knew how much depended upon him, the
superb animal hounded forward with increased
speed; for, though he had felt no cruel lash
upon him, he understood what was expected
from him, and was doing his utmost.

Nearer and nearer came the fire, until its
heat was actually growing painful, and with a
glance into the prospect ahead of him,'the
scout gave himself up for lost. He was about,
however, to urge Selim to one more desperate
eflort, when ~t e horse suddenly halted, and
then turned to the' left. This, then, must be
the end. ' n 3

“Poor fellowl \ He has failed me after all!"

these words, in pity for the noble beast far
more than for his. own fate, fell from the
young man’s lips. He closed his eyes for an
instant, and then gave what he believed 'to be
a last leek around him. Suddenly his firm,
pale face lighted. '

“Saved!” he cried out. “ Here is a divide!”

Down the steep pathW'ay into 'the deep ra-
vine mumbled the steed, and crouching down
while his rider “dismounted and lay stretched
by his side against the overhanging bank,‘man
and horse waited for the fiery deluge."

It was not long in coming. Over their heads
swept the sea of flame, roaring like myriads of
infuriated fiends, and sending down into the
divide a heat that was almost beyond both hu-
man and equine endurance. Happily for them
it was for only a brief space. For a little
while they crouched in the manner that has
boon described, and then the heat grew less in-
tense; the flames had been broken on reaching
the ravine, and then had gone away along
their course, but more slowly, for the wind
had suddenly lulled.

Presently man and beast stood uptogether,
the latter panting, and the former with his
face wearing the same sculptured expression it'
had borne when the last hope had left him. A
moment more and‘this chang
fondness came into his eyes,'as e began pat-'
ting his horse, while his statuesque face seemed
transformed into the mobile countenance at a

c . , ,
huge noble steed had taxed hisstrsngth to the
extreme limit, 'and now tattered on his feet
when he attempted ‘to pace thelength of the
divide. The prospect of reaching the matte,
w had been the objective point of the
see it was now a doubtfnl'one, for Selim could
not be urged, in his‘present condition, to con-
tinue’on the trial. It woifld b6 the refinement
of cruelty, and enact of which his manner was
incapable, to‘think of, such a thing. It would
be base flattery to call ,the men unfeeling‘ who

would exact it. .
Leaving the exhautted animal, the scout
started oi! along the divide to reconnoiter as
to the best point in the ravine for "a hivouac.

"the , air had a stillness as if it too had been

worn out in a contest with the devouring ele-
ment;. arid after the heated furnace which had
now cooled, it seemed'tbe most reh‘eshiug in
its every breath that the youngman had ever
known; it was a weird piotmte,‘ had there
been any one ‘at hand to. draw it, that the
scene presented The last declining rays of
the setting sun falling through the char-red
branches and snags overhead upon the bank,
one old, and blasted tree, now scorched to
blaek'nese,‘ lying across from one step side to
the other, with a single jagged bongh out-
ltretched like a witch’s wand, the panting white

. steed leaning against the side of the deoli’rity,

and his master, in the picturesque costume ‘of
the lains, peering ahead of him in the uncer-
tain mbraudt light, made up a picture which
many a one would long to paint.

The scout scrutinised the ravine as far as
his eye could distinguish any object, and then
advanced a. few paces. v

As he did so, his glance rested on a com-
panlon piece to his own at the opposite end of
the divide. A horse, black as ebony, lstood
trembling, as his own white steed was now
doing; and a man, younger than himself, andr

as a look of ,

 

similarly attired, was looking down the length
of the ravine in which he too had taken
shelter.

15

CHAPTER XVIII.
women ms or an.

m missive which old Aunt Huldy brought
to Cora that evening in her chamber, and
which, the reader will have already divined,
was that which had been written so hurriedly
by Charles Adler, on that fcarfnl night, in the
library at Fair Oaks, served to conllrm the
faith—had any such confirmation been re-
quired—cf the maiden in her lover. All these
long, anxious days, poor faithful little Pomp
has treasured the epistle which his young mas-
ter had enjoined upon him to deliver secretly.
It had become greatly the‘woree for wear, but
the little nay-0’s chances of meeting Aunt
Baldy were not Very frequent. Pomp, how-
ever, haunted the banks of the bayou, like a
weird little specter from its depths. and at
length his patience and fidelityws‘re rewarded.
Though ignorant if to its contents, and hover
suspecting from whom it came, for Pomp was
discretion itself, Aunt Huldy did not hesitate
to hear the not very attractive billet to her
mistress.

‘Cora Carbnry read it, and her resolve was
fixed; Had (marlee written differently, had
his communication been an acknowledgment
of guilt-—though that was impossible—the
young girl would have hesitated about the
course she l ad made up her mind to pursue, or
perhaps‘wound have abandoned it altogether.

But he had written, and in the very way-
the only way indeed—in which she knewit
could be possible for him to write. And she
might have known that he never would have
left without a word-for her. '

“I an leavin " he wrote' “leav'iu home and"
you forever! ell, too Weill know w‘lxat on will
thian of me, and what the memory of me ust be
in your heart. - But, believe it or not—and I know
you will not behave me though I swore it——I am
nnocent. But I may not ask on to distrust the
evidence of your own senses. ou saw ycuzfirr
brother and myself in apparently dead] co t.
Cora, youlmow poor James and me, an on will
believe this much; I was forced into it. on saw.
and called tone to spare him. It was unnecessary.
lhad made is in mind to die 1) hisli'and.,1am
wounded as it s, ough hut sligh ; my own pistol
I shot in the air. \ I saw James , and you also
and I waited long one h to see that your wound
was not a ‘fatal one. an then, hearing the coming
footsteps of those whom the shots had alas-ted. .
tied knowing how strongtlly the appearances were
against me. Cora, I am eelng from you‘andthe
testimony which I lmow you will give. 1 cannot
hear the thought of your condemnation. Yonwlll

to me; it cannot be otherwise. I must live ling?
t e thought of it, for l have something still to e

for. I do not that 1 know who is {our brother‘s
murderer, but go to and him. hough’ es

Jam
Car nonspt life he all be v ed
thgo rue. , out-Jig live, I see that]
to regret the‘hasty udgme eh i must not
“will?” wt“? 3.3"". is?“ 'i" "Mm...
aw e a new no . _ m ;

anrfieputation are unstainedbefo flaworld.

“Farewell. Core; .1 will not you what you

“ 0mm 0. Anna. "

have been audunust‘em be to me.

Core} Carbury read this letter, and all down,
her face unchanged, to meditate upon its on-
‘enu. ‘ 4

It was - a strangely attractive face at allv

times, and now, with the new-hern‘iight of

some firm resolve stamped upon it, there was
a beauty and an attraction. in it which it bd‘
never before worn. Pure, and delicate, and
sweet, and youthful. wonderfully lovely and
warmth in its expression; not bright and-
vivid, and glowing and enchanting, like those
iaces‘whieh'aaaale and inistnate men. warping
their coolti' judgments and winning them over
to all kinds of ruslmesl. It was oneethat could
not fail to appeal to the higher nature of any
man who had 'a spark of honor and chivalry
in his composition. And now, with the air of
determination which gave a queenly grace to
what before was elmOst childish in' its loveli-'
ness‘, she looked as thouglxborn to rule. '

Charley had been right. to go as he' did.
Very well did Cora know that. Even now,
in spite of her armiouste the contrary, every
one believed him to be the assassin; and had
he remained, whomas they told her, she kept
calling upon him in her delirium and evia
dently identifying him as her brother’s mur-
derer, his life would surely have fallen a sacri-
fice, as her father’s anger could have ' been ap-
peased in no way short, of this. There had
been ‘clearly nothing else for him but flight.
Butlthe thought that it was her jnogment of
him that» he had feared: that he had gone away
believing that-she could condemn b-m, was the
bitterest thought of all.

“I would have believed in Charley Adler,"
she said, calmly and tenrlemly: " I would have

~ believed in him, even it I in; I not seen—” ‘

m av—"n m

"'16 .

The Lone Star Gambler.“

 

Then she shuddered,as though the last ob-
ject that hadfihllen upon her glazing eyes as
in, thergarden, was ever, before

It  almost midnight before the maiden
drained, herself from the state or inaction,
almost ofstupoainto which she had fallen
after reading the message from‘the fugitive.
This could not go? on. She must be up and
do'mg. ,A new day would 'dawp presently, and
that day must find her—where? From her
windows” she greed out, she. could see the
twinkling stars reflected in the depths of the
wide Glulf‘in the distance, could hear the sad lap—
ping of itanzaves upon the sand y beach, and catch
. thg glowing phosphorescent flashes which came"
from. third. _ > There, was no moon, butthe sky
was bf htly. ,blugiand a.;few,' fleecy clouds,
hov. I, ,here and there. It) was strange that
thwfleringgirlzcould thus standand drink in
 beautypf the,scene;- but all her
terror, and misery, and anxiety seemed far
removed-from her. or, else swallowed up in the,
contemplation of what was before her. '

_ Standing thus alone—alone indeed, in every
sense—Cora dreamed of a triumph that might
be hers.’ They had refused to listen to her-
when she told them. the truth, as she .knew it.’
They had behaved as thOugh they thought her
words were still spoken in her delirium. She
could-no longer endure this. It would drive
her marl; She remembered having heard her
dead mother say, that the right always tri-
umphed- in the end. And was not Charles
Adler right? He was, and some day the world,
this shortosighted censorious world, would ac-
knowledge it. ‘

Evil, too, she had heard, never prospered
long. Her poor brother—it was sad to think
of, now that he was no more,‘.but she had
known it only too well—:had been wild and
reckless, and see what a fate had overtaken
him! r

Retribution, sooner or later, must come,upon
the wrong-deer, and if James’s and had been
such a fwful one, surely that of his cowardly
slayer could not be less so.

It must be, and her eyes would look upon it,
as they had been witnesses of the crime. She
could never forget the face with its evil eyes
that haunted her. It ever confronted her, and
eclipsed the one vision that, before she had
beheld it, was always before her. .It clouded
and obscured, in its hideous ugliness, the face
which was so frank, and true and honest. And
he had been made the scapegoat. He, so
generous, and chivalrous, and noble! Who
had there ever been who could equal himl No
inks; or mean word had ever stained‘hie lips—
no selfish thought had ever come near to him.

The.me girl thought of that last walk
with her lover in the garden, of. the fond vows
that had been breathed, and the brief space
that had been here to linger upon. them. It
wgall solng ago;,so much had_happened
since then, that she felt as though she had
grownold. 0r, had it heeu.a.dream,_and was
this the awaiting? .( . f

She had parted from him that‘night, and
[one away willingly at the last, for she wished
to be We. . She wanted to sit down, and try
to realize the great happiness that had now
come to her—to shut her eyes, and hem; ain
the words and see the glances that madeagher‘
minis and her sunshine. She. had gone, not
into the house, but toaseat in the front garden,
nearjthe end. of the veranda; the pleaaent
moonlit garden, where the roses and jasmines
perfumed the air. - Such a solemn and still
night as it was! The pole stirs gleamed in the
tropicaky, the mooub'eams gave a silvery ra-
diance tothe water and the trees, the flowers
were sleeping; the r alone seemed to be
awake, andto greet or as their queen. Far
off, like the'sweet faint echoof music in a
dream, shecould hear the sighing of the sea.
She was alone, though it had been for a brief
minute only—alone with the beauty of the
summer night, and her “ Dove’s young dream.”

Then the angry . alternations, the voices
which she knew so Well, awakened her from‘
her blissful musings, and she, had gone back——
gone' back to misery, and horror and grief l ,

But not tothcse; entirely; for had not Char-
ley loved her? Yes, and she loved him; and
neither present anguish nor future horrors
couldevu office that. She believed, because
she knew, that it was

- “Better to have loved and lost,
Than never to have luVL‘J a; all.

Colonel Cn'bury had been in no enviable

frame ,of mind, even after his accumulated

at

 

griefs had begun to subside from their first
violence, He badtold himself that he ‘could
live only for vengeance, but he seemed forced
to .inaction‘, and no trace whatever had yet
been found of the assassin. The mystery of
the, second party, the confederate of young
Adler, for that: there had been two concerned
in it, there was no longer any doubt—lwas as
far from being solved as ever.

Who could this man have been? And what
could have been the nature of his difliculty, if
any, with James Carbury? 0r had he been
merely a. paid assassin, the" vile mercenary
hireling of Charles Adler? These were the
questions which, remained unanswered.

That the colonel’s daughter could reveal
more in r‘egard'to the man thaush'e had yet
done, was. certain. But Cora. had been very
retiring for the past two or three days, a'nd
her father had not .thought it expedient 'to
worry her, for the present, with questipniugs.

He would wait no longer, however. That,
he was quite determined upon. The girl
might adhere, if it so pleased her, to her, insane
belief in young Adler's innocence, but she
must give tho'gname——for‘ she'apparently knew
it—of his companion in crime.

With his mind thus made up to‘ demand
from Cora, what he felt he had been unneces-
sarily postponing, he sought her apartment, on
the morning following the receipt by her of
Charley Adler’s letter. .

She was not there, neither had her bed been
occupied the previous night. I ,

 

CHAPTER XIX.
a rfnLLow mama.

“ MY name is Leighton—Graeme Leighton,”
said the‘ scout, advancing and saluting in a
friendly way the man who, like himself. had
taken refuge from the wrath of the Fire King
in the ravine. ' y' '

"‘ And mine is Clarke,” was the reply, asthe
stranger took the proffered hand‘of his new ac-
quaintance; “You are, I presume, the scout
who is so well known on the border as Gallant
Graeme?”

“A great many call me so, I believe,” was
the reply. “That was a tight 'run we had of
it—a mighty close one, vvas it not?” ‘

“ Not so much for me, I am thankful to say,”
answered the‘ young man who had given his
name. as Clarke; “ I chanced, luckily for me,
to be within a few hundred yards of‘the divide
at the further end, when l detected the trouble,
and did the best, and indeed the. only thing
that was possible underth'e circumstances. So
you came near being singed, did you?" ' '

“ The nearest in the world,” said Gallant
Graeme. “I thought at one time that it, was
all up with me, but my noble horse scented
out the ’place of safety whlch‘l never would
have seen orftho ht; The poor animal, how-
ever, is complete y done up, and I was just
prospecting with a view of camping here for
the night. And you, pardl" , , ' _

“To tell the truth, I‘ scarcely know.. My
horse, like your owmis pretty well  up. I
must halt where I am, I fancy.” I ,

“You can’t do better,” said Leighton. 5'!
had in view for the night a motto some dis-
tance to. the westof us, and which I could
easily have reached but for this mishap. No
chance of that'now, though, so we may as well
conclude to b uvac where we are,” '

“I shouldbe'gjlad of company in any event,”
said'Clarke, “ and am more than glad to make
your acquaintance, Mr. Leighton. '

“ Oh,’ sink the mister I” was the retort.
“ Call me Leighton, or Graeme, if you will. I
am more accustomed to the latter.” '

“Tbanksl”sa_id the other, delighted With the
free-'aud-‘easyymanner of the mute! whomhae
had heard often, and always most,favorably;
“ and if you should find, Charley a more con-
venient mode of addressing yours truly, I
should be equally well pleased.” ‘

,f‘Allzrigh‘t. Charleyl It’s ever'so much, as
we are doomed to be yards for the present, un-
der difficulties. Now, suppose we proceed to
go into camp.” I

A' few minutes more and the two newly-
made acquaintanws were quietly discussing an
impromptu supper, their horses being near
them, and feeding upon the long fresh grass in
the shady ravine, which had escaped the touch
‘oflthe flames. "' E

. “ Which way from here, pard, are you mak-
ing on this lone scout?” asked Graeme.

“ Oh, westward," was the somewhat careless
reply of Clarke.

 

, “Westward, hol eh?" said the' other with-a
laugh. “ Then you are on no‘particular trail?”
" Nothing very definite,” saidhis companion,
and the sad tone in which it was spoken all at '
once seemed to touchthe scout. ‘ ' A

“ I’m never inquisitive, Charley,” he said;-
“ but it just strikes me, perhaps you wouldn’t
object to pull in the same boat with me for a.
few days. You might ‘strike a trail for your-
self; or, who knows, we might strike one in
common.” ~ I -

“ I thank you very much,” said Clark: " I
shall be only too glad to accept your very kind
offer.” ' ‘ -‘ ' ‘

“0h, cheese that, pard! I "know ‘a white
man when I see ‘him; and if you are a little
new to, the prairies, I 'may be abletorput you
up to a thing or two.” ~ ' ‘ '

‘ “ Which "way' does your trail lead from
here?” ; '

“ To the Medina,” “replied Graeme. ' “Two
of my parda are camped there awaiting me,
and after a hunt together which we have been
contemplating for some 'time, we expect to:
take a little run up to San Antonio. How
would that suit you?” ‘

“Idon’t know," said Clark, With some re~
luctance in his speech and manner.

, “ Oh, if you think it mightn’t suit my pards,
there is just where you are out, my boy. I
know what suits Gus andrFrank as well as-they'
do themselves.”

“ I was thinking of San Antonio," the young
man answered. -

“ Oh, you were thinking of going theref’
That is lucky. We’ll chime in all serene, I
see.” .

It’ was exactly what Clarke had been think-

ing of not doing, nevertheless be allowed 'his‘

hospitable companion togo on without inter-
ruption. ‘ I

“You see, Charley, I take a scout in that
direction at certain times, and this happens to
be one of them, when I am looking out to set—
tle up some business that has been on my
hands for ‘some time'. San Antonio has its.
busy seasons when my customer is apt to turn
up there, and I should hate to miss him; which.
has happened already once or twice. Business,
you know, is business.” ‘ '

“ What class of people generally congregate
in the Alamo City at such times’f’ inquired
Clarke. “ Rancheros; vaqueros, and all that sort
of people, I suppose?” ‘ ‘ ' ' U ‘

” J not so: and gamblers and rougbs, with a
sprinkling of humans of our own genus.”

“ And, may I ask with which of these
classes, you expect to transact business?” .

“‘Oh, I" am likely enough to pick up a little
iimy line with all of thorn,” was the careless.-
a war; “but my specialty happens to be
with the gambling fraternity when I get with-
in the precincts of the Bull’s Head—at lmt
with one of thoee gentry.”

"‘ I' should take but little interest in that,"
said Clark. “1 never play for-“money.”

“ Not' I,” said the scout, f‘unless, as in the
case under consideration, there are very special
reasons for it.”

“And tbe‘tow-n‘ is a great resort forth'atr

class a littlelater, you tell mer’ .

“ Oh, it’s the Mom of the tribe,” replica,
Graeme. “They are all bound to fetch up
there some time or other in theirlives: so I
never trouble myself about seeking the trail of
my customer. I visit the places which I know
he cannét very Well keep away from all ears
tafn seasons, and if I- miss him a few um I.
am certain to hit him at last. ‘ I take it easy,
as you see, but I am none the less demoed."

“ I think I should like to visit San Antonio,"'
said Clarke, after a pause. '

, “ We can make the trip “tether,” was. the,
response; “ but in the mean time, you hadbet—

ter make up your-mind, if you" have no other
trail in view, to come up on the Medina with
me, and join my pards until time for migrat-

in .” ‘ , \

g‘I vrilldo so, andvtbank you too.” ~

“ Good for you! Frank and Gus are rough
diamonds, butthey are the real gem for all
that; audit you have chosen a frontier life, they
can put you up to some tricks in [raider-craft»
that you could only learn in'tbe school of ex-
perience, and be along time in gram N
that.” ' " ‘ '

' “I am in for just that shrt e! We,” 'said'

Clarke,“ rather bitterly; ‘(but :2 may/me u...

well say here, that‘it is nM'bomtaofia”

“I reckoned not,” said the ~“M .

youngsters of your out go deliberately m
that sort of thing. I cn’t say that 1111 m)-

s

 

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l ‘ , The Lone Star Gambler.

'17

 

 

self. I had an object, which I have been long
in accomplishing, but meanwhile the life has
proved a very fascina ing one for me, and I
question very much if ever relinquish it. At
least it has made me patient, and I needed to
acquire the virtue, for those famous mills of
the deities have been grinding more slowly, I
think, than even they have the reputation of
doing.” .

“I know not if I could learn patience,” was
the half-soliloquy of his companion.

“ Not in the school of adversity perhaps;
but in the glorious excitement of a life on the
boundless Texan prairies, you feel not the
flight of time, and the day for which you wait
never seems far distant. ”

“So mote it be!” was the young man’s rev
ply. .

“ It will come,” said Graeme; “Ihave made
up my mind to it, and I can wait for it."

“ Leighton,” said the other, “ I will be frank
with you—I feel that I can, and that I ought
to do so. I am here, because my home, to the
east of us-but never mind where—is, and can
be my home no longer. But I have not fled
from justice, but from injustice. I am a fugi-
tive, not so much to save my life, as to save, as
much as I can, pain and misery to another.
And by thus flying, I am not without the hope
that I may some day be able to clear my re-
putation of the stain that rests upon it. I live
for that from henceforth, and for revenge.

“ You would not blame me, my friend, if
you knew all. Plunged in a moment, as it
were, from the very summit of earthly bliss,
to the lowest depths of human misery, and a
like fate forced upon one who is far dearer to
me than life, all my once rooted and grounded
principles, which forbade the feeling, have van-
ished before the voice that is ever crying with-
in me for vengenco.”

“ You speak of one whom you loved, pard;
does she still live?"

“Yes, I trust so 1”

“And not disgraced and dishonored?”

“ Oh, no! Thank God, no!”

.“Clarke,” said the scout, “had you ever a
sister of your own?”

“Never; I am an only child.”

“Then it is not for you to cherish dreams of
vengeance! Your wrongs, great though they
may have been, are trifling.”

“ You know nothing of them,” said the
young man, indignantly, “or you would never
think of calling them so!” -

“ Softly,” said Leighton; “I mean that they
are trivial in comparison. Let me tell you of
injuries which will make _v our own seem so light
that, perchance, you may feel better able to
hear them. A_ sister, young, beautiful and
good, lured from a happy and peaceful home
by a handsome and fascinating demon in hu-
man shape under a promise of marriage-a se-
cret marriage, to which she blindly consented,
but a mock one performed; a few months of a
fool’s paradisl , and then discarded, when about
to become a mother, with the devilish fact
thrown in her face that she had never been a
wife. Bad enough, you will say; fiendish
enough in all conscience.

“But listen; I have not finished. There is
worse yet to come. The poor, trusting and be-
trayed victim follows her betrayer to make a
last touching appeal for mercy for herself and
her unborn babe. She feared to return, dis-
honored as she was, to her once happy girl-
hood’s home. Learning that the man whom
she .had called husband had taken passage on a
certain steamboat, she succeeded. at the last
moment, in getting on board also. The poor
girl would not make herself known to the vil-
lain in public, so much regard had she for the
feelings of the vile coward, but waited until
late. at night and joined him when he was alone
on the hurricane-deck. Here she made her
heart-broken prayer for mercy, and here she
met her fate. He murdered her and threw her

_ body overboard l”

Graeme Lexghton rose to his feet as he said
this and paced nervously backward and for-
ward for some minutes. Then, seating him~
self, he continued:

“There was a witness. though the dastard
had not suspected it, and he was secured. He
contrived, however, to make his escape in the
darkness at the next landing, and still walks
the earth. Now you know why I visit the
Alamo City.”

“Yours are wrongs, indeed!” said Clarke.
“Henceforth I am with you in every thing,
and more, es , ially on the trail of the coward.
ly betrayal“ 'd assassin.”

\

 

"Shake!" was the sole response of the scout;
and in five minutes more both were sleeping
soundly.

 

CHAPTER XX.
THE BOY scour.

Own the rise in the prairie appeared a
white spot which gleamed in the light of the
declining sun like a speck of silver; then came
in full view the wagon, the top of which alone
had been first visible, and then another, and
still another, until, like a fleet of vessels on
the bread ocean’s surface, the prairie schoon-
ers, twenty and more in number, launched
themselves upon the green bosom of the plain.
Like a long white serpent the train went on its
winding way toward the land of the setting
sun, the land of wild beasts and wilder red-
men, and in the depths of whose vales and hills
lay untold wealth for the daring and adven-
turous, who could turn their backs upon civili-
zation and brave the perils of a trackless wil-
derness.

Across the rise they came, wagons, ambu-
lance, horsemen, horsewomen, riding along at
their leisure, and a small herd of domestic
animals, with a few extra teams bringing up
the rear.

It was the same train that Gallant Graeme
had, but a day or two before, left in charge of
a competent scout, his engagement having ter-
minated at that time on account of his tryst
with his pards on the Medina. That morning,
however, upon breaking camp for the day’s
march, the scout had gone off by himself,
promising to join them in the afternoon, and
find them a good place for encampment; but
the shadows of sunset were now near at hand,
and as he still delayed his coming, more than
one face in the company began to Wear an
anxious look.

The anxiety becoming general, and the night
now fast approaching, a horseman separated
himself from his companions and galloped to
the front, calling out to the driver of the am-
bulance as he did so:

“Jetl’, head for that stream, and we will
camp there. That motto which we see in the
distance is fully half a dozen miles away.”

“Yes, marse,” was the reply of the negro
driver; and the man who had given the order
dropped back once more, this time addressing
one of the party who came up to him:

“It is the best thing we can do, and I think
we are mighty fortunate in finding a stream

 

where we can encamp; but I must say I am ‘
quite concerned about that scout’s not having :
returned. He has never before been absent ,
from the train more than an hour or two at a l

time, and he left us this morning before we
broke camp.” ‘

“I feel considerable anxiety myself,” was
the reply; “but the man has the appearance
of one who can take care of himself.”

“Here he comesl" suddenly called out a
young lady of the party,_ who, with several
others of the younger set, was varying the
monotony of the long trail by riding on horse-
back. '

All eyes were at once directed toward the
point Which the maiden designated with her
riding-whip; and, sure enough, about a mile
distant a horseman was seen coming at a rapid
gallop. All felt relieved, and down into the
prairie valley and toward the stream the train
wended its way.

In a few moments the horseman appeared
over the rise of the plain behind them, and an
exclamation of disappointment aroso to every
lip. The color of the horse which he rode had
caused him to be taken for the scout, whom in
no other way, as they could now perceive, did
‘be resemble. It was a splendid animal, that
upon which the new-comer was mounted, but
he showed the effects of hard riding as he
dashed up to the train.

The stranger dotted his sombrero at sight
of the ladies, and asked quietly to see the cap-
tain. That gentleman at once turned his
horse, and asked politely how he could serve
him. The boyish face of the strange youth
flushed as he saw the attention be attracted,
but he calmly stood the ordeal.

He was a mere lad, apparently not more
than eighteen, with a beardless face, mild
blue eyes, and curling masses of pale golden
hair which fell upon his shoulders.

He was well mounted upon a small but
wiry animal, that evidently was possessed of
both speed and endurance, and eat his saddle
with an ease that showed he was perfectly at
home there.

 

His attire was of buckskin, with the richest
possible trappings, and a light broad-brimmed
sombrero shaded his face. He was fully
armed and equipped, and in spite of his hand-
some youthful face, and slender build, had the
air of one who had will and determination,
and who would dare anything that any other
man would do.

In ;ansWer to the captain’s question, here-
plied, in singularly soft and pleasant tones:

“I am bound west, and have been riding
hard to overtake your train to ask the great
privilege of joining you. I am still somewhat
new to the prairies, and this is not the safest
part of .the world to attempt traveling in
alone.” .

“You are more than welcome,” was the
courteous response of the captain, who could
not help being pleased with the frank and open
face of the boyish stranger. “By all means
do so, and I will invite you to join my mess.” .

“I thank you very much. My name is
Colt‘Carter. I have adopted this wild, roving

life; but, as I said, Iam rather a novice as.

yet." . '

“Well, Carter, my boy,” said the captain,
“it seems hardly the life for one of your age
and appearance.”

“ it must suit me, whether or rot,” was the
somewhat sad rejoinder. “I have no one to
care what kind of life I lead, or to lament very
deeply when death overtakes me.”

There was such a tinge of bitterness in the
youth’s tone, that the captain was glad of the
opportunity of changing the subject by calling
out to the driver of the ambulance;

“I say, Jeff; here is our camping—ground,
along the banks of this little stream.”

80 saying, he turned and orderedvthe team.
stars into position for the night.

They had hardly more than gotten into
camp when the missing scout came up, to the
great relief of the entire'party. That worthy
individual had met with no adventures worth
narrating, though he professed to have gone
out in quest of them. It was not long before
he observad the addition their company had
met with in his absence, and he was not dif-

fident in beginning at once to scrape acquaint- ’

ance with the stranger.

The latter, having frankly given his name
and the circumstances (X his joining the wagon
train, met with a most cordial welcome from
this invaluable adjunct to theparty.

“Put it thar, pardl” he said, as rising from
his recumbent position, he held out a broad
palm, which soon clasped in a tight gripe the
slender one of the youth. “ But, look a. hyer,
pard, ef hit’s e fa’r question, what mought yer
be a doin’ out this-a-waysf'

“I have been on a. lone scout,” was the re—
ply of Cclt Carter, “and I joined the train for
my own better protection and safety.”

“ Jes’ so, I’m in ther moutin’ biz myself,
an’ when I gits this hyer lay—out ter ther des.
ternation, I is gwine in for a reg’lar jim-jam—
boree. Not thet l sprees or goes in fer keerds
more’n common, but when I strikes San Ap-
tone, I giner'ly ’lows ter enj’y myself. Dead
loads of old pards o’ mine sartin’ ter fetch up
in that ranch ’fore shortly, an’ yer kin jest bet
I’m on hand every time."

“ You will go to San Antonio then, after
you have guided this train to its destinationl”
inquired Carter. . ~

“Soon es I strikes ther locate, I skntes fer
ther Allymo,” was the reply. “Ef yer would
like ter jine in, hit would jest be in my line,
for I mos‘ allers sn’ oftener hez a pard in tow.”

“ 1 should like it very much, I think,” said
the youth. “I have been kindly inwted to
continue with the train, which just suits me
for the present. After that—"

" Arter that, yer chips in wi’ me.
the long an’ short 0’ ther discussion.
ter San Antone ary time?”

“Yes; years ago, when I was quite a. little
——boy," said Colt. ~ , ,

“ How long, ’bout, hes yer bin a meal”
asked the scout. “ No ’fense, pard, but yer
dop’t look so aged es tor be vener‘ble."

“I may be older than you take me for," the
youth answered, pleasantly. “At all events,
I feel old enough. ”

“ Dog-goned queer that,” said the other; f‘ I
look, I reckon, nigh ’bout es old es ther pern-
rers, an’ not more’n half as fresh, but I feels
as young es when I had my fust pa’r o’ hates."

Thus far into the night the twomen, so dif-
ferent in appearance, in manners and in speech,
conversed together. .

The scent ‘was naturally of a buoyant dispo-

Thet air
Even bin

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18

The Lone Star Gambler;



 

sition—most men of his calling are Io—and his
temperament was almost contagious. Living
with very little thought or care for aught but
the trail on which he might happen to be for
the time being, he enjoyed the present with a
keenness and a zest which made the younger
man begin to doubt if the anticipations ofa
good time in the Alamo City could much ex-
ceed it when they were realized.

Gradually Colt Carter’s gloom began to dis-
perse before the genial fire of the other’s
warmth and wit; and when he, at length, fell
asleep, it was only after a soft, but ringing
laughter, which was evidently not habitual,
had been forced from him, and had sounded
from one end to the other of the encampment.

He had resolved that he would continue with
the wagon-train until they reached the goal of
their wanderings. It seems so peaceful, and
with‘t care, among them—so the youth
thought—a. haven of repose from the storms of
life, and he felt that he could lay his tired head
upon the gift, cool grass, and sleep forever.

He resolved too, that he would, when the
end of this trail was reached, accompany the
chi scout to San Antonio.

CHAPTER XXI.
THE TWO nouns.
Laran Cnanumr, alone in his princely
home at Magnolia Plantation; Adelaide Adler,
alone in hers at Fair Oaks.
It might safely be said, perhaps, that no
more truly wretched people, in the same state

 

' and condition in life, were anywhere to be met

with.

lrs. Adler’s indomitable pride kept her from
exhibiting any of those inward feelings, which,
in her case, must indeed have been beyond the
power of expression; but pride, will, nerve,
and even the thirst for revenge seemed suddenly
to have forsaken the once haughty and high-
spirited Colonel Carbury.

The disappearance of Cora, startling though
\it was, did not after all so much surprise those
who had known of her attack of brain fever
following the wound that she had received, and

' of her subsequent hallucination in insisting

upon the innocence of Charles Adler, as well as
her persistence in fixing the crime upon the
mysterious concealed assassin, whom neverthe-
le- she was so reluctant to name.

In the opinion of all such, the poor girl’s
mind was seriously impaired, and they did not
hesitate to attribute her flight to insanity, and
to explore the depths of the bayou at all points
for her body.

It was well known by the colonel that this
was the view which was generally taken; but
whether he shared in it or not, it was impossible
for any one to say. He had, it was true, some
show of encouraging the belief, but strange to
say, he took but little apparent interest in the
search that we being made for her. But the
old planter was far from concurring in this
general view of it, and if he seemed to
pssively fall into it, the reason was that his
own surmises were more painful still. One
secret the stricken old man kept to himself,
which if known, even among the slaves on the
plantation, would have at once disposed of the
theory of suicide in connection with the missing
Gore Cerbury.

This was the absence of Electra, the fieetest
horse in the colonel’s stable, and which his
daughter had been in the frequent habit of
rlding, previous to the tragedy at the Magno-
lias. There having been no regular hostler
since poor Ben’s murder, and the attention
given to the stables by one impromptu groom
after another, being of the most desultory
character, no attention had been called to the
vacant stall.

Had it been, the colonel was prepared to ac-
count for Electra’s disappearance in a way of
his own, for he was far from wishing to/turn
the current of public opinion in regard to his
daughter’s fate.

And this was because his own firm convic-
tion was to him a'far more unwolcome pne.

Because he would a thousand times more will-

' ineg have held the popular theory of the sad

aflairthan the one which had become fully
fixed in his mind. He only hoped and prayed
that they might continue in their belief, and
that nothing would ever transpire to shake it.

Colonel Carbury believed in his soul that
Cora had fled to join Charles Adler, the cow-
ardly assamin of her brother. .

, Aunt Huldy, when the flight of her young
mistress was discovered, had hastened to in-
tom the colonel of the note which had been

 

delivered to her on the previous evening; and
which, she thought might furnish a clew to this
new and strange turn of affairs.

In the opinion of the stricken father, it ac-
counted at once for the mystery. The mis-
sive had been brought to Magnolia plantation
by a little negro boy from Fair Oaks—a boy
who had been known as the favorite personal
attendant of young Adler. Colonel Carbury
would not seek for further information from
any of the Adler household. The officers of
the law had already done so, without obtain-
ing any. It was plain enough, he thought, that
Charles still had communication with his old
home, but, with the crushing belief that had
now come to him, he no longer cared to hear
of his capture. If it ever should be, it must
inevitably reveal only further shame and de-
gradation. His daughter was now. no less
dead to him than his wife and son, and be de-
termined, as far as it lay with him to do so, to
“ Let the dead Past bury its dead.”

The 1053 of his last remaining child, and his
own terrible surmisings in regard to her fate,
affected the old planter but little, for his
crushed and broken heart and spirit were no
longer sensible to the heavy blows that his
adverse fortune might have still in store for
him. His boy, the pride and glory of his life,
and the hope of his house, to whose faults he
had been blind—nay, had rather encouraged
them, as the not unbecoming habits of a young
man of his position and prospects—lay in his
gravs, the victim of a senseless family feud,
or worse perhaps, of a low personal broil, at a.
time when it had been shown he was intoxi-
cated. ,

But that was not the worst. The dreadful
truth had been forced upon the stricken
father that, had his son lived, he would now be
either aconvicted felon, or fleeing from the
outraged justice and majesty of the law.

A forgerl James Carbury, the last male
representative, after his own brief day had
ended, of the proudest family in that part of
the State—the companion of a thief and des-
perado, and resorting at last to a low crime the
better to carry out the reckless business of.
mad gambling to which he had completely
given himself up! ,

Could the father of such a youth regret
either his death, or the manner of it? Could
he wish to call him back with the full con-
sciousness of what life would henceforth be to
him? Surely, were it not for the “deep
damnation of his taking ofl,” it would have
been no more than natural and right that the
fond and indulgent parent should be thankful
that the boy now lay by the side of his saluted
mother, in the cool shade of the magnolias, and
that his faults and offenses were buried with

hi .

gar Colonel Carbury, the moment that he
discovered what James had done, nerved him-
self to the task of quieting all who might have
been disposed to bruit the boy’s shame abroad;
and had set himself at once to the duty of pay-
ing every one of the forged hills which his un-
happy son had drawn, although it promised to
leave his broad estates in a. condition little
short of being as crippled as those of his old
enemy, Kenton Adler.

After this, the wretched old men might well
feel that there was nothing else left for him, but
to turn his face to the wall and die. But while
he did live, and he cared nothing new that the
time must be short, he would protect, as best
he might, the reputation of the lost Gore, the
“sole daughter of his house and heart." The
Adlers had achieved the last triumph. Kenton
Adler, whom he had refused to see and be re-
conciled to when he lay dying, had beaten him,
even in his grave. ‘

And so the shadows gathered and fell about
the memory of the fair girl, who had been the
light of the Magnolias—the maiden who would
have had, even with the losses which it had
sustained, such a fair inheritance, had she only
been permitted to remain and enter into pos-
session of it. But when the low winds from
the Mexique Gulf sighed through the long
corridors, and made monrnful music under the
low eaves, the house servants would huddle to-
gether, as the evening shades came on, and
fancy that they could hear again the merry.
laughing voice which had once filled the old
mansion with sweetness and song.

There was silence, the silence of the tomb, at

- Fair Oaks. For a tomb it was, the sepulchre

of love and hope. Adelaide Adler had never
ceased to mourn deeply and fondly for the
husband of [her youth, though the thoughts of

\

 

his love, and truth, and devotion, had become
little more than a sad, but pleasant, memory.

But the new grief was one which must never
manifest itself. Her son,,whom she loved no
less strongly, even though her affection was a
selfish one, had gone from her gaze, she be-
lieved forever. She had faith in the innocence
of Charles, for she had his word for that, and
she well knew” the value of that word, but none
the less did she recognize the fact that every
circumstance pointed to his guilt, and his fate],
flight had confirmed it. No testimony, she
felt convinced in her own mind, could ever be
brought that would exonerate him, and popu-
lar opinion was so strongly against him, that
only the most conclusive evidence in his favor
could shake it. He had done right to leave,
for she would not have had him perish on the
scaffold, but it might be questioned if she could
have lamented him more deeply if such had
been his fate. Truly,

“ There are words of deeper sorrow
Than the wail above the dead."

But her grief was not of the same character
as that of Colonel Carbury, and was far easier
to be borne. There was no actual disgrace in
the calamity that had fallen upon her house.
Possibly, in her wonderful pride and self-re-
pression, she could havs lived under it had it
been so. I

As it was, her household servants saw no
change whatever in their mistress, and the
name of their young master was never men-
tioned by her. The few from the neighboring
plantations, who were on visiting terms at
Fair Oaks, made their calls as formerly—not
visits of sympathy and condolence; that, they
dared not presume upon—and found Mrs. Ad-
ler the same cold, stately woman that she had
been since the troubles with the Carburys had
reached their culminating point.

She would not think—far less now than ever
—of disposing of the plantation, as Charles
had frequently suggested. Doubtless, and she
knew it, an entire change of shone—to her old
Kentucky home, perhaps—would have been
more than acceptable to her, lonely and
doubly-bereaved as she was. But that would
have afforded occasion of triumph to her ad-
versary, and sooner than permit such a thing,
her proud heart might break in silence.

The generally received theory of Core. Cara
bury’s disappearance she had received tacitly
enough when it reached her, and had never
thought of questioning. Indeed it seemed
natural enough under the circumstances, and
certainly far more plausible than the one
which the colonel entertained, but of which,
she, of course, knew nothing. The idea of
Cora’s having fled to join Charles never once
occurred to her. for she did not dream that his
penchant for the girl had ever gone the length
of an open avowal of his love.

CHAPTER XXII.
A FEMALE VOLUNTEER.

UPON the banks of a small stream, and be»
heath the friendly shelter of a few scattering
prairie trees, we left the wagon-train to which
Colt Carter had attached himself, encamped.

The wagons, with their once snow-white
covers, now stained brown with travel and ex-
posure, were drawn up in the form of a cres-
cent, with either end resting on the bank of the
rivulet. Within the space thus inclcsed a
dozen or more bright camp-fires shed their
ruddy light far across the wide prairie.

Herds of horses and cattle were staked be-
yond them, and were enjoying the rich and
luxuriant verdure. The camp itself, for some
time, was a scene of busy life, the principal

 

duty in progress being the preparation of the »

evening meal.

These families, moving from the boundaries
of civilization to the prairies of the far West,
there to build for themselves new homes and
fresh associations afar from the sunny haunts
of their childhood, seemed strangely free from
care and anxiety. Not a shade of sadness rest-
ed upon a single face, and but one of the entire
party seemed to have a thought beyond the
common anticipations of the company. Her
we will now speak of.

One family among them daring pioneers We
must introduce, although they have in them-
selves little to do with our narrative.

It consisted of five persons—Major 013?
Kingsley, his wife, son and two daughters.
The major himself was a hale, hearty gentle-
man of fifty-five, with a decidedly military
bearing; his wife was a mild, delicate-looking
matron, perhaps ten years his junior; the son,

 

ll '
ll

 

 

The, Lone Star Gambler.

 

r

a representative of the best class of Texan
youths, was a young man of two or three-and-
twenty, while his sisters, pretty and sprightly
girls of sixteen and fourteen respectively, made
up the family circle.

Not quite, however, for we must include a
young lady, who for some three or four years
past had been an inmate of the Kingsley house-
hold in the capacity of governess to Brunette
and Blondine, the daughters of the house.

We have said a young lady. We should, in
strict justice, correct the statement; for,
though still young in years, Placide Houston
was a widow. As such she had made herself
known to Mrs. Kingsley at the old home on
Corpus Christi Bay, when, homeless and friend-
less, having recently lost both husband and
child, she had sought the position of governess
to that lady’s daughters.

She had come from Louisiana, her native
State, to Galveston, seeking some such means
of earning her livelihood, and from there had
been directed to the Kingsleys by a merchant
in that city, of whom the major had been
making inquiries with the view of securing an
instructress for his children.

Her sad story, told without any attempt at
pathos, her youth and pale patrician beauty,
struck a chord at once in the chivaerus breast
of Major Kingsley, and he would probably have
engaged the services of the child-n idow unhesi-
tatingly, even though she had been found un<
fitted for the position.

But Mrs. Houston proved herself in every
way qualified, and her home with the Kings-
leys had been a pleasant and delightful one.
She had been paid a liberal salary for but
services, the great bulk of which, however, she
had declined drawing until her engagement
terminated. This was at the time of the
breaking up of the old home preparatory to
migrating for the West. It was far from
being the wish of any member of the house-
hold that the beautilul governess, to which
they had all become fondly attached, should
cease to be a member of their family. They
had urged her accompanying them to their
new home, and at the last moment Placide had
decided to do so; not to remain with them,
however, but only en route for some places in
the Western part of the State which she
seemed resolved to visit.

None of the major’s family had been so
anxious that the governess should remain with
them— though he had been far less urgent than
the others—as was Ralph Kingsley. Nor did
he despair of seeing her change her determina-
tion even yet.

That Ralph had been for some time hope-
lessly—or, as he would perhaps have put it,
hopefully—in love with Placide Houston, was
evident to every one in the household, not ex-
cepting that lady herself. That it met with
universal approval was just as apparent, but
here the lady herself formed the exception.

Ralph Kingsley had never found the courage
to declare his passion, for the simple reason
that he had always met with the reverse of en-
couragement from ils object.

What consoled him now at the thought that
his first and only love was nolonger to be with
them, was the deliberate intention which he
had formed of joining her at no distant day,
when be firmly believed he would find it less
difficult than now.

This, then, was the one face around the
camp-fire that showed the trace of deep thought
and a deliberate purpose. That Piaclde Hous~
ton was a woman with a history was evident
to any close observer who could sit this even-
ing and study the lines of thought, and sufler-
ing, and self-control that made her beauty
seem fresh from a refluer‘s fire.

But a. new day came to the pioneers, and saw
them wending their way still further to the
westward. Ere it was more than half over the
young man, Colt Carter. who had attracted
the favorable notice of Ralph Kingsley, and
through him had been introduced to the other
members of the family, was making rapid
progress in his acquaintance with the young
ladies, and especially with Mrs. Houston. Not
that the generally too attentive Ralph was con-
tentto leave them to themselves, for even as
it was he was a little nervous and restive at
the pleasant way in which Carter and the
beautiful widow seemed to drop into social
converse. It was nothing new, and be well
knew it; for Phcide Houston, in however
kindly a way she might regard Ralph Kingsley,
was the furthest possible removed from any

live :ick sentiment. For that he might look

. s

 

in vain. She could never be unconscious of
aught else when in the society of the young
man who adored her, for though she made no
secret of the fact that she had great admira-
tion for him, thought him very handsome and
the best of company, she was equally as open
in her evident resolution that he should never
be more than that to her.

“So you leave us, when you do, Mr. Carter,
to follow the fortunes of our worthy guide,
philosopher and friend?” V

“ Yes: but only for a short time, I fancy,”
replied the youth.

“ Then you have not decided,” said the lady,
“ to continue a border life?”

"I think it quite probable,” was his answer.

“ And follow this calling, I presume?"

“I suppose so,” said the young man, but
with little animation in his tone; “that is,
when I have become somewhat better ac-
quainted with the country.”

“Pardon me,” said Mrs. Houston; “it seems
a strange life for one like you.”

“We cannot always choose our lives," was
the quiet response.

“True ".— and the lady’s voice had a deep
note of sadness—“ I did not choose mine." ,,

Ralph Kingsley here longed to interpolate,
“ But you may choose it now!”

The time and place, however, were clearly
not propitious, and be checked himself.

Again addressing Colt Carter, Mrs. Houston
inquired:

“Is it your intention to attach yourself to
any party on leaving us?”

“1 accompany Bristow, our scout,” he an-
swered. '

“ To be sure; I remember that you said so,
but I thought it possible that he might be
intending to act as guide for some other party,
when he leaves us. "

“ Such is not his intention, madam,” replied
Colt. “ He feels, I imagine, the need of a
little rest and recreation.” .

“I should not wonder. And you, ,too—is
that it? And for this you join him?"

“I have no time for that,” was the reply.
“ I accompany Bristow because, as it happens,
he is going where I am desirous of paying a
visit myself—to San Antonio.”

“ Indeed! You have friends there. then?"

“ Nol Yes—that is, I may have. I hope
sol" he said, hesitatingly.

“ Happy are they who expect to find friends, ”
said the lady. “ For myself, I have no such
anticipatious.” Then. in a lower tone, and as
if speaking to herself, she said: “If I could
but hope to meet an enemy 1”

Low as the w0rds were spoken, the quick and
jealous ear of Ralph Kingsley had caught
them, and his mind was at once made up.
Placide Houston had an enemy; and, if so, she
would need a friend.

“I will never lose sight of her,” said the
young man between his teeth; “ I swear it!”

At this moment the scout came up, and ad-
dressing himself to Colt Carter, said:

“I hoses, pard, yer isn’t gittiu’ so ’tached
ter this byer lay~out thet yer won’t feel like
leavih’ hit ,when‘we gits ter ther Frio, an’
jinin‘ me on my nex’ trail, es I hes bin a-reck-
onin’ on. ’Tain’t nat’ral though, for yer to be
as tired 0’ this kind 0’ perigernatin’ es a pil- 1
grim o’ my years an‘ lsperience.”

“Oh, I’m with you, pard," said the other, 
with a laugh. ‘* You can depend on me.” l
The scout turned away to join the captain 

l

 

of the train, and Mrs. Houston remarked:

“And I am with h’m too.”

“You, madam?” exclaimed Colt.

“Certainly,” said the lady. “ You both go ;
to San Antonio: so you hsvs told me.” l

“ Such is our intention," was the reply. !

“And you will not refuse, I am sure, to give
me your protection on the way i"

“ Can you ask such a question? I am de-
lighted for, my part. We, both of us, will be
only too happy to have the honor of doing so.”

When Colt Carter joined Bristow, and ac-
quainted him with the lady‘s expressed intenv
tion of accompanying them. that excellent citi-
zen expressed his gratified feelings by saying:

“ Dog’d of I ever could make out what thar
was inter my make-up what tuck so strong
with the weemen folks! Hit’s allers ther same
whar caliker air consumed. Hooray fer our
side, I see. Thar purty widdsr air a trump
keudl”

Not equally elated was Ralph Kingsley, when
he at length discovered the objective point of
his inamorata on leaving them. .

But inr'p'cnt jealousy ,of the beardless youth,

 

who seemed to have become fascinated by her,
soon gave place to the resolve he had formed
when he heard that whisper of here in regard
to an enemy.

Might she not be about to meet him, who-
ever he was, in the Alamo City! And if so, he
must follow and protect her.

 

CHAPTER XXIII.
rascmo A LIKENESS.

THE rendezvous oi Gallant Graeme and his
purds, on the Rio Medina, had been reache-l,
and the hunt to which the former had looked
forward to with such pleasant anticipations had
been enjoyed to ihe full both by him and Lu-
new»made friend, Charley Clarke.

Like all other terrestrial things, howwcr. it
had to come to an end; and leaving Frank and
Harry to set out on a trail of their own, our
gallant friend, accompanied by Clarke, took the
trail for San Antonio.

The sun wus yet some distance above the
western horizm, when the two young men ar-
rived at a matte, situated near theébsnl: (-I' a
small stream—a spot well known on the fI’O'l-
tier, for there. years before; a small outpost
had been established, but which, like many on—
other, met with a sad and speedy fate, inr its
occupants had been doomed to fall beneath lhe
rifle and scalping knife of the Apache.

Cautioust the scout advanced into :13" time
her, his eyes closely searching every 1:001: nnd
corner, and his nerves strung for action. should.
there be an enemy ambushed within. HP mun
satisfied himself on this point; he was 1m par-
ing to stake his white steed that he might food
upon the luxuriant grass, his comladt- living
similarly occupied, and had removed lhe sud—
dle, the better to rest the noble animal, “'h' m
there came a sound of something clashing-
through the underwood. Uncertain \vliellier
to prepare for a deer, a buflalo, or an enemy,
Graeme turned rapidly, and was about tn ic—
place his saddle, when a horse 'and iidei dashed
suddenly upon the scone.

On the instant, the eyes of the scent and “:6
stranger met, and seemed to hold each olhcr,
as by some strange fascination; in the to: mvr,
it was a. gaze of startled and mystflird sur-
prise, in the latter there was a look that spoke
anunmistakable fear.

At the first alarm, Gallant Graeme had
seized his rifle, and stood ready on the do! me,
but he quickly lowared it when he perceived
what was before him. It was a clcan-lin 1rd.
and thoroughbred-looking chestnut pony,und.
mounted upon it—a young girl. So, at lcnsf,
she appeared to the scout, though her p l,
clear-cut face, and the haughty carriage it Hi
patrician head might have belonged to one
further advanced in years. Her hair was
long, dark, silken, glossy and abundant. and
hung in massive blue-black braids d0“ll her
back. Her eyes were of the sleepy, Orizntwl
type, with long drooping lashes, and her face:
purely Grecian in every outline. Her or m-
plexion was that of a brilliant brunette, lick
and glowing in its dusky warmth, now brouzsd
to a deeper shade by the sun and wind._

Her closely-fitting riding habit was ffllhloll-
able in its cut, sea-green in color, and orna-
mented with gilt buttons; on her hands she
had gauntlet gloves of buckdrin, while a slouch

. hat of black felt encircled by a gold cord, and

shaded by a. heavy black ostrich feather, was
upon her head. Her chestnut steed was
equipped with a side-saddle covered with
buckskin and richly ornamented, a bridle of
horso hair, and an immense silver bit.

Regaining his presence of mind in a moment,
the scout instinctively raised his sombrero;
but the beautiful woman, who had at first sight
of a stranger drawn a silver-mounted pistol
from her saddle pocket, at once returned it,
and with a look of horror in her startled eyes,
dashed past him, almost brushing against hits;
as she swept by.

“Good heavens! I lay, Charleyl” called:
out Gallant Graeme to his companion; “did
you see her? 0! course you did; but did you
observe her closely? I know we have met
somewhere before; but where could it have
been?”

“What on earth can she be doing here by
herself on the prairie!” exclaimed Clarke.

“Oh, as to that, she probably belongs to
some emigrant train; although I do not re‘
member of any being expected in this direc-
tion at the present time. Who can she be?
That is the question.”

“Well, Graeme, that is something which
you and I are not likely to discover, for mm

13 '

Tara—L :m 

A” fi‘Q-rsrm- a;

Ms.

in-.. 17 ~- ._

,which he had seen in the past.

20

evening at least. Yonder she goes, riding
like mad across the prairie. Do you suppose
she thought you an enemy?”

“Lord only knows! She looked startled
enough, at all events. But I must know more
about the mysterious maiden. Come, Charley,
let us give chase!”

Bounding into their saddles, the two pards
Were soon flying in full pursuit across the

, prairie, buta few hundred yards behind the

Win-paced steed of the flying fair one.

“ Come, Selim!” urged the scout; “ that
umber-legged mustang shows you the track. I
would not have believed that another animal
on the frontier could do it. I say, Clarke, she
is distancing us, old fellow.”

Again both the men urged their horses on-
ward, on seeing that the lady, after glancing
behind her and finding herself pursued, had
suddenly caused her pony to quicken his speed.
It was soon evident that the game was up.

“You are doing your level best, Selim, old
boy, but the chestnut is still creeping away
from you. But, try, try again!”

With a look of disappointment at the now
fast sinking sun, which seemed threatening the
extinguishment of his hopes, Graeme applied
the spurs once more to the noble beast, that,
smarting with pain and rage at such unusual
treatment from his master, bounded madly
forward in the wild chase. Clarke followed in
close pursuit, his coal-black steed being but
little less swift than the milk-white animal rid-
den by the scout.

But useless their mightiest efforts; the chest-
nut of the fair unknown kept further and fur-
ther in advance, until, after a race of an hour-
or more, Graeme reluctantly relinquished the
attempt, to the no little gratification of his

a companion, and wheeling Selim to the right-

about, once more headed for the deserted
matte, glancing back from time to time as he
did so, and observing that the beautiful fugi-
tive still kept up her rapid flight. Soon, how-
ever, the horse and its fair rider appeared a
mere speck upon the prairie, and the scout’s
scrutiny had to cease.

Surprised at the apparition of such a being
near the lonely matte, and wondering still
more at her remarkable appearance and eccen-
tric behavior, Gallant Graeme searched every
covert and corner of the timber on foot, for
some clew that might guide him in clearing up
the mystery. He was obliged. rhowever, to
give up the task as fruitless, and betake _him-
self to rest, following the example his pard had
set him.  '

There was one reason, and a strong one—
one of which Clarke had no suspicion—that
accounted for the excitement of the scout, and
his extreme anxiety to overtake and find out
the name and character of this fair and mys-
terious vision.

Graeme Leighton felt that the face was one
It came before
him suddenly, as a long-forgotten dream. And
yet, so confused was he, that, familiar as it un-
doubtedly was to him, there was nothing by
which could fix in his mind her identity. Dark-
nesswas now upon the prairie, and deeper
darkness among the heavy shadows of the tim-
ber; but still the rare, pale, glorious face of the
unknown, rose before his sleepless eyes through
the long and silent watches of the night.

“ Where can I have seen her before? For,
that I have seen her, and not only that, but
known her well somewhere in the past, I feel
confident. It seems long ago—that is the
strange part of it—yet whom could I have
known in the old days, who would now be
riding alone on a wild, Texan prairie? It can-
not be that it is some picture that she reminds
me of. No; for there was undoubtedly a
mutual recognition. I saw it in the startled
eyes of the woman, as if she knew me, and
feared, above all lthings, that I would recog-
nize her. It makes me almost hate myself for
having given the poor thing a further fright,

' in getting up that mad chase. ”
In this way the scout meditated through the ,

hours of darkness, until the moon arose from
her cloud-covered couch on the horizon, and
spread over the prairie a silvery luster which
penetrated even the dense shades of the matte.-

What connection could one, so ‘ certainly
fresh from scenes of civilization and refine-
ment—and among which Graeme Leighton must
have known her, if he had known her at all—
have with the wild scenes in which she had just
formed so conspicuous a figure? What could
she be doing here, in the solitude of majestic
nature, where rarely a. sound, save the bark of

the coyote, the crack of the rifle, or the war-
‘ whoop of the red-man broke the silence?
Over the past the memory of the puzzled
young man roamed. through for different
scenes in youth’s bright morning where he
felt he must have known this woman who so
obviously shrunk from meeting him. His
thoughts ran back to a land somewhat nearer
! the rising sun; 3. cultivated clime, amid flower-
l ing and fragrant orange groves, and ripening

fields of cotton and sugar-cane. They dwelt

upon homes of comfort and luxury on the
. peaceful coast of fair Louisiana, and ran
' through festive halls where he fancied her
voice must have rung, and her light foot trip-
ped in the mazy dance. All in vain. No-
where did she find a place amid them all. In
no silent chamber of memory could he place
her form.

The brief darkness had now fled, and the
gray dawn was stealing in among the shadows,
where lay the two men; the one, still sleeping,
not quietly, but as if troubled by some recol-
lection of past horrors—the other, in the same
condition in which the darkness had found
him, sleepless and perturbed.

Starting up, with a cry that awakened his
comrade, he exclaimed:

“My God! Can it be possible? But no!
The dead never return!" Graeme Leighton, to
the uncertain vision of Clarke, had the appear-
ance of one who had suddenly gone mad.

Then, a change, like a dissolving view in a
panorama, passed over his face, as a new and
nearer recollection arose before him.

“I am a. fool, Charley,” he said; “that
woman was with the wagon-train which I had
left only a day or two before I met you. They
ought, some time ago, to have been safe on the
Frio; and, what in the name of creation can
she be doing here by herself? I never had a
single square look at her, I remember, all the
time lhat I was with them; so the poor thing
must have been seeking, for some reason or an-
other, to avoid me. It is strange; but her
name, Mrs. Houston—she is a widow, I heard
them say; Placide Houston—no; I must be
mistaken. I never could have known her be-
fore.”

 

CHAPTER XXIV.
AN UNKNOWN mason.

PLACIDE HOUSTON—for it was she indeed,
now journeying under the protection of Bris-
tow and the youth, Colt Carter, to the Alamo
City—little dreamed, when she rode out un-
attended from the camping-ground where they
had halted at an unusually early hour, of the
adventure that was inrstore for her.

She had gone out, her wiry chestnut mare
being still comparatively fresh, for a turn in
a southerly direction on the prairie, with no
other object in view than to be alone for a.
quite hour before sunset. She was on her way
back to the camp when curiosity led her—most
imprudently—to ride some little distance out
of the direct trail, and take in the motto, which
had so attractive an appearance as it rose like
an island in the ocean on her way.

Without the slightest suspicion of any lurk-
ing danger, and humming a sweet, soft air to
herself as she approached the timber, she was
about to dismount and pluck some of the gor-
geous-hued wild-flowers which grew in great
abundance near the edge of the matte.

Startled at first glance by the sight of a
horseman, who seemed to have just dismount-
ed, she was quickly reassured when she dis-
covered from his dress and appearance that
there was nothing alarming in his probable
character; She had instinctively drawn a pis-
to! at first sight of the stranger, and was al-
most instantly returning it to her saddle-pocket
when her pony brought them almost face to
face.

Clearly Graeme Leighton was not mistaken
/ when he decided that the apparition of himself
had startled the fair equestrian. and that it
was not fear of a stranger of the opposite sex
i in the abstract but of him—the man universal-
ly known on the frontier as Gallant Graeme—
in the concrete.

It would not have been flattering to his self-
esteem, had he not been at the first satisfied
that the lady was some one whom he had
known, and who might have some good reason
for wishing to. preserve an incognito. We

 

‘ ended in his fixing her as the companion of the
I Kingsleys, for whom he had a little time
' previous been acting as guide, and who then,

have seen that his long and weary cogitations,

The- Lone Star Gambler.

he now recollected, had seemed rather desirous
of avoiding him.

Back to the camp like the wind rode Placide,
regaining her presence of mind and habitual
composure when she perceived that she was no
longer pursued.

She parka of the really tempting supper
which the scout had prepared in her absence,
and which had for some time been awaiting
her, the two men being much too polite to set
about satisfying their hunger until she returned.
Soon, however, all was quiet, and, having kept
silent regarding her adventure in the motta,
Placide was now at liberty to dwell upon it,
and its probable consequences.

Although she had ridden so many miles that
day she had no desire for rest. A vague dread
of some coming evil brought an excited rest-
lessness which make her keep vigil while all
nature seemed sleeping around her. All through
the hours of darkness those two human beings,
but a few miles from each hther, and in some
mysterious way related to each other, lay
awake with their wonderings and their fears.

But there was this diflerence: While the
scout was still unable to identify Placide with
any one whom he had known in other days, it
was obvious that he was known to her.

“ To have met him again, and in such a
way 1” she exclaimed, in her evident distress of
mind. “ That, too, when for weeks I had been
congratulating myself that I had escaped all
danger of being recognized by him. Oh! the
dread and the suspense of those long, long
days with the . wagon-train, when I lived in
such constant apprehension. How I felt such
relief as only a pardoned convict can feel when
he left us to the care of his substitute! And
yet it may be that he would not hate and de-
spise me! But no—how could it be otherwise
with him? And I will run no such risk. I
am Placide Houston, a childless widow, and I
will maintain it—ay, even though Clayton
should recognize and call me by name! Why
shonld I be tortured any longer—I, who did no
wrong to any one? Even now I might accept
the love of a good and true man, Ralph Kings-
ley, and rej( ice in his protection for all time to
come. But I would have to tell the poor boy
of—that other! I will not call his name; and
then even he—Rnlph, fond and faithful as he
is~ might despise me. It is hard, very hard;
but I must live out my appointed time. I have
not sought revenge, nor do I seek it now.
And yet, why am I now going on this mad
journey to San Antonio, tear-ing myself away
from those who love and trust me? I cannot
tell—I know not what fate it is that impels
me, or what may be in store for me when I
reach there.

“ Can Clayton be on his way thi-Lher also?
0h, surely I am not to be called upon to en‘
counter that! Ought l to run such a risk? I
will not do it. I will return, or go some-
where. I will brave the known and unknown
dangers of the prairies, but I will not brave
discovery after these three peaceful years!"

This wild and maddening train of thought
was Placide Lursuing, so unlike the self-control
and firmness that had become second nature
With her, and in spite of an instinct that had
always told her how unprofitable it was; for
in her calm moments she well knew that noth-
ing could now turn her from the way she was
going, and that, were she even to decide on
turning her back at the last moment upon San
Antonio, to rejoin her friends on the distant
Frio would be simply impossible.

Since their wanderings had begun, from the
very day that with the Kingsleys she left the
green waters of Matagorda to the east, Placide
had loved beyond all things these drowsy early
mornings upon the prairies, the dewy grass and
the sun's glorious passage above the hills. But
when the new day dawned in the full glory of
its hazy tropical splendor, sleepless as she hau
been through the night that was past, she felt
no desire, for the first time, to enter with nest
upon the awakened life which it brought.

A sense of languor and depression was weigh-
ing upon her, of which she had never before,
in these latter and better days of hers, been
conscious. The air had a lulling stillness, and
she tried to persuade herself that this it was
which depressed her and weakened her nerves;
for in all previous miseries of her short and
troubled existence, she had been able, by her
innate force of character, to rise above them.

But the question that now haunted her was
one which affected the near future. What was
before her?

 

. ' I I
“Yer don’t seem tar feel es peart es yer

‘v

.. x—t

 

. -e-.<r4.o

(
l

 

 

I

"The Lone Star Gambler.

21

 

vgin’rally does," was the remark of Bristow,
When the trio were Well started on the trail.
“I reckon, Mis’ Houston, yer tuck a leetle too
long a center when yer started from camp
yest'day. Hit hain’t well mos’iy ter overdo
things, an’ I reckons hit got OVerdid this hitch.
Fact, yer ain’t lookin’ lively. ”

“And I don’t feel so, to tell the truth, Mr.
'Bristow," was the reply; “but I am not
unwell. I was-a little nervous last night——
something unusual with me, I am glad to say
—and did not get my usual rest. That is the
only trouble. But this fresh breezy air on the
:prairie will put me all right in a little time.”

“ I reckon hit air boun’ ter, fer a fact,” said
the scout. “Thar hain’t nuthin’ ter ekil hit
for buildin’ up shattered constertutions.”

“Do you speak from experience?" inquired
young Carter, with a laugh.

“Nary time, pard,” was Bristow’s answer;
“‘I hesn’t caught myself in that condition till
yit, an’ I reckon hit won’t be the case, lessen
some 0’ ther reds goes fer me too lively."

“I hope not,” said the lady; “and I trust
also that I am in no immediate danger of
breaking down."

“Not much, I don’t reckon," was the
encouraging reply of the scout.

The day, brightened though it was by the
beauties of the earth and the glories of the sky,
was a long one to Placide Houston, filled as she
was with this new and nameless dread—the
longest she had known in years. Night would
come of course, and did; but she, who had once
lOVed darkness and solitude, now shrunk from
it. Her brain was cruelly active, in spite of
her exhausted frame and the sleepless night
through which she had passed. And active
she felt it would continue. In this state there
could be no sleep for her.

She longed for the light of another morning,
feeling that she would greet it gladly when it
came; although it would, almost inevitably,
bring her new suffering.

But anything was better than the long,
dreary, dark hours, when shadows of coming
events, which to her agonized mind, were

' teeming with evil, flitted around her head.

The clear and cloudless sky withheld the com-
fort which, now and then, it sends down into a
mind diseased. Even the bright stars failed to
furnish a mild- object for contemplation
through those weary hours, and solitude had
become an anguish greater than hunger, and
thirst, and sleeplessness combined could have
been, because it was so filled with tears for the
future.

Had the brave spirit of this woman, who
had so long suffered in silence, given wayi
Surely, if these terrors were becoming unen-
durahle in the open air, and under the direct
eye of an all-protecting omnipotence, it would,
in confinement and seclusion, be too much for
both brain and body.

But, long though she might to lengthen out
the clay and the sunlight, gradually it faded
out, and the shadows would begin to come, not
in battalions, but in single file, as if they were
preparing the victim, whom they would tor-
ture, for their terrible possession of her, by
degrees.

Thus it was throughout the entire remainder
of the journey, until the goal' to which they
bested, and for which Placide had so longed,
was reached at last.

Not even then did her gloomy apprehensions
forsake her. At the first sight of the quaint
Moorish architecture, so new to her, of the low
adobe buildings in the Spanish‘ quarter of the
town, the cry that arose in the wearied, tor-
tured soul, was not one of thankfulness that
the toil Was over, but the self-reproaching
question which she felt she could not answer:

“ Why, oh, why have I come?”
0

 

CHAPTER XXV.
ma scam murmurs.

IN a private room 0f the Monger House in
San Antonio, sat two men, engaged apparently

in discussing plans of a somewhat serious na- I

ture. .

The older of the two, new considerably past
forty, was one who, notwiths'anding his care-
less, uncouth appearance, and uncultivated ad-
dress, had been but a few years before, hold-
ing an honored position in the service of his
wuntry. He was an ex-army oflicer, whose
wildlife had been continually running him in
debt, until after several decidedly reprehensi-
ble eflorta “ to raise the wind "—some of which
remained undiscovered. and the others were

 

lightly passed over—he, one night, in despera-
tion, and probably erased with whisky, dis-
carded his uniform, joined some kindred
spirits, and attacked and robbed the relief
train of the paymustor’s funds for paying 08
the troops.

Although the crime was not conclusively
proven against him, there were numerous
other charges in the indictment, and sumcieut
of them were established to cause his dismis-
sal from the service.

The next known of him, by those who took
the trouble to watch his downward career, was
as a solitary road-agent, lying in wait for the
overland stages, and alone and single-handed
attacking driver and passengers.

The general appearance of the outlaw, and
the fact of his being without any one to aid
him, had given rise to the impression that he
was a lunatic; but if so, there was consider-
able. method in his madness, for, about the
time bf the commencement of this narrative,
guards had begun going with the stages, and
the dreaded monarch of the roads had sudden-
ly disappeared.

Although there was a price on his head, he
appeared to be little, if any, apprehensive on
the subject; for, with but slight attempt at a
disguiso, he appeared a few weeks later on the
plazas of the Alamo City. There could be no
doubt as to the plans and intentions of the mad
road-agent, as he was called. He had made up
his mind to organize a band, of which he was
to be the head, and which would be too strong
for any forces which the border would be like-
ly to bring against them.

For the composition of such a gang not only
desperate men were needed, but men of deep
cunning and strvegvy, and such Mad Morrow
behaved h i h -d 0 .nd in'the rather elegant and
diatinguc lookingr individual with whom he
was now negotiating.

In spite of a decidedly dissipated look, Sieve
Harrington—for by that name was the road~
agent’s companion known in San Antonio,
which, by the way, he had visited more than
once in his lifetime—was rather handsome, al-
though a somewhat unnatural axpearance,
caused by a dyed mustache and eyebrows that
were evidently corked, gave one the impression
that he was now under an alias. Be that as it
may, he called himself Harrington at the Bull’s
Head, where on former occasions he had been
noted for his large winnings at the classic game
of draw poker, and the register of the Monger
bore the bold signature of “S. W. Harring-
ton," hailing from the Crescent City, as before.

The loss of more than one emigrant train
lately had been a grevious disappointment to
Mad Morrow, be having been obliged to keep
“ shady." Averse, as he had always been
since taking to the road, to sharing the booty
with others, he would have been more than
glad to have had his band organized a monzh
previous, when more than one tempting train
was crossing the prairie in the direction of the
Rio Frio.

“ You were born and raised in Louisiana,
you say!" was the query of the road-agent as
be drained a full glass of some fiery liquid
which the pair had been discuing.

“ Just so. In New Orleans," was the reply.

“And you’ve been for the last four years in
Texas, didn’t you say?”

“Four all told; in different parts of the
State.”

“ onest, now, pard, what special piece of
deviltry did you commit before leaving the
land of pelioans and orange blossoms!"

"Nothing, of course,” said Harrington, but
with some show of hesitancy. “I wanted to
see life; tired, you know, of being oooped up—”

“I see. Not room enough for a sprightly
youth like you in New Oriesnsi” ‘ °

“ Well, you know, pard—”

“ Yes, I know. Steve Harrington, you com-
mitted some crime which caused you to fly for
Your life; I know that as well as I want to
know it. You might just as well own up.
Honor bright!” '

“ Well, if you must know it, it was a girl—”

“ Of course. And you didn’t marry her?"

“You are 03 your eggs there. It is just
what I did.”

“You must have been a soft one in those
days. And you have been afraid ever since of
her following you up?”

“ Not the slightest danger of that,” said this
worthy; “ the Red River isn‘t much noted for
resurrectlng its dead.”

“A cool hand you must have been, for a
amateur. Was there no other way?”

 

“ Not when a man is followed up and cor~
nered, and his whole life about to be made a
curse to him. What else could 1 doi"

“As to that," remarked Mad Morrow, with
a sardonic gr'n, “ you don‘t seem to have
made much ei out of it. But it wasn’t a bad
beginning—for you. I’m inclined to think
already, that you’re the man for the read.
And what pious line of biz have you been
principally engaged in since that memorable
epoch? Paste boards?"

“You're right, pard. A pretty steady pro-'
fession—” '

“.But not uniformly successful, I reckon!"

“Tolerany so," was the reply. “I gener-
ally coutrived to hold my own."

“But, like your days of early piety in the
Crescent City, you didn’t find the life sufficient-
ly exciting, ehi’

“ A little too much so toward the last,” said
Harrington; “ that is why I thought of a new
deal.”

“ So‘you got in a tight place, did you?”

“Yes; or rather I got out of one."

“ As you did before, I suppose?~ Cut the
Gordian Knot with a lo~v e- .nifei"

“Something of the sort,” said the other,
carelessly.

“ Where was this?” inquired the mad roads
agent.

“Down on the Brazos,” was the response.

~“I reckon we can strike hands, pard,” said
his companion, after a pause; “you’ll do.
if you say so, we’ll go in for a life-long part-
nership. I know that will suit you.”

" 1 don’t know so well about that,” said the
pious Steve. “Like nearly everybody else in
the world, I reckon, I have my own plans for
winding up the business.”

“ Oh, you have?” Mad Morrow had just the
slightest approach to a sneer on his bearded
lip as he spoke. '

“Why not!’ exclaimed the other. “Why
should I not,.when I have secured a sufficiency
to enable me to seek a foreign land, and there
live in peace and comfort?"

“You are crazier than the fools about here

say that I am, if you dream of such a thing," ,

was the contemptuous reply. “I never went
to that depth in ‘ dumphoolism ’ yet. In com-
fort, you might; but in peace— neveri Peace,
indeed! With the specters of evil deeds, like
yours and mine, rising grimly before us!”

“ Don't you believe that a man can bury his
past in the grave of forgetfulnessi” .

"Never!" cried Morrow, in a. tone that al—
most startled his questioner. “ There are
memories and faces that will never remain
buried; No priestly power can lay such ghosts;
they are forever rising up before our eyes!"

As the speaker raised his voice to a high
pitch, some one walking on Ihe balcony invoi-
untarily paused, and gave one glance within
the room where the two men were seated.

it was a lady, who. from her dress had ap-
parently just arrived, and was now on her
way to her apartment. She passed on bur-
iiediy, and without noticing any one in particu-
lar within the room, before the casement of
which. she had halted for a second. But it
was sum-ilently long to photograph her face—
a pale, but royally beautiful one—upon the
vision of one of the occupants of the apert-
ment.

Steve Harrington turned pale, and the glass
which he had been filling while Mad Morrow
was speaking, and was just in the act of raising
to his lips as the lady turned her face and
glanced in his direction, fell from his hand.

“ What the devil and Tom Walkerl” was the
exclamation of his comrade, noticing the
ghastly look upon the ordinarily .florid “face of
the gambler.

- “A little spasm, that’s all," said the latter
in a husky voice.

“ Then drink your brandy, why don’t ’
you?”

Harrington complied, still looking as pale as
death. The road-agent was not deceived.

“ Who was that piece of calico?" he asked.

“ I don’t know,” was the answer, “ I wish I
did.”

“You look a danced sight more as if you
wished you did not. Own up, wasn’t it some
one of that Brazos crowd, that you say you
lit out from only the other dayi”

“ Not a bit of her,” was the reply. “She
reminds me of some one else; but I was mis-
taken.”

“ Dog’d if I believe you were!” said Mor-
row.

“ For Heaven’s sake, what do you mean!"

 

W.fi_,. “A A

1
.
,
l

i

 

s

The Lone Star Gambler.

 

 

was the exclamation of Steve, now thoroughly

, alarmed.

“ You know dog-gonad well who that femi-
nine is. That’s what I mean.” -

“ I'donft—I swear I don’t,” was the reply.
“The one whom she resembles has been dead
for years. It was the likeness that startled
me.”

‘ “'l‘heRed River one?” queried Mad Mor-
row.

“ Nol” said the gambler, shortly, as he swal-
lowed a second glass of brandy.

“Your nerves don’t seem to have the gen-
uine wrought-iron tempering yet,. pard,”
remarked the mode eat. “The sooner I get
you out of this, the otter. It’s high time I
was at work again anyway, and I don’t reckon
that you are feeling any too happy enjoying
your quiet holiday.”

Harrington..made no reply; but Morrow was
right, as he generally was, 'in his surmises.

The gambler was growing restive, and anx-
ious to be upon the road. Having once de-
cided upon the line he would adopt, he was

‘ restless and uneasy until he could set to work.

Added to this, things had not gone on to suit
him since his arrival in San Antonio. Just,
pour passer le temps, he had taken up his old
trade, for the last few days, and the luck had
gone steadily against him. He had risked con-
siderable on cards and lost; the fact was that
a goodly pile of gold, which he had brought
with him in his saddle-bags, had diminished
until but a. few pieces were now left.

Mad Morrow got up, expressing his inten-
tion of going and interviewing a recruit or two
for his band, in another quarter of the town,
and Harrington, first helping himself to
another glass of his favorite Cognac, followed
him down the stairway.

He halted in the office, however, and going

‘. up to the desk, glanced at the more ‘recent

entries on the ledger. Running o‘er the last
page, which was made up of masculine names,
until he came to the foot, his countenance
gave no sign of having made any discovery.
The'last name alone was a female one—“ Mrs.

.Placide Houston, Corpus Christi, Texas.”

“I am a fool !” muttered the gambler to him-
self as he turned away. Lighting a cigar, he
paged out, and crossing the plaza, was soon
seated in the Bull’s Head.

CHAPTER XXVI.
r0 WAIT FOR earn.

Rnsrnsa at last] I

In her quiet room in the best hostelry of the
city sat Placide Houston, unable to fix her
thoughts upon a single point in the dark, un-
certain, and mysterious future which stretched
out before her. She was young—so young 1—-
and strong in body, and it seemed a longtime
to look forward to, the time when she could
leave her wear'y life behind her.

After long days, and weeks of monotonous
and fatiguing travel by day, andcamping by
night, the end of the tedious trail had been
reached. After hopes and hardships, dangers
and fears, the haven had been arrived at, and

 

, still the old question was ever uppermost:

“ Why did I come?”
Poor Placidel It might have been vanity

‘and folly in the beginning with her, for she

was very young at the time; but it had been
through no actual wrong-doing of hers that the
door had been opened to a long train of evils
that seemed likely to pursue her through the
whole course of a life that was yet in its morn-
mg.

" I married at my own risk, ” she said bitter-
ly, but resignedly. “I knew, child though I
was, that it could not be all sunshine before
me; but I loved him, and I chose to take the
chances. I refused to be led or advised, and
so far the fault was mine, and bitterly have I
stoned for it. I dreamed not of weariness,
loathing, and desertion; I trusted to what
every one called-my beauty to retain his aflec~
tion for me; but the frail chain of fading flow-
ers could not hold him, and we parted. Even
then I had no fear of the horrors that were to
follow. And now, what is left to me? How
are my remaining days, be they long or short,
to be spent? And why did I leave the peace-
ful shelter which might have continued to be

‘ mine until the end? I must have been mad when

I made such a decision; but, whether or not, the
first move in the blind, reckless game has been
made, and I must continue to play it.”

The little that she had made known of her

 

history to the friends whom she had found in
the first days of her misery, had secured for

her every kindness and consideration; and
Placide Houston felt that she had not been
guilty of obtaining them under false pretenses.
Had she gone further, and told the whole truth
she well know that the deepest sympathy with
an injured woman, the strongest indignation
against the unprincipled wretch .who had sacri-
ficed her to his caprioes, with sorrow that she
should so have wrecked her bright and promising
life, would have been here. But she had shrunk
from giving her whole confidence, even as she
had turned away in assumed coldness from the
manly love of Ralph Kingsley. She had been
herself deceived—oh, so sadlyl—but she would
not deceive him.

To have seen and known Ralph Kingsley in
these days, one would scarcely have inferred
that his avowal of love had been silenced ere it
reached his lips, from the patience with which
he seemed determined to work and wait. And
it is love such as his, deep, enduring and unsel-
fish, that is the only love on which it is ever
safe. for a woman to build her enchanted castles
of future happiness. ,

As .Placide Houston, given up to her boding
thoughts, looked listlessly over toward the
plaza where crowds of idlers were sitting, and
others pacing up and down the streets in the
clear moonlight, the thought came into her
mind that she could not be one of them; that
she no longer had any interest either in the
drones or the working bees that made up this
human hive.

'The music of a band, playing a delicious
Strauss waltz, was floating over them, between
the busy, agitated earth and the distant, pure
and steady stars. To them, Placide turned her
gaze, as they shone unswervingly in the calm,
blue ether; and with-a wild, unspoken cry,
from the suffering depths of her silent spirit,
she longed to be in those distant worlds, away
from‘the one which, with all its remaining
Eden glories, sin had so cursed.

Fear, and dread, and horror, of something,
she knew not what, was upon her. It hung
about her, like the shadow of some new and
nameless evil— a formless shape of a huge, un-
seen, approaching ill.

And if new dangers were crowding upon
her, and she had been driven into the very
midst of them by some relentless fate, which
way could she turn? With no friend near, not
one person who knew her antecedents, she was
powerless. She could see no ray of light in
the gloom that threatened to enshroud her.

Firm and self-controlled as she had schooled
herself to become, all that had forsaken her
now. Her large dark eyes were strangely
dilated, and her pure, calm face seemed
gradually growing whiter. Terror and aver-
sion were painted upon it, like shadows of dis-
torted demons thrown by some phantasma-
goria upon a whitened screen in the darkness.
If the danger that she dreaded had descended
at this moment upon her, she could not have
uttered a word.

Pale as a statue of Despair, she sat until the
long watches of the night were past. A few
days only—but it seemed years to her—since
she had left the only home and friends she
hadknown since she had left the shelter of her
father’s roof. There she had found rest and
peace, after more of anguish and strife than is
often crowded into the allotted period; and
now was the dread battle, in some other form,
to be fought over again?

But the wretched night came to a close, as
had all her previous ones, and the miserable
woman had at last fallen into a heavy sleep.
Peace, the gentle dove that seemed to have
flown afar, returned at length for the time,
and no terrors for the days that were to come
visited her pillow; no thoughts of the anguished
trail which she had followed since she had
trusted and been betrayed; since she fled from
the safe refuge of her happy girlhood to the
protection of a heartless villain!

The sun was shining brightly into her cham-
ber when she awoke, and on the floor below,
all was hustle and business, for new arrivals
had been pouring in while she slept. Conspicu-
ous among the names recorded in the long ros-
ter of the Menger House the night before,
were those of Charles Clarke and Graeme
Leighton, the scout.

CHAPTER XXVII. ,
ran nor PARD. ‘
Barsrow, the scout to whom the youth Colt

 

.Carter had attached himself, and who had

taken under his protection, as far as San An-
tonio, the lady who had so mysteriously claimed

 

it when she decided on abandoning1 the out;
grant train and her friends, found imsell’ in
demand when he reached the Alamo City. Bis
fame as a guide had preceded him, and sevsral
parties were awaiting his arrival, having un-
derstood from some old pards of his that he
might be looked for almost any day. So it
was that, on awaking the first morning he
reached his destination, he found himself fam-
ous.

But our friend Bristow had no idea of start
ing on any trail immediately, so his would-be
patrons were obliged to wait, or seek the ser-
vices of some other guide, which latter alter-
native they had no thought of accepting.

Colt, for his part, was decided that he must
remain in town for some days, and after that
he would be only too willing to follow the for—
tunes of his friend, as a knowledge of prairie-
craft was what he declared himself anxious to
obtain. He was, therefore, anything but dis-
pleased when Bristow made known his deter-
mination, as it exactly coincided with his own
wishes. .

Meanwhile the youth attracted general atten-
tion by his unusual appearance; and, especially
was this the case with a party of tourists from
the East who were frequenty in conversation
with the scout in regard to their projected huf-
falo hunt.

“ By Jovel That’s the handsomest boy I’ve
seen in a month of Sundays. Where did you
pick him up, Bristow?” inquired one of the older
gentlemen of the party.

“ I hasn’t seen nuthin’ like him in a coon’s age
myself, I don’t reckon,” said the scout. f‘As
ter pickin’ him up, hit war this-a-ways. Ther
bute air kinder on the other leg, pard. Ther
younker picked me up; thet war ’bout ther
way 0’ things.”

“Picked you up! What do you mean?"

“ ’Bout what I sea—I gin’rally does— tuck a
kinder sneakin’ fancy ter ther cut 0’ my jib, I
reckons. Folkses am mos‘ly allers doin’ hit,
’speshly ther weemin folkses. Nice n lookin’
piece o’caliker es yer ever see’d tuck me up
same fashion on this hyer last trail. Hangin’
out ter ther Menger till yit.”

“ Really? And that was the way this young-
ster came to join you, oh?" .

“ Leastways ef hit warn’t, I hesn’t no way 0‘
’countin’ fer hit. Yey moughtn’t think mebbe
hit air a nat’ral state 0’ ’fairs, but as I said, hit:
air continerly a-happenin’.”

“The boy reminds me, ” said the first speaker,
“ of the pages who followed the knights, or
danced attendance upon their ladies, in the glo-
rious, romantic old days of chivalry.”

“I never saw any of the little animals,” re~
plied another; “ but he is a deuced uncommonly
nice-looking little bantam rooster. Not of
much use, however, I fancy. I suppose the
youth begged so hard to be allowed to accom-
pany you, that you hadn’t the heart to deny
him. That was about the way of it, wasn’t it,
Bristowi And now he seems resolved, doesn't
he, to keep up with you on this hunt of ours.
Hanged if I know what to think about that!”

“ Nor me, nothcr,” said the scout. “Only

,jest this much, of ther younker air sot enter

goin’ I doesn’t lay out ter bender him. He
hain’t nobuddy, fur es I kin make out, what
keers a copper durn what comes 0’ him, an’
ther only chance what he sees ahead air fer
gradooate in this hyer skule o’ mine on ther
perrarers, an’ I ’lows I orter gi’n him a fu’r
show.”

“ Good for you, old man i” exclaimed another
of the tourists. “We don’t every day meet
with such disinterested philanthropy, for I
can’t call it anything else. The boy is bound
to be more or less in your way, I should
think.”

“Don’tJJe too certain in your own mind
about all that disinterestedness,” said the man
who had first spoken. “It inl’t well to ana-
lyze our motives at the best of times. Who
knows what our friend here may have in
view?”

“ Own up, Bristow,” said the former speaker;
“doesn’t the lad remind you of a. young lady
in whom you were once interested!”

“Never war troubled that-a—way wo'lh a
cent,” said the imperturbable scout. “Nary
one 0’ ther shemale sect ever got a bolt 0' that
kins onter me. Hit air a mighty soft sort 0’
biz when hit strikes a man in his vealy days,
nn’ bit air wuss still, in my ’pinion, when hit
gits him arter he air more seasoned. ’Bout
thet time yer nat’rally ’spects more sense from
a man, of he hes managed ter keep ther win
what he was horned with. No, pard; yer

i
1
' s
l

 

 

:1;

 

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‘2

 

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The Lone Star Gambler.

23

 

car) com that outer me. The younker don’t
woman” I. of ary soul, male or shemale,
What I ever knowed, an’. I hes a powerful habit
n’ recommemberin’ every pilgrim what I hes
fell in with. He stan’s plum alone 1”

“Sui generis, eh!"

“Nary timel Thet ain’t his handle. Hit
air Carter—Colt Carter; an’fer a colt 0’ his
age I'don’t reckon he kin be beat, fur es looks
goes, in IBexnr county.”

Every word of this edifying' conversation
tell on the ears of the boy who sat on a bench
a few yards behind them. reading an Eastern
newspaper. When he first found the conver-
sation turning upon himself, a deep flush
mounted to his forehead, and be half rose, as
though to leave the plaza. Then, a: if chained
to the spot, or resolved to know something
which hevfelt he must know at any cost, he sat
down again, burying his face in the newspaper.

He was indeed, as has already been said of
him, a handsbme youth, looking perhaps eigh-
teen, but small for his age. He was slight and
graceful, and his close-curling fair hair, small
features, and expressive blue eyes, made him
an object of attention whenever he left the
hotel.

He had silver spurs on his boots, and wore

blue leggings which were fringed and richly.

embroidered, and though he carried a knife
and pistols in his belt, his air and manner were
those of one who wore them not for possible
use, but in a gay masquerade. o

He had avowed an almost complete igno-
rance of the plains, when he had begged to be
allowed to accompany Brie-tow. He new ad-
mitted a like deficiency in hunting, but de-
clared his passion for a frontier life and his
anxious desire to take his first lesson. And his
friend, the scout, looked forward with pride to
the opportunity presentel him for grounding
such an attractive pupil in prairie lore.

“ Hit’ll be' an edercation to him, wo’th
more’n all he‘d be lierble ter git at one o’ ther
high-toned colleges in Kentuck. er thet-a-ways,
dog’d of hit won’t, an’ yer kin jist bet he’ll hev
a equar’ show fer ’quirin’ his perfession.”

It must he confessed that some few misgiv-
ings seem-2d to strike the youth, after it was
agreed that he was to accompany the party.
It might or it might not have been fear, but
whatever it was he seemed resolved to know
all the possibilities in the case. .

"‘I want to know, Bristow,” he said, “if
there is likely to be any danger in this excur-
sion.” ,

“How yer reckons, by, I knows anythin’
’bout hit myselfl"

“But you have some idea. There may be,
may there not?”

“Now, look-a-h‘yer, Colt,” said the scout,
laying his wiry, supple hand upon the lad’J
shoulder; “ yer hain‘t skeered, that I knows,
so I doesn’t mind tellin’ yer what mought be.
As ter ther danger, when we gits out thar,"
pointing out toward the south-western horizon,
“hit air es lierble esnot ter be putty thick,
Course, hit air some way ’head of us, an’ we
hain‘t a startin’ fer some days, but hit
moughrn’tbe so for away when we docs git
outer ther trail as mebhe we thinks. Ther
tracks 0’ thrm pesky reds is as thick 'bout l'o’
days’ ride beyant, es ther huts o’ ther perarer
dogs. They is ever ‘thar, somewhar,” and he
pointed again, in his indefinite way, toward
what seemed a range of low hills, lying against
the horizon, and shrouded in a purple haze
born of the approaching Indian summer.
“They is layin’ fer us, just as like es not.
They knows, drot their or’nary pictur‘sl that
right smart 0’ pilgrims is dc’d sartin ter be out
on ther hunt this moon an’ ther nex’. [reckon
I’d orter tell these hyer gay roosters, an’ gi’n
’em that choice ’twixt losin’ ther fun, and run.
nin’ a putty fa’r show for losin’ thar ha’r.”

“Indeed I think they ought to be told at
once,” said Colt, decidedly.

Left alone. the youth began to reflect upon
the position in which he found himself. He
had come to San Antonio on a business that
'33 known only to himself, and which be ad-
mitted to himself, there was not more than
one chance in a score of his accomplishing.
All that would be left him then—and he had
crav the opportunity for that—would be to
accorn y his kind though uncouth friend, on
what, he did not disguise from him, might; be .
perilous trail.

He could not say that he wanted to die—he
falt'that he had something, a great deal to
live fan—but, even if he did it would not be a
pleasant death to be $131ch or Lortured by In-

dians. The bare idea of such a fate made his
very soul shrink with terror. His heart be-
gan to almost turn traitor to his purpose. .

While Colt Carter sat puzzled and perplexed
in mind as to what course he ought to pursue,
he saw two men, in the garb of the frontier,
but elegant and striking in appearance, coming
along by the north wall of the old church-
yard, and passing into the main plaza. As
they came near where the youth sat, be buried
his head still deeper in the folds of his news-
paper, ns if to avoid being seen and recognized,
and when be next looked up. they were some
distance from the bench on which be was
seated.

A cry escaped the yO'lng mm, and he sprung
from the seat, as if to follow them. Then, he
stood in his tracks, with the air of one trous-
flxed, gazing after the retreating forms of the
two strangers who were now passing out of the
plaza. A moment’s hesitation, and Colt Carter
started to follow them.

He soon turned, however, for the twain,
who had so startled him, were seen to enter
the Bull‘s Head, and the youth seemed strange-
ly reluctant to mingle with the loud and
boisterous set who, even at that early hour,
were making that noted resort of gamblers
and fast men a' little pandemonium.

Whether it was the proud air of the elder
of the two men, a bronzed and muscular
Apollo, “ bearded like the pard," or the grace-
ful, boyish swing of his coually handsome
companion, did not appear. Colt returned to
his seat On the plaza, and attempted to resume
his paper, but in vain. How long he would
have remained thus is uncertain; but, in a few
minutes more, two others, whom we have
already seen, crossed the plaza near him, and.
proceeded in the direction of the Monger
House. -

The former pair were Graeme Leighton and.
Charley Clarke: the latter were Mad Morrow
and Steve Harrington.

As Colt Carter’s eye fell upon the one we
have last mentioned, he turned deadly pale,
and seemed about to fall from the bench. He
sat thus for a full minute. Then, recovering
himself, he arose and walked off, like one in
a dream, in the direction that his friend the
scout had taken an hour before.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE srmnows casr BEFORE.

“I CAN'T account for the feeling that has
come over me, ever since we arrived in San
Antonio.”

It was Gallant Graeme who spoke, and the
remark was addremed to Charley Clarke, asthe
two young men were seated in the room which
they jointly occupied in the hotel.

“ Whether it be contagious, or merely sym-
pathetic, I must confess I have much the same
sensation," said his companion.

“I would not own to a belief in presenti-
ments," Graeme continued; “ and I have never
been in the least superstitious, but up to the
present time I have always been able to shake
03 any gloomy feeling, and this is one for
which I cannot in the least account.”

“It is not an unusual feeling with me of
late,” said Clarke; “ but I would never have
suspected you of giving way to the blues.”

“Nor do I,” said the other; “and if this
were nothing but the blues, or even the hor-
rors, you would not catch me yielding to it.
but I seem, ever since our arrival to have
reached a crisis of some kind.”

“Hoping for that, I joined you on this
trail,” said his pard. “It was only with the
vague hope of encountering the miscreant who
has blighted my life that I ran nolittle risk of
my own personal safety in coming here. A
crisis, such as you seem to apprehend, I would
gladly welcome for my part. It will always
find me prepared.” '

“ And I," said his companion. “For the
last four years I have-sought this town at cer-
tain seasons when there was a probability of
his being here, for the cowardly villain whose
life has been a forfeit to my vengeance for so
long. His visits have been diflerently timed,
and on every occasion he has escaped me. Six
months ago, he was here—so I have ascertained
—and there does seen: something more than a
chance that he may turn up this time. But I
find no trace of him thus far.”

“And you think this gloomy apprehension
of yo's is a presentiment, and connect it with
this scouudrel? By the way,” a sudden thought
seeming to strike Clarke, “ I have never asked
You (he wretch‘s name."

 

 

 

“Cyrus Keene,” was the reply. Then, as
he fancied he saw a look of disappointment on
Clarkels face, he asked:

“ Why? Did you suppose he might be tho
same villain of whom you are in search?"

“That idea did occur to inc," he replied.

“ It is strange,” Graeme went on, ‘.‘ the
nearer we drew to our destination, the deeper»
this unaccountable and inexplicable feeling
came over me, and now it seems absorbed into
my very being. Call me a fool. if you like,
Charley, but ‘coming events cast their shud-
ows before.’ "

“ Are you certain that you would know this
Keene were you to meet himll He n ay have
a dozen names, and as many disguises.” .

“I would know the cowardly assassin were
I to meet him in Hades," said the scout, in the-
fiercest tone he had yet used.

Gallant Graeme was well known on the hor-
der, as a. man whose nature was utterly fear-
less, with a self-reliance that was most remark-
able, and a carelessness -of consiquences th..t
went almost the length of recklesmess. Here,
in San Antonio, he seemed to have changed
completely. He had glown apparently nar-
ful of some nuw evil which he was unable to
ward oil’, and he appeared to have no .cunfl-
deuce in his being equal to any emergency
that might offer. Was it hope deferred—the
fenrful hope of deadly vengeance that had

thus deprived the patient watcher for it, of the"

nerve and brain that might be required to carry
it out?

“ To think of dying now, Clarke, and the
work to which I had devoted my life uni er—
formed! I cannot die and leave it so. I ounll
not rest in my gravel"

“ Let us hope there is no danger of anytioi g.

of the kind,” said his comrade. "Y n nut.
shake off these gloomy forebodings, and Fiber
above them. Such a villain as this Keene can
never die peacefully in his bed.”

“But to fall by any other hand than mine!
There .is the rub, Charley. I tell you, thdie is
no justice in Heaven or on earth if surh r.
wretch meets his fate at the hands of anollnu 1"

“Such is my own feeling in regard \to the
dastardly murderer whose trail I am in scant-hi
of. But, in addition, I have to wring a con-
fession from his black heart. Think how it.
would be with me, should I be fated to be dis-
appointed. But I will not—I must not be! ’

Charley Clarke, young, ardent and conflding,
had become attached to the man whom acquain-
tnnce he had made so informally, and that in
the darkest hours of his life.

It would be impossible to describe the new
life which the presence and the companionship

of Graeme Leighton had brought to his grateful. '

friend and admirer. He was indeed one 01 those
happily-constituted mortals who, able tokeep
their own troubles and anxieties to themelves,
brighten every scene of which they form a
part. There was a magnetism in his n ere
step which brought change, variety, relief from
monotony, forgetfulness of self and unplea~antz
surroundings, to which but few could have
remained insensible.

The river of Charles Clarke‘s young life had
flowed but slowly of late, it was becoming
lr ~st'bound by hideous chills, but when this-
torrent of healthful existence, warm and
strong, met his own, the stream gradually
Lecame once more in flood. He had been
inclined to be confidential with Graeme. He
had hovered about the edge of the secret, the
merest outline of which he had confided to him,
and drawing back, more perhaps from youthful
shyness than from want of faith in his friend-

They had known each other so short a timc.
he argued; Graeme might think it not only
w ask, but presuming in him to thrust his can‘-
fidences where they were not sought.

Buta change had come now, for a change
had come over Graeme Leighton.~

Young Clarke had time for sad meditations
that evening, for his perd, having announced
his intention of trying the eficacy of another
visit to the Bull’s Head in dispelling the gloom
that had taken pomession of him, had gone out,
giving no hint that he desired his company.

It made Charley—little more than a boy
as he was—sadder still to see the one friend
that he possessed go out in such a mood, and
the consciousness that he was no longer at hand
to exchanges word with raised for the moment
another child upon his horizon. It was an
exhilaration merely to speak to him. It would
have been almost happiness, he began to think,
to have shared his secret with him.

True, he might not have been able to give him

\

 

 

24:

' The Lone Star Gambler;

 

 

any very valuable advice. In circumstances
:auch ashia, there could bevery little advice that
would be practicable. But Graeme would have
"understood him more thoroughly, and that of
'itself is a great matter. A 0

He knew so much better what to do—so it
had impressed the young man—than any one
else whom he had ever known. To talk over,

‘ sitting here by themselves, the great horror

g'Ot his life, would have gone far toward quiet-

v ing him in the nervous dread which had taken
possession of him, as well as of his friend.

It had gr‘lwn dark in the room, but the
minutes passed, and the young man took no
notice of it. His thoughts were in the past—
'not such a Very distant past to be sure, but it
seemed ages to him - and he noted nothing that
pertained to the present time and sense.

No sound of an entering footstep had caught
his ear, usually so acute, but some sense of
another living creature in the room, some sub-
't1e consciousness. with which the atmosphere
taeems sovnetimes to penetrate itself, of a living,
thinking personality within it, reached him
before a word was spoken.

He turned his head in the darkness, and saw
‘Graerne Leighton.

“ Is your name Adler?"

“My God!” Clarke started from the chair in
which he had been dreaming of his wretched
past, and his voice sounded hollow and un-
natural.

“Is your name Adlai-i" his friend repeated,
in the same tone as before.

“Charles Clarke Adler,” he said. “Tell me,
:are they in search of me?”

“They! Whom do you mean?”

“I will tell y u everything, Graeme.”

“You need not. I know everything,” was
'the reply of the scout.

“ Then the bloodhounds are upon my trail l”
.and the young man darted toward the door, as
if to fly from the house.

“ Come back, Charley! Sit down again.
You have nothing to fear of that sort. I will
tell you what i know and how it has come
about that I know it.”

The terrified youth sat down mechanically,
and the scout took a seat near him, the apart-
ment still a: dark as Erebus.

“ Your home is, or was,” so he began, “upon
the Brazos. You are the only son of your
mother. and she a widow. The adjoining
plantation was owned by a gentleman named
~Carbury, the father of two children—a son
and a daughter. You, Charles Adler, fell in
love, as boys will do, with this young .lady.
’Your suit, it would appear, did not meet with
encouragement from the lady’s family. The
end of it was that you were forced into a
hostile meeting with the brother. A gambling
friend of his, who had a grudge of some kind
against young Carbury, whom he had
previously well-nigh ruined, was concealed
near at hand when the moonlight meeting took
*place. Seeing his opportunity, for be con-
.sidered you a rival. and wished to get you as
wellras young Curbury out of his way, the
.‘moment that you shot your' pistol above your
head he aimel at the brother, killing him, and
the ball glancing, wounding, if not killing the
young lady also, who had suddenly appeared
upon the scene.

“ Does it tally so farl”

“It does. But she—Cora Carbury was not
killed.”

“That, at least, was well. But there is
same. In making his escape. it seems it
became necessary for this precious scoundrel to
make way with a negro man, the hostler at
the Carbury plantation—" ' .

.“ Poor old Uncle Ben!” exclaimed Charles.

“He killed him; and, having found a hand-
kerchief of yours near the spot where he had
Jain concealed, left it beside the body of the
.murdered negro, the more surely to fix the
double crime upon yourself."

‘ “ Good heavens! My conviction was indeed
certain," the young man said, bitterly.

“ It was; for knowing that the bounds would
recon be on your trail, the assassin went from
the Cal-bury stables to those on the Adler
plantation, thus leading them in that direction.
Near that point he. struck a stream. which he
crossed by swimming, thus putting the dogs 03
the scent, and leaving it beyond the shadow of
:a doubt that you had murdered both the master
and the slave.”

“ And this is known in San Antonio?”

“ It is known to me,” was the reply.

“But how, tell me, Graeme, how you know
Alia! Is it known that I am here?”

 

“ One question at a time, Charley. I know
it from being an invisible listener just now to
the confession which the assassin himself was
making, as coolly as you please, to a pard of
his. ’

“ He is here the n f”

“He is here, and his name is Harrington—-
Steve Harrington."

“No, you mistake. It is Hank Roberts!”

“He goes by the name I have told you,"
said Graeme, “though I never saw the man;
and he is registered as S. W. Harrington here
at the Monger House.”

CHAPTER XXIX.
WALLS HAVE mans.

Tim scout had indeed heard everything just
as he narrated it to the astonished Charles Ad-
ler. Hank Roberts and Steve Harrington were
one and the same.

Alter supper this last-mentioned worthy, hav-
ing gotten himself up in the costume which he
affected when about to honor the gaming-table
with his presence and patronage, had adjourn-
ed to his favorite resort, the Bull’s Head.

He had completed the arrangements begun
that morning with Mad Morrow, the road-
agent, and had chosen his future career.

This masquerade, such as it was, might be
considered his adieu to the last feeble pretense
of respectability.

The face of the man, when in repose, was a
study. His features were finely chiseled, his
brow bold and marked with undoubted intel-
lect, and his eyes bright and expressive; but
over them all rested a mask of ungoverned pas-
sions, and their beauty was marred by dissipa-
tion and iniulgence in the vilest passions.

He had attired himself for the evening in a
well-fitting suit of blue cloth, stylishly made,
an-i ornamented with brass buttons, which
gave him the look of one in command; but the
buttons bore no device upon them to designate
that their Wearer belonged to either army or
navy. His hat was a black slouch, encircled
by a gilt cord, and under his coat was visible a
belt of arms.

Steve Harrington, or Hank Roberts, as we
may now call him—he had the same rightto
one name as the other—met an old acquaint-

 

ance, who had also that day enlisted in the,

corps of Mad Morrow. After an hour or so
spent in the Bull’s Head, they went out to-
gether to seek for more privacy than that
noted resort aflorded, and in which they might
talk over their prospects in the new career on
which they were about to enter Hank’s
present companion presented so decidedly sus:
picious an appearance that he did not wish to
invite him to his room in the Manger, so the
delectable pair sought a seat under the shadow
of the high church-yard wall near the main
plaza, and there discussed their pious plans.
Graeme Leighton, on leaving his apartment,
had proceeded direct to the Bull’s Head, but
finding nothing there sumciently exciting to
disperse the blue devils that had taken posses—
sion of him, and meeting no one whom he
knew, he sauntered out, and after strolling
around the plazas for some time, at last sr‘ated
himself on a bench. and finally streiched him-
self at full length upon it. In this position he
was not observed by the two men, who, com-
ing up a little later, and perceiving no one in
the vicinity, took possession of a. bench not
many yards from the one on which he lay.-
From talking over their schemes for the fu-
ture, of which Graeme made a note and re-
solved to profit by, they turned to some re-
miniscences of the post. A stOry told by
Hank’s companion of the crime which had led

- to his fleeing from civilization. brought out in

turn the narrative to which the scout was an
attentive listener. He was not long in iden-
tifying his friend Charley Clarke with the
Charles Adler who had been the victim of the
dastardly as assin’s black-hearted villainv.

“Was the. young tender-foot nabbed?” in—
quired Hank's pard. .

“ Seems not,” was the reply of that worthy;
“and it’s devilish queer how the deuced
spoony ever. managed to escape. But, escape
he did, as I saw by a long account of it in the
papers after I came here. That ain’t all of it,
though, fcr they’ve got an idea, from the lay
of things, that there must have been two en-
gaged in the shooting.”

“They don’t suspect-3’ began the other.

“Me,” said Hank. “I reckon not. Don’t
see .how they could. The old darky w the
only human who knew of my being 0 the
plantation, and I settled his hash.”

 

“You ran a d—l of a risk," said the other.

“Bet yer life, I did. And that’s just what
yours truly don’t intend to run any more.
I’ve been in a tight place more than once in
my life, and though l’ve managed to run the
gantlet, that is the part of the biz that isn’t
exactly to my taste This high-toned civilizar
tion don’t suit me any longer. If I had money
enough to go in and enjoy it among the heavy
swells, it would be another matter. And that
is what I intend trying for now. Thecarda
have gone against me like the dance since I’ve
been in San Antonio—fact is, the bloods

around here are up to all my little tricks—and.

the only show I see. for making my pile is on
the road.”

“My mind’s made up on that question the
same way,” responded his pard.

“ Oh, you?” There was just a little con-
tempt in the voice of the high-toned Hank, as
he spoke. “ You never was exactly cut out
for shining in ladies' society and all that sort
of thing. Now, I’m just in my element
there.”

“So you’ll be thinking of gittin’ back to it
one of these days, I reckon?"

“You can gamble on that, pard. Just as
soon as I make my pile, no more Captain Mor-
row and the road for yours truly.”

“ I don’t know after all, Steve.
a mighty exoitin’ life.”

“ Too deucsdly exciting sometimes,” said
Hank, whose bravery was not his strong point.

"And there’s a kinder fascination about it,"
the other continued.

"There is, about the money that is to be
made at it. I know that well enough.”

“As far as the danger goes, there’s that in
most anything. There‘s daugir in layiu’
round loose in this way. "

“ That there isl” muttered Graeme underhis
breath.

“When. I made up my mind to take the
road, I settled onto it for a steady profession.
And I reckon I’ll stick to it as long as it sticks
to me. They may drive us ofl? some day, but
’tain't likely ’twill be in your day (r mine. ”

“ All I’m sorry for now is,” said Hank,
“ that I didn’t take to it long ago. All I‘ve
made in a quiet genteel way, has slipped out
of my fingers ately in the slickest way you
ever dreamed of. It’s deuced odd; I swear it
is. And after all the infernal risk I ran into
the bargain. If I had gone on !he road four
years ago, when I lett Louisiana, I wouldn’t
call the President my uni le to-day."

“You’d be about thinking of retiring from
the business, I reckon?” ~

"You bet I would! You'd havo seen me
about this, if you had happened to have gone
East, a full-blown bloated aristocrat.”

“ Dog’d if ’tain’t likely enough,” said Hank’s
admiring auditor.

“ It’s just as sure as anything in the world
can be. But I’ll make the rifle yet, you can
just bet your boots.”

“I think myself it’s about the shortest road
to a fortun’, without it may be marrying a rich
widder; and then you don’t have no incum-
berances."

‘ Of course you don’t. And, let me tell you
nothing of that kind would go down with me.
I was tool enough to tie myself to a piece of
calico once—"

“The dickens, you say! I didn’t never know
about that. How long ago was it?”

“Never mind that. Who said you knew
anything about it! I gota divorce from the
beauty in a way of my own, short meter, I
can tell you lhat.”

“But the idee of your ever hein’ married,
Harrington—that’s what gits me!"

Graeme had listened intently throughout
that he might find out. if possible, the name of
the man whom he now believed to be the one

You see it‘s

for whom his friend Clarke was searching.

He had now made the discovery for which he
had waited. The companion of the self-con-
fessed assassin had accosted him as “Steve,”
and “ Harrington.”

But the scout was unable to leave his re-
cumbent position while the pair of prospective
road-agents remained. It would be mani-
festly unsafe to let them know of his proxi-
mity, and besides it might cause the scouu<
drels to levant, and thus interfere wit the
carrying out of the one great wish f his

friend. So Graeme, had still to possess his 
was we

in patience.

Presently, however. a pro.
to return to the Bull’s Head, to which the other
acceded, with the remark that he could not

 

 

 

 

The Lone Star Gambler.

25

 

remain long as he wished to return early to
the Monger House. and retire. They then
arose and strolled off together.

Graeme Leighton had heard sufficient. He
sprung from the bench, and darted, OR for his
hotel, stopping in the office when he reached
it only long enough to inspect the register,
and find, among the arrivals of some two
weeks previous, the name of S. W. Harring-
ton.

Then, without a word to any one he went
quietly up to the room in which he had left
his friend Clarke an hour before, to startle
that young man as we have seen by asking
him if his name was Charles Adler.

 

CHAPTER XXX.
run runs convenes.

WI left Colt Carter rushing frantically from
the plaza in search of the scout Bristow, after
he had been so startled by the sudden appear-
ance of Mad Morrow and Steve Harrington.
The sight of Gallant Graeme and Charley
Clarke had had the effect of almost paralyzing

the youth, but this last seemed at once to'

clectrify him.

He was not successful, however, in finding
his friend; for Bristow, on leaving Colt, had
gone 03 with the party of New Yorkers to
inspect their horses, and they had together
taken a cantor out into the country from which
they had not yet returned. Unable to decide
on what course he ought to pursue in this
evidently disturbing element into which he
had been so suddenly thrown, Colt Carter
roamed listlesaly about the outskirts of the
town until the sun had sunk beneath the hori-
sou and the brief twilight which followed had
disappeared also, before he returned to the
hotel.

The conduct of the boy made it apparent
that he feared, by himself, to meet whichever
of the two men it was that bad so disconcerted
him.

Equally unsuccessful in coming up with the
man whom they had identified as Hank
Roberts, were Graeme and Charles Adler.

Together they went at once, both well arm-
ed, to the Bull's Head, only to find that while
his pard was still there, the man known as
Steve Harrington had left some minutes be-
fore. Returning immediatelyto the Monger
House, they found that he had not yet put in
an appearance.

The hour was still early, however, and they
must make up their minds to wait, perhaps
uhftfl long past midnight. It would be a tedi-
Mgu for Charles Adler, if a; must be so;
and the patience, which for‘weeke put‘he had
been seeking to acquire, wes‘fa'st oozing out.

There were more nervous and excited
watchers in that noted bostelry of the Alamo
City on that eventful night.

Colt Carter, in a state of mind akin to
frenzy, roamed the halls and passages, peering
from time‘ to time out into the darkness, for
the counsel and succor in his mysterious trou-
ble which could now. only come with the advent
of his friend .Bristow.

And, on‘ the floor above, in the pleasantest
room of the hotel. a woman had been pacing
the floor for hours, her long train rustling
after her as she moved, like the sound of the
ebbing waves upon the bench. Her face was
strangely beautiful, but strangely sad; with
her blue-black hair braided in heavy coils, her
glorious dark eyes with their long fringing
lashes, her delicately shaded and arched eye.
brows, and her perfect mouth with its setting
of pearly teeth. ‘

We have seen her before, with the Kingsleys
in the emigrant train,‘end we have witnesacd
her flight in terror from the presence of Gal-
lant Graeme in the timber motto. We know
too, the horror, nameless though it was, which
of late bad possessed her, and her conviction
that fate was leading, or rather driving her

 in this vieit'of hers to San Antonio.

Now. as she moves up and down the floor of
1!" ‘thnt With graceful tread, her brows
are drawn toxether in deep and anxious
thought, and her lips move in low, painful ac-
cents:—— '

“ It may be, that he‘is here—here, in this
very house! Can it be that it is through him

* this nameless something which I so dread, is to

come! Ob, Clayton, Clayton! Ever kind and

good] ,1 Has it come to this that the one terror

“fanny and life is in meeting with you! I feel

that I ought to. "act in some way, but since I
have been here something seems to be restrain.

ing moi I am he*cbnined in this very room!
The thought of y sudden helplessness, and
the dread of the danger that seems to threaten
me, are driving me mad. And yet, why should
Ii He would probably only despise me—me,
whom he has long believed to be dead—he
would scarce kill me. That I have already gone
through, and from one at whose hand the stab
was sharper than Clayton’s could make it.
.Cnn it be that 110—! But no, no! My God!
No; anything, anything, in thy awful and
mysterious dealings with me, but that I”

The tortured woman, even when she became
calm, felt like a stranded sailor, like one ship-
wrecked on some island so thoroughly a desert
that there was not even the consolation, the
chance of struggling for life. She pondered
over the many sad and fearful events which
had been crowded into her little span of exist-
ence; she thought of all that had happened,
and she wondered what remaining misery
could be in store for her. The world in which
her girlish footsteps had not been slow in find-
ing out unaccustomed tracks, was one, the
cond.tions- of which even the keenest eyes are
slow in discovering. She felt that she had
crowded already into her two decades, more
knowledge of its devious ways than many do
in their three-score years and ten.

Meanwhile the patient watchers below—
though the term by right belonged to but one
of them—had begun conversing in a low tone,
where they sat side by side in a shadow cor-
ner of the rotunda. .Gr'aeme knew that n this
way alone, could he stem the ebbing tide of his
psrd’s patience, which was very much in the
condition of the courage of Bob Acres.

“ You can keep perfectly cool with the ut-
most impunity, Charley. The dastardly
wretch cannot possibly escape us."

“ He shall not escape me I” was the_reply,
with an energy in his tone and manner, which
one who knew Charles Adler’s life and charac-
ter would not have looked for. “I am on his
trail now, even should he have levanted while
we are watching for him.”

“ That is not to be thought of,” said his
friend.

“How do we know? He may have heard
something—seen me, possibly—and deemed
discretion the better part of valor. He is a.
coward at heart, and will not meet me if he
can avoid it."

“No doubt as to that, I reckon,” said
Graeme, "but hewill return to the hotel. I
have ascertained that his effects are here, and
what money and jewelry he had left a couple

clerk. He had been losing at cards - pretty
heavily, it appears, and probably wanted to
make sure of having something left. 0h, he’ll
turn up; never fear.”

“ It is‘not somuch the life of the miserable
assassin—though that he has forfeited—that I
thirst for. Itisthe-proof of his guilt in the
affair at Magnolia Plantation, and the testi-
mony i must bring from him in attestatiop of
my innocence.” .

“Youforget, Alder, that I have all in my
possession already. I heard the villain confess
the whole affair, even to the smallest detail.
As far as that is concerned, you might set out
for your home to-night."

“ I had not thought of that. Thanks,
Graeme; Ican be more patient now. At the
worst, all will he not lost.”

“Nothing will be lost, believe me; not even
honor. ‘But when this is settled, and you have
returned to home, and duty, and beauty, my
work still remains undone.”

The scoutepoke sadly, as if feeling that for-
tune favored every one but himself.

The hours passed slowly, and the witching
noon of night had already passed. Silence be-
gun to reign in the corridors of the Monger,
and sleep had fallen upon nearly all within its
walls. Our two frienda'had drifted strangely
upon a. subject foreign to the one so impel-taut
to them, and it was not until a new arrival
had roused the drowsy clerk at the desk, that
they were brought back to the present and its
probable issues. v

'11:. sight of a solitary individual entering
at that hour naturally made both men start
from their chairs and clap their hands to their
pistols; but, even in that dim light, they were
not slow in perceiving that the stranger was
not the one for whose coming they waited.

He bore the appearance of anything rather
than that of a fast man and a desperado. and
the name which he inscribed upon the register,
in a bold, manly hand, was Ralph Kingsley.

 

of days ago, he placed on deposit with the-

 

CEAPTER XXXI.
ALL nnnrs ammo.

WITH the consciousness which came to young
Adler from the assurance just given him by
his friend that, let happen what might, his in~
nocence was established, came a feeling of re-
lief and thankfulness surpassing anything of
which he had believad himself capable. He
could bear all else. He could return and look
all the world—ay, even Cora Carbury—in the-
face.
old Uncle Ben might yet be destined to go un-
avenged; but, whether or not, the Adler name-
was unstained.

Instead of the culmination of human wretch-
edness, which had been the young man’s con-
dition ever since that fearful moment when he
stood by the bleeding corpse of his asailant
under the fair moonlight, came back into his
soul that curious lull of enchantment which
had been his but a few minutes before that
fatal one.

The night breeze, which blow in through, the
open window near which he was seated, grew
blflmy and caressing, and every individual
sound that came upon it ran into a symphony
of happiness, and satisfaction, and peace.

There was no longer blood upon the air:‘ that:
horrid vision which, sleeping or waking, had.
never been long absent from him, had van-
ished, and that by no mental process, but, as
it were, by absorption of a new impression,

which, in its turn, obliterated that which it. \

replaced. '

It had given softness to the air, melody to-
the breeze, and made even the stars above him
shine with a new luster.

As for the scout, Gallant Graeme, be tipped:
his chair back against the wall and relapsed
into gloomy silence. His thoughts went back
to the adventure on the prairie of a few days:
previous—to the beautiful horsewomau who
had fled fl-om him, and whom he had in vain
attempted to come up with. I

“Strange that she should have been so
shocked at meeting me face to face, the scout;
whom she must at once have recognized!" 80
the young man mused. “Stranger still,” he
went on, “ thatshe should have so persistently
avoided me while with the wagon train. There
is a reason for it; of that I am positive. .Elther
I am some one whom she knows, and when
for some reason she dreads meeting, or I re—
semblesome one for whom she mistakes me.

“ And she—she resembles no one I have ever
met but one, and that one has for years filled
the grave to which she was untimely sent be-
neath the muddy waters. Houston—yes, Mrs.
Houston they called her—but the name proves
nothing one way or the other. I feel, how-
ever, thet I must find out something more in
regard to her. When I am next on the Rio
Frio I must make a point of calling upon
Major Kingsley, and learn all that they may
be able and willing to tell me. She must have
had some reason of her own for leaving them
in the way she did, and her appearance on the
prairie, and alone, was, to say the least, very
singular.
Where, if not to Ban Anteniol And she'may
be here now.”

Graeme Leighton, happily for him, was not
one of those men like his friend Charles Adler,
whose mind can become concentrated on one
subject, to the exclusion of all else.

In theceseof the latter, it was perhaps fortu—
nate that it was so. Having, at the moment
when the full horror of his position was forced
upon him, been enabled to fix his purpose, and
to set out at once on the task of accomplishing,
the eflort and the concentration of his whole
mental powers had probably saved him from

James Carbury’s death and that of poor ‘

v..

Where could she have been going? ,

insanity. Even in the hours which were his -

darkest ones, when features of all the dreadful
possibilities which life might yet hold in re-
serve for him, rose before his i , ation,
there was always eumclent hope in the labor he
had undertaken to enable him to live.

It was not so, however, with Graeme. While
the one great object to which he had devoted
his life, namely, vengeance upon the beirsyer
and murderer of his sister, was never lost sight
Vof, he had nevertheless the will and the strength
to keep it in the background; occupying him-
self, in the mean time, with his every-day
duies on plain and prairie, and never betray-
ing to the casual observer that he had “that
within which passeth show."

Of late, hcwever, the evil spirit which he

had, up to thistime, been able to keep under '

control, seemed to be acquiring the ascendurcv,
and but for the somewhat patronizing 13”"th-

..—-,. «fl- -‘g

'.....,.._.... .. . I,

~~M _.

' l

 

l
'

26

tion which he had assumed over his less-ex-
periwnccd friend, his state of mind would just
n0w have been anything but enviable.

After keeping his attitude against the wall
for some time, he started up abruptly, and
remarking to his companion that he would re-
turn presently, went to his apartment.

He remained but a few minutes, and coming
out, passed before reaching the head oi’ the
staircase the partly opened door of a room
where the lights were still burning. As he did
so, a halfvsuppressed scream from the inmate
of the apartment caught his ear, but he made
no pause, and descended at once to the office
where he had left young Adler.

As he disappeared, the lady. whom we have
seen pacing the room but a little while pre-
vious, came out, and stood in the passage, as if
uncertain what she ought to do.

Her indecision lasted but a moment, for a
pistol-shot and lhe sound of voices below were
heard almost instantly, and she (la-"tel down
the stairway and into the office.

Charles Adler had remained room after
Graeme had no him, his meditations of a more
pleasant cast than they had been for scan
time, so much so that he did not observe the
entrance of a man, who went up to the desk
for the key of' his apartment. As the new-
comer turned, the eyes of the two men met,
and the recognition was mutual. The stranger
was too quick for Charles, however, and

' had covered him with his pistdl before the

young man had ore than drawn his from his
belt.
“ My deal, Cyrus Keene i” I

The voice startled him, and he turned. The
next instant Graeme had discharged his pistol,
and Hank Roberts fell to the floor.

“ Cyrus Keene?" exclaimed Charles Adler,
inquiringly, as he stepped toward him.

“ Yes,” was the calm reply of the scout.

“And you?” said the wounded man; “ they
call you Graeme Leighton.”

' “Clayton Graeme," was the response; “ you
know me now, I suppose?”

“ y Godl" was the mlamaflon of Hank,
who had not attempted to rise. Then, after a
pause. “ But I am dying; l0, what matter!"

“ Yes, you are dying,” said the scout, “ and
Annette Graeme in ovanged at bit.”

“You,” said the wretch, feebly, “ but she
was really, my wife, Clayton. I had married
her!” '\ a

“You had! Do you qua! the truth?"

“‘ For the last time, and almost the first,”
who the reply. Then, firming Ho eyes to
(harlo- Adlar, he'said: “And I murdfled Jim
Chi-bury and old Don!"

As he said the. words his eyes vested upon

the face of one who had a! come forward,

with others, on hearing the cum in the
omcc. It was Colt Carter. It was but one

‘look, and they recognized each other.

“It label It is the eyes!” came in a scream
of mingled joy and terror from the lips of the
youth; and, as Charles Adler, with .a curious
look of perplexity turned and looked him in
the face, he fell to the floor in a faint. ,

Clayton Graeme turned again to his pros-
trate foe, who had not spoken since the recog-
nitlon of him by Colt Carter.

“He is dead!" he said, quietly.

At this moment Placido Houston came rush-
ing into the omce. " '

“ He is dead!” she echoed, in a hollow vice.
"Dead! And I once called him husband l"

“ And he was in truth your husband,” said
Graeme, catching her in his arms as he spoke.

'f‘Annotte Keene, thank God, you were his

wife! Thank God, ten thousand times, you
mnow his widow!"

CHAPTER XXXII.
THROUGH RIGHT To Hear.
Cmnns ADLIR had barely had time to an-
nounce to his friend Clayton Graeme, that the

 

youth, known as Colt Carter, was none other

than Cora Carbury, the faithful, who had
found, nht only her unjustly accused lover,
but the realnssassin ‘of her brother, the man
whom she had seen and recognized as he lay
crouched in the shrubbory—when the scout,
Bdrtow, came in on the search for his young

“That settles ther hunt, as far so ther

younker air consumed,” was his remark, .

when the state of adults was made known to
hm; “-I reckon hit air ther only time what
Bil. Bristow got fooled theta-way. But I don’t
give .\ darn without them high-toned New York
gorlootl git: a grip outer thor romance 0’ hit.

The Lone Star Gambler.

Ef it comes ter that, I mought as well leave
ther plains tor onc’t. I’d be dead sure never
tor hear the eend 0’ hit.”

Ralph Kingsley was no less astonished, on
' finding that Placide Houston whom,‘ with a true
spirit of knight orrnntry, he had followed, hop-
ing to aid and protect, was the deeply—injured
wife of the gambler who had then and there
met the fate he so richly deserved; and that
she had found a protector in the person of the
brother, the meeting with whom had been the
one well~deflnell terror of her life.

It was mutually agreed that Annette Keene
should rejoin her friends on the Frio, fol-the
present, until her brother, having resolved to
relinquish the life of a scout, shoth fix upon
their future home; and, consequently slro
journeyed thither forthwith, under the joint
protection of Clayton and Ralph.

That Annette, or Placide as they had known
her, was warmly welcomed by the Kingsley
family, may well be believed, and- her brother
found the location so attractive that ha decided
at once on making hm futm home in that
neighborhood. The wish may have been father
to the thought, but Annette shrewdly sus-
pected that the lovely and amiable Bloodline
Kingdoy was the chief attraction.

The In Antonio papers which, at one time,
ind displayed Iuch enterprise in writing up
the Dunes tragedy, m not flow in giving to
their readers, a hall mount of the discovery
and death of the assassin, and of his confusion
In this way the ma mind Magnolia
Plantation and Fair Oaks some time In arm
of the returned fugitives.

Cara Carbury, under the ‘ d a
family who were coming to the East, hastened
to_return to the lonely and grief-stricken old
man, with the only intelligence that could be
at all pleasing to him in this world.

Charles Adler remained behind for some
days, having accidentally discovered that some
unsettled claims of hislato father were sus-
ceptible of being adjusted to the great advan-
tage of the estate.

That his mother, haughty and self-contained
though she was, rejoiced in her inmost heart
when the welcome news reached the planta-
tion none need question' but the most demon-
straflvo of all the adherents of Charles Adler at
Fair Oaks, was little Pomp, who had taken no
interest in life since performing the one duty
which his young master bad enjoined upon
him.

“I done gub do letter tor Aunt Hula-y,
Mane Charley!" was the little darky’s ex-
ultant greeting, when, after some days, Charles
Adler, mounted on Thunder Cloud, even as
he had left, rode up to the stable at Mr
Oaks. .

Honest Pb! Munroe, m to his y0nng
friend, through good and evil report, we. the
first to bear the tidingo to Magnolia Plantation.
It must be confessed that there was not a little
of the ungenerous “I-told—you-so,‘.' spirit in
the way in which he triumphantly imparted
the welcome news. '

“I allers said when they foun’ the coward
what killed Jim, thar wouldn’t be much like—
ness 0’ Charley Adler ’bout him. I know a
squar’ man when I see: him, I reckon; and
when I does, I freezes tor him.”

Colonel Carbury’s reply showed the last
glimmer of the old feeling. ‘

, “I’m glad it wasn’t young Adler after all.

It was a bitter pill for me; the thought that
Kenton Adler had gotten the best of me at
last—that my boy should have met his death
at the hands of his!"

But the colonel was failing rapidly. He
lived to see his daughter return, and to wel-
come her with some little show of affection;
without censuring her in the least, or even
asking any questions.

The one remark which he made in reference
to their great sorrow, was the same in sub-
stance that he had made to Phil Munroe:

“I’m thankful that, after all, it wasn’t
young Adler. I could never have rested quiet-
ly in my grave if it bfll been so.”

A few weeks more and Lafayette Carbury
was peacefully resting there. beside his meek
and patient wife and his reckless and prodigal
son; his own selfish and unreasonable temper
and vindictivo,‘unforgiving nature gradually
softening toward the last. ’

CHAPTER XXHIL
“A xnm GOOD monr ro ALL.”
Tm: three fairest and‘ happiest homes on the

 

 

.Rio Frio are occupied respectively by Major

 

;

Kingsley, his wife and daughter; Clayton
Graeme and Wile, the latter the pretty
Blondine Kingsley; and Ralph Kingsley and
his wife, Annette.

No dreams of further vengeance now haunt
the pillow of our friend, Gallant Graeme, and
not even the shadow of a longing for hi‘.
former wild life on the plains, comes up to
darken his domestic peace and Contentment.

While with Annette, happy in her new lo\ e.
and feeling secure in that of the fondest and
most faithful of husbands, the sadness which
clouded her (arlier days has completely van-
ished, and the memory of Cyrus Keene it"but
as that of a nightmare which can never re-
turn to disturb the repose \\ hich is hers to day.

When Charles Arllor onre lln re approached
his mother with the suggestion that they dis-
pose of the plantation, that lady no larger
offered the slightest objection. Her Fido
would not have permitted her to give the
Carburys the satisfaction of seeing her com-
pelled to give up her home—for in that fight
alone did she regard it—but, now that the
colonel and his son were no more, her failings
in regard to them were allowed to sleep to
their tomb. Besides, there were now M
associatiors connected with the neighw
of Fair Oaks, which made her not unwilling to
leave it.

Neither did Mrs. Adler, stranger still to sq,
interpose any obstacles to the marriage of her
Ian and Cora. Carbury. .

Whether it was only because she deemed I
wisest to submit to the inevitable, or that hr
bitter feelings had died with her old enemy, or
possibly that the knowledge that Cora had he-
herited all that remained of the Carbury am.
-—no inconsiderable fortune, even in the mn-
dition in which James Carbury’s prod‘ ity
had placed it—it is certain that Charles ound
his mother, to his great delight, oven p eased
with the prospect of thus finally, and for all
time, burying the hatchet.

Nor did Adelaide Adler so much as meat
to her son, any location, or even part of the
universe, which she would prefer. The old
spirit of sovereignty and dictation had verb-d,
and she left the entire matter with himun-
questioningly.

But in this, as he was desirous of doing In

everything, Charles thought first of what he-

knew to be the dearest, though it was the va-
w wish of his mother's heart.

In one of the brightest and bonniest of
homes, in that paradise of the true mm
the “ Blue Grass Region "—ono which for gon-
erations, had been owned and occupied by the
Clark“ to which family Mrs. Adler no piled
hordf on belonging—Charles Adler blqht
his W and handsome mother, and his
pretty and who. wife. .

With them too, went the servants of the
M Outs Plantation, and such of those firm
the Munch as hid ace belonged to it also;
not forgot“ I. favmto attendants of (bra
when to wkhd b have accompany her, in-
cluding, d cause, old Aunt Huldy.

The W, although her attachment to the
place where she was born, and inwhlch she
had passed so many years, was, as one might
expect, “cat-like,” nevorfi refused to be
parted from her young mistress.

Cora was all that was now left of the fast-
faded glories of the Carburys, and the faithful
old creature, who had but a short time to re-
{Inain behind them, firme and fondly clung to

er.

There, in the old Kentucky home, we. leave
them, the bright sun of heaven shining lovingly
upon their path, and the soft, southern blast?!
from the Gulf bringing with themno sound-
but those of peace. ,

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25 The Do Cu )tuln. By Roger Starbuck.
26 Cloven oo , THE BUFFALO DEMON; or, THE
BORDER VULT'URES. By Edward L. Wheeler.
2'1 Antelope Aboymn BOY GUIDE. Oll Coonms
28 Duii‘ulo Ben, THE PRINCE OF THE PISTOL;
« v- .4 or DEADWOOD DICK IN DISGUISE. E. L. Wheeler.
' v ’29 The Dumb Page. B Capt. F. Whittnkvr.
, 30 Roaring Ralph lloc wood, TEE RECR-
LESS RANGER. By Bony St. George.
I. 31 Keen-Knife, PRINCE or THE PRAIRIss. By
\ 011 Coomes. '
32 Bob Woolf, TEE BORDER RUIIT'IAx- or. Tm:
GIRL DEAD- . 'By Edward L. Wheeler.
33 The Ocean Bloodhound. S. W. Pierce.
4 Oregon Sol' or wa erLss’ BOY SW
13 Cu t. J. F.  Adams.
5 Ill" Ivan. By Edward L. Wheeler.
1‘ 36 The B Clown . By Frank S. Finn.
37 The Hi don Lodge. By T. C. Harbsugh.
l 38 Ned W lde, was BUY SCOUT. By Texas Jack.
39 Death- ace, m Dmc-rrvs. By Wheeler.
,. 40 Roving Ben. By J. J. Marshall.
.'* 41 Lasso Jack. B on 00011198.
' 42 The Phantom iner. B ELL. Wheeler.
43 Dick Darling; TEE PONY ms RIDER.
B CD t. Freda ck Whittaker.
44 lzutt inc Rube. By Barry St. George.
45 Old Avalanche. By Edward L. Wheeler.
" 48 Glass Eye, THE GREAT SHOT or m Wssr.
:1 1133 Capt. J. F. 0. Adams.
47 izhtin ale Nat. By T. C. Harbs h.
48 Black ohn, TEE ROAD-AGENT. By r.
‘ 49 Omaha 011. By Edward L. Wheeler.
» v 50 Burt Bunker, TEE TRAPDER. C. E.
‘ ' 51 The Do 'Rilies. By Archie C. Irons.
. 52 The Wh to Buii‘alo. C. E. .
53 Jim Bludsoo Jr. B Edward L.Wheeler.
54 Ned anel. B’y Cs t. .F. 0. Adams.
55 Deadly- Eye, THE N'KNOW'N SCOUT' or, TEE
BRANDED BROTHERBOOD. gBuflalo Bill.
.56 Nick Whililes’ Pet. t. J. F. 0. Adams.
'I Deadwood Dick’s En es. By Wheeler.
8 The Border King‘. on Goons.
9 Old Hickory. By BtuGeorEe.
0 The White ndinn. Opt. J. F. . Adams.
3; ncksli‘orgl liilsll.u By Edwscxg  Wheeler.
e a ow p . . . ngmham.
. ‘ 3 The Bed Brotherhoo . W. J. Hamilton.
' r 64 Dand Jack. By T. C. Hurbnugh.
‘ I 65 Hn cone . vJos. E. Badger, Jr
J 66 single Hand. W. J. Hamilton.
67 Patent-leather oe. EYPhili S.WRme.
68 Border Robin Hoo . B alo Bill.
69 Gold Rifle. B Edward L. eeler.
'10 Old 1111’. Cal) II. By Capt. J. F. 0. Adams.
71 Delaware Dick. By 011 000mm.
'12 Mad Toln Western. By W. J. Hamilton
‘18 Deadwood Dick on Deck. By Wheeler.
'14 Hawk-eye Harry. By 011 (homes.
‘15 The Boy Duelist. By Col. P. Ingmham.
'16 Abe Colt, TEE CROW-KILLER. By A. W. Aiken.
'17 Co durofi Charlie, TEE Bo! BRAVO; or,
D W001) on‘s LAST ACT. By E L. Wheeler.
Dick. By Cu. tam Mayne Reid.
or, GIANT PPER. By A.W. Aiken.
0 Rob. By Edward L. Wheeler.
1 Lightning Jo. By Captain J. F. C. Adams.
2 Kit Hnreloot. By T. C. Harbnu h.
3 Rollo, the Boy Ranger. liyO Coomes.
4 By .L
5
6
7

 

 

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a

ldyl the Girl Miner. . Wheeler.

Buck Buckram. B Capt. J. F. 0. Adams.

Band Book. By ‘. Waldo Browne.

and Pirates. By Capt. Mayne Reid.

h Phil. E. LWheeler.

J m. ByBrace ridge Hemyng.
90 The Broad Rider. B G. Waldo Browse.
91 The Captain ot'the 0 ob; or, THE YOUNG

RIVAL mums. By Bracebrld Hemyng.
92 Canada Chet. By Edward L. eeler.
93 The Boy Miners. B Edward 8. Ellis.
94 Midnight Jack. By . C. Harbaugh.

1 95 The Rival Rovers. Lieut. Col. Hazeltine.
96 Watch-Eye. m Swow. By E. L. Wheeler.
97 The Outlaw Brothers. By J. J. Marshall.
98 Robin Hood, mnfi cumuwsn EARL; or, THE

MERRY MEN or Gummn. Prof. Gildersleeve.
99 The Tiger ol‘ Taos. By G. Waldo Browne.
100 Deadwood Dick in Loudville; or. A

STRANGE STROKE FOR Ty. By oeler.
101 Jack Harkaway in New York. By
- Braoebridge Benin 5

102 Dick Dead-Eye. ByCoi. Ingralmn.

 

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1 Deadwood Dirk. TEE PRINCE or THE ROAD

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'l‘ho Lion of the Son.

  

Old I'rosty. 'l'l
Ono-Eyi-(lsiln llyJIn
Deadwood Dick
Eilwurtl L. \Vlu-v ‘10:.

Ill

The Son~lh~vll. Bym
The Maui lluntcr.

THE ROAD TO FORTUNE. By
The Iliad Minor.
’l‘hc llussur (‘a itain.
Gilt-lldgcd Dir I.
Mustang Sam.
The Branle Hand.
Kiowa Charley.

l’irn ;unc Potc.

‘Dctertivo Dick.

wit—ccmqauxawqo—caacqamt— “if-— G $14.7:LI-p-H

Sure Shot Seth.
("again Paul, m
or

The Hoi Hess Hand.
Blonde

Judge Lynch, Jr.
Blue Blazes. B
Solid Sam, TEE

Fran

Handsome Harry.
Scar-Face Saul.

Daint
Captn n Ferret. B
Silver Star, THE BOY

THE WINNING BAND. ‘
Sharp Stun.
A Game of Gold.

H96“ flami-WN I-‘OQ “~19 Mn?-

N

WINNINO AGAINST ODDs.

tilt-161:! 0V mall-IF- ti-té-AF-Eli-K- DEAF“ “03:0 saw 659339;“ ’iéiONNt ’iéfiNa-i—t-v-l-I‘ F's—Id N ¢¢CCCCO

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TEE Pchsn PARTY.
Mike Merry, m

.1

(l Hie.
8 Deadly Dash. Bv Jos.
Tornado Tom.
A Trum
Ebon on. By Frank
Dand Rock’s luv-i.
Bob 1!
Captain Arizona. By
The Do Runaway.
Nobby

Tho Sou Trai or.

By
Wild Frsnk, m

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29

Little Hurricane.
Tho Hidden Hand.
The Boy
Evil Eye, KING

Fred Hal 'ard.
Nod Tern

Dand Dal-ire.
Buflh 0 Billy.

rapt-in Mask.
Bufl‘alo Bill’s Bet.

Arkansaw. THE MAN
By T. C. Harbau h.

The Boy Bo ouina.

“(Cl-‘39 mqaciowtoncamqa Gui-{n7

he oy ‘Psrds.

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406 Dark Paul, who

207 Navajo Nick. By'l‘. C. Barbs

During Daugh- liy llur

TEE NIORTJIwas or PHILADELPHIA

8110mm
LADY LILY'S LOVE. By Edws
By 0
By Chas. Morris.
Tra rs. By Badger, Jr.
CA'l'i'LE
VULTUnEs or m RIO GRANDE. B
Cool Desmond. By Col. D
By Charles Morris.
c, TEE BORDER BOY. Harbsuzh.
Bob nor ett, THE CRACKSMAN. By Morris.
Bv Wm. R. E star.

v Cant. Tnv or, U. S. A.
(‘aptnin Kit. By Llont. H. D.Peny.U.S.N.
By Philixéj. Warns.

Deadwood Dick’s Drea '
Shndowcd. By Charles Morris.
Little Grit, THE WILD RIDER. By ‘Ingra‘nnm.

By Col. Delle Sam.

limulu’ood i)i('k’.~ vail'o. llylVlnu-lnr.
Old Rube, Tm: HUNTER. Ca )t.

. Holnws.

‘Ul'lllll. By 1.0. Horhangh.

nus L. Bowen.
ry St. Gnorrw.

Di‘lt‘t'll vc. By

Tho Black Stood of the Prairies. A
Thrilling Story of ’l‘i-xan Adv. -I.tur0. By Bowen.

)1. l’. lngralmm.

By Burton saxe.
.laI-k lloylo, THE YorNG SI-ECULATOII; or,

Ed. L. Wheeler.

The Black Schooner. Roger Starbuck.
By G. Waldo Browne.

Col. P. lngmlmm.

By E. L. Wheeler.
It‘ll] Somers. THE BOY DETECTIVE. Morris. I
By Jns. E. Badger, Jr.

By Frank Ilnnmnt.

(‘lnnnmon Chip. By I“dward L. \thelor.
Phil Hardy, 'IIIE Boss BOY. By 0. Morris.
By T. C. Iinrbaugh.
’l‘ipp y, THE TEXAN. By George Gleason.
Bonanza Bill, MINER. By Ed. L. Wheeler.
By Charles Morris.

‘Vil -Firo, Boss or run ROAD. B Dnmont.
The Young Privateer. By H.
Dcndtvood Dick’s Double. By Wheeler.
By Charles Morris.

The Golden "and. By Geo. W. Browne.
The lInntcd Hunter.
Boss Bob, THE KING or Tm: BOOTDLAcRs:
01'. THE PAWNDROIIER’S PLOT. Ed. L. Wheeler.
' Bv Oll Coomes.

avondish.

By Rd. 5. Ellis.

ENTUCEY MOONSHINER;
E BOY Si"! or TEE lIOUNrAINs.
Night-Hinvk Kit. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.

By Clark.
Capt. Mayne Rold.

ill; or. DEADwom) Dch‘s HOME
BAsE. By Edward L. Wheeler.
B T. C. Harbaugh.

Dnmont.

or ROAD-AGENT; or. TEE
BRANDED Bnows. By Edward I. Whee
oifiy Charles Morris.

er.

Coomes.

Lonco, m Bar SPORT. By Badger.
Edward L. Wheeler.
IOET.
Will \Vildflre, THE TEOROUOHDRED; or.
Charles Morris.
By J. lexander Patten.
By Ed. L. Wheeler.
Lance and Lasso. By Capt. F.Whittaker.
Panther Paul, TEE PRAIRIE PIRA
DAINTY LANCE TO THE RESCUE. J. E.
Black Bess, WILL WILDrIRE‘s RACER; or.
By Charles Morris.
Eagle Kit, THE BOY DEION. B 011 Coomes.
The Sword Hunters.
Gold Trig er mSPOltT.
Dick 01‘ Deadwood or,
By Edward L. Whee er.
ARBOR POLICE honor,

BY Coomes.

n ' 01‘
Edger:

31y . Whittaker.
. C. Harbsugh.

Morris.

8 Fanc Frank'oi‘ Colorado. Buffalo Bill.
9 The mat Contain. By Whittaker.

0 The no]: GI nt. 3?; E. Badger, Jr.
1 wow ori: Not .. By .L.Wheeler.

2 ill Wildfire in the Woods. Morris.
3 Litth Texas. B on Coomes.

4 Dandy Rock’sP edge. B G.W. Browne.
5 Billy Ba gage. -B 'CharesMorI-ls.
or

arr . y Har St. George.
7 A In Cool}, Tm: gramme“ 33}. By Wiliett.

E. Badger, Jr.

3; T. C. Harbaug .
Card. y Charles Morris.

Dnmont.

Thun erbolt Tom. Hui-3y St. Goo .
By By .W. Browfi.
ockett, THE BOY DODOER Bv Morris.

Phlll B.Warne.
By out. Perry.

ick of Nevada. E. L. Wheeler.
Old Solitary. By 011 Uoomes.
Bob nockett THE BANK RUNNER. Morris.

Lieut. H. D. Perry.
BRAVO; or,
L. Wheeler.
Gaomes.

Tmrvrzs: or, THE
F. Dumont.
0 Sara.

aptsin Taylor.
. By Wheeler.

WITH THE

Fonthorweiv ,t. By Edward. Willa“.

By Whitfzkfir.

The Black Hill-:1 ego.th 23' Wheeler.

Pros ect Peta. By 611 Coomes.

I By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.

Gold Plume. THE BOY BANDIT. Inmham.

Deadwood Dick’s Doom. By Wheeler.
Es KING. By

. Morris.
ugh.

I

: 208 The Boy Hercules. By 011 Coomes.

' 209 Fritz, Tm: BOUND-BOY DETECTIVE. Wheeler.
2 l0 Faro Frank of High Pine. ByE star.

21 i Crooked (‘ulm By Jos. E. B' er, r.

212 Dashing Dave, THE DANDY ETEOTIVE.
By Charles Morris.

213 Fritz to the Front. By E. L. Wheeler.

21-! “’ollgnng Tm; RODDER or was RHINE.
By Captain Ii rederick Whittaker.

215 1'1: )tnin Bullet, THE RAIDER KING. By
T. .Hurbnugh.

216 Bison Dill, THE PRINCE or THE BnINs.
By Col. Prentiss lngrnlnnn.

21 7 (‘nptuin Crack-Shot. By E. L. Wheeler

218 Tiger Torn. THE TEXAN ERROR. By Oll
Gnomes.

219 Dospnrd, tho Duelist. By P. S.Wa.rn0.

' J20 Tom Tanner, SCALAWAO AND SCAPEGRACE.
By Charles Morris.

221 Sugar (floated Sam. By E. L. Wheeler.

222 Grit, the Bravo Sport. B ‘ Ingrnhnm.

223 Ozark All“, KING or run lllotflvTAIN. By
Edward Willett.

224 Dashing Dick; or, TRAPDER Tom's CASTLE.
By 011 Gnomes. ‘

225 Sam Charcoal. By Charles MoWs.

226 Snoozer THE BOY SHARP. B E.L. healer.

227 Dusky Darrell. TRAPPER. y E. Emerson.

228 Little \Vildiire. ByOllCooInes.

229 Crimmon Rate, m GIRL TRAILER. By
001. Prentiss Ingralmm.

230 The Yankee Rajah. By C. D. Clark.

231 Plurky Phil, or Tm: MOUNTAIN TRAIL. By
T. C. Harbaugh.

232 Gold-Dust Dick. By E. L. Wheeler.
233 Joe Buck, ot'An els AND His Bow PARD
PAUL POWDERIIORN. y Albert W. Aiken.
234 Old Rocky’s “ Boyce-5;” or, BENITO.

mm YOUNG HORSE~BREAKE1L By Buckskin Sam.
235 Shadow sum, was stsENoER Bor; or.
TURNING m TADLEs. By Charles Morris.
236 Apollo Dill, THE TRAIL TORNADO. ByEd-
w L. Wheeler.
237 Lone Star, the Cowboy Ca‘ptnir‘tfi;l or.
Tm: Mrsrnmons RANOIIERO. B P. In am.
238 The Parson Detective. ByOll s.
239 The Gold-seeker Guide: or Tn Loan-
MovNTAIN. By Captain Mayne Roi .
yclone K t. Edward L. Wheeler.
His Boar Purds.

be. h.
be Two ‘ {floods ’. By Chsrleslliorrls
The Disguised Guide. 011 men.
Sierra Sam, m FRONTIER. Fm. By
find“?! anfifia s c 1 r‘ inn-mam
or e, t o y. o. ._ .
GiantGeorge. By Buclgskln Sun. A
‘ 91d Grizfily and His Pets. By Captain
v a 'i'

Bruin , ms.

Sierra Sam’s Secret. B E. L. Whee er.

-’ Milo Bonner. By Capt. md. Whit er.

Midshipman Mutineor. By IngrAhsm.

Light-house Lise. By J. F. 0. Adams.

Dick Dnshnwaxig or, A DAIUi‘A Bar IN

CRIOAOO. By Chris on'ls.

Sierra Sun’s Purd. E. L. Wheeler.
D PANTm or

b:
p
O
‘5

;

i3

Bravo an

bun-I“ aim—Ii- I5

“DON “NO-'3
OI livid “0" 03¢ «cam 5-93“ I‘

DUI-in-

min {.1
I

'05? MN NINA”

The Half Blood; or.
TRR PLAINs. By Edwsrd 8. Ellis
Ca tnin Apollo, Tn KIND-PIN or Bow-Ir:
Or. o' Lmn'nmuo's Fm. T. C.
Harbough

at

258 Young kentuck; or. Tn RID LAsso.
Cap :1 Mark Wilton.

257 he Lost Hunters; or Tun UNDER-
GROUND CAMP. By Captain J. F". C. Adsms.

258 Sierra Sam’s Seven; or, Tn STOLEN
BRIDE. Edward L. Wheeler. .

259 The Go don Harpoon; or. Los'r AMONG
Tan Floss. By Roger Starbuck.

260 Dare-Devil Dan, run YOUNG Puma:
RANGER. B; on Coonies. .
261 Fergus oarnnu ht, Tn! NEW YORK

BOY. 2109421201.. ’OD.
262 The onus Sleuths; .0! Home
Mum’s HOT TRAIL. By Charles orrls.

263 Deadwood Dick’s Divide. ByEdward
L. Wheeler.

264 The Floating Feather; or MERLE
:lllION'l‘llij’fi TREAsURE ISLAND. By COLT-Tombs

n rs Mn.

265 T to Tiger Tamer. By Capt. Whittaker.

266 Killh’nr the Guide; or. DAV? ORoonTT’s
wows” tiltdhlh. By ( Charles Dudley

arren o e Engineer‘s :YOI'p . ‘
267 The uckskin Detective. By T. C.

Harbaugh. '
268 Deadwood Dick’s Death Troll. By
269 Edgard L. Wheeler. M I Co
e 01'. RR THE N-
l’rentlss IngLrl'ahsm.

Gold Shi
'DEIINED. By Colone
'rs'E ARIZONA Crown.
Elton.

270 Blizzard Den
By Cs lain Mark
2'11 The uze Hunter
or Inn: ifRAIszs. By
2'72 Minksxin Mike.

B
VI (A?!

or, TEE STEAM MAN
ward S Ellis.
BY 011 Coomes.

213 Jumbo Joe was r ROAD Parsons.
Edward L. Wheeler.
2‘34 oily Jim. m DETEOTIVE Arrowcsl
By Charles Morris.
276 Arizona Jack or GIANT Gsonos‘s TEN-
mrwr P Buckskin 8am. amm-

Ann.
25m 5. HAD.) Ready October inst.

A nm We emery. wok.

The Hair-Dims Library is for sale all
.Newsdealex-s, five cents per co or sent by on

t l six cents each. LE & AD
filfiefis, as wmiAm Street. New York. Am

 

 

 

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1 A Hard Crowd.

8 The Dare-Devil.

3 Kit Carson, Jr.

4 The Kidnapper. By P. S. Warns.

5 The Fire-fiends. By A. P. Morris.

6 Wildcat Bob. By E. L. Wheeler.

7 Death-Notch. By 011 Coo‘nes.

8 The Headless Horseman. A strange
story of Texas. By Capt. Mayne Reid.

9 Handy Andy. By Samuel Lover.

10 Vidocq, THE FRENCH POLICE SPY.
Written by hiumelf.

11 Midshipman Easy. Capt. Marryat.

12 The heath-Shot. 8y Mayne Reid.

13 Pathaway. By Dr. J. H. Rohinson.

14 Thayendanegea. By Ned Buntlme.

15 The Tiger-Slayer. By G. Aimard.

16 The White Wizard. Ned Buntline.

17 Nightshade. By Dr. J. H. Robinson.

18 The Sea. Bandit. By Ned Buntline.

19 Red Cedar. By Gustave Aimard.

20 The Bandit at Bay. By Aimard.

21 The Trapper’s Daughter; on,
Tim OUTLAw‘s FATE. By Gustave imard.

28 Whitelaw. By Dr. J. H. Robinson.

23 The Red Warrior. By Ned Buntline
24 Prairie Flower. By G. Aimard.
25 The Gold-Guide. By F. Johnson.
26 The Death-Track. By F. Johnson.
27 The Spotter-Detective. By Aiken.
88 Three-Pingered Jack. THE ROAD-
Aem or In: ROCKIES. By Joseph E. Badger. Jr.
29 Tiger Dick, THE FARo KING; or,
Tn: CAsaIEa‘s Cams. By Philip S. Warns.
80 Gospel Geor . By J. E. Badger.
31 The New Yor Sharp. By Aiken.
38 B'hoys of Yale. By J. D. Vose.
.33 Overland Kit. By A. W. Aiken.
84 Rocky Mountain Rob. By Aiken.
35 Xentuck. the Sport. By Aiken.
38 'un Dick. By Albert W. Aiken.
37 vi, the Hunchback; on, THE
Smuuzn or m Sam By Dr. J. H. Robinson.
38 Velvet Hand. By A. W. Aiken.
39 The Russian Spy. By Whittaker.
40 The Longhair-ed ‘Pards;' on,
TII'I‘AnrAnsor'I-nn s. ByJanBadgeI-Jr.
41 Gold Da‘n. By Albert W.~Aiken.
42 California Detective. By AiLen.
43 DakotaDan. By 011 Coomes.
44 Old Dan Raokhaek. Oil Cosmos.
45 Old Bull's Eye. Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
46 Bowie-Knife Ben. By 011 Coomes.
47 Pacific Pete. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
48 Idaho Tom. By 011 Coomes.
49 TheWolf Demon. By A. W. Aiken.
50 Jack Rabbit. By J. E. Badger, Jr.
51 Red Rob. By 011 Coomes.
52 Death Trailer. By Buflalo Bill.
53 Silver Sam. By Col. Dells Sara.
54 Alqu on Hand. By P. S. Warns.
55 The Scalp Hunters. 'Mayne Reid.
56 The Indian Maxeppa. By Aiken.
57 The Silent Hunter. P. B. St. John.
58 Silver Knife. By Dr. J. H. Robinson.
59 The Man From Texas. By Aiken.
90 Wide Awake. By Frank Dumont.
6'1 Captain Seawaif. By Ned Buntline.
62 Loyal Heart. By Gustave Aimard.
83 The Wing? Whale. By Aiken.

By P. S. VVaI-ne.
By Col. Ingraham.
By Buckskin Sam.

64 Double- ht. the Death Shot.

By J h E. Badger. r.
only: Red ah. By F. Whittaker.
66 The e. Mayne Reid.
:3 Tm]: . {mafia J. E. Badger.
e ting r; or, In
CARBON ro msrfiwn. By Cap . J. F. C. Adams
Irish Captain. By Whittaker.
70 Hydrabad. y Dr. J. H. Robinson.
71 Captain Cool-Blade. J. E. Badger.
72 The Phantom Hand. By Aiken.
73 The Knight of the Red Cross;
or. Tin MAsIcIAN or GRANADA. Dr. J. H. Robinson
74 Captain of the Rifles. Mayne Reid.
, 75 Gentleman Goon-fie. By Aiken.
76 The Queen's usketeer:
Twas, m Parsons PM. By Geo
77 The Fresh of Frisco.
78 The Mysterious Spy. By Grainger
79 Joe Phenix. POLICE SPY. By Aiken.
80 A Man of None. By P. S. Warns.
91 The Human ’Hg‘er. By Aiken.

82 Iron Wrist, the Swordmaster.
By Col. Thomas B. Monste- y.

 

BRAKE Y.

 

 

 

 

 

 

83 Gold Bullet Sport. By Buffalo Bill.
84 Hunted Down. By A. W. Aiken.
85 The Cretan Rover. By Ingraham.
86 The Bi Hunter; or, THE QUEEN
or THE Woons. y the author of “ Silent Hunter."
87 The Scarlet Captain. Delle Sam.
88 Big George. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
89 The Pirate Prince. By Ingraham.
90 Wild Will. By Buckskin Sam.
91 The Winning Oar. By Aiken.
92 Buffalo Bill. By Dangerfield Burr.
93 Captain Dick Talbot. By Aiken.
94 Freelance. By Col. P. Ingraham.
95 Azhort, THE AXMAN. By A. P. Morris.
96 Double-Death. By F. Whittaker.
97 Bronze Jack. By A. W. Aiken.
98 The Rock Rider. By Whittaker.
99 The Giant Rifleman. Oll Coomes
l 00 The French Spy. By A. P. Morris.
101 The Man from New York; or,
THE ROMANCE or A RICE YOUNG WOMAN. By Aiken.
102 The Masked Band. Goo. L. Aiken
103 Merle, the Mutineer. Ingraham.
104 Montezuma, the Merciless; or.
THE EAGLE AND m Sm. By 001. P. Ingraham.
105 Dan Brown of Denver, THE
ROCKY MOUNTAIN DETECI'IvE. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
108 Shamus O’Brien. Col. Delle Sara.
107 Richard Talbot of Cinnabar;
or, TEE Bnornnns on THE RED HAND. By A.W. Aiken.
108 The Duke of Diamonds ;~ or, THE
FLOWER or CAwU'I'rA. By Capt. Fred. Whittaker.
109 Captain K d. By'Col. Ingraham.
l 10 The Silent ifleman. By Herbert.
1 1 1 The Smuggler Captain; or, THE
Smnn‘s CRIME. By .ed Buntline.
112 Joe Phenix, PRIVATE DETECTIVE;
or, TEE LEAGUE on THE SKELETON Knrs. By Aiken.
113 The Sea Slipper; or, THE AMA-
TEURFREEBOOTERS. By of. J. H. I sham.
114 The Gentleman from ihe: or,
TnE Gnos'r or run CANYON. By Philip S. Warns.
1 15 The Severed Head. Whittaker.
116 Black Plume. - By 091. Ingraham.
1 1 7 Dashing Dandy. By Major Burr.
118 The Burglar Captain; or, Tm:
FuerrAn. ByPro .J. E. Ingraham.
119 Alabama Joe. By J. E. Badger.
120 The Texans y. By N. M Curtis.
121 TheSea Ca at. By Ingraham.
122 Saul 8a.be . Ned Euntlins.
123 Alapaha. tho uaw; or, TEE
noADss or m Bonnna. uncle Johnson.
124 Assowaum, the Ave er; or,
Tm: D00: or run Dssmrnns. By Fran Johnson.
125 The Blacksmith Outlaw; or,
MERRY ENGLAND. By Harrison Ainsworth.
126 The Demon Duelist. By Monetary.
127 Sol Scott. 'rnn MAsnn MINER; or,
DAN BROWN'S DOUBLE. By Joseph E. Badger.
128 The Chevalier Corsair: or, Tan
HERITAGE or Human. B the author of “Merle.”
129 Mississip i ose. By Ed.Wlilett.
130 Captain olcano. By Aiken.
131 Buckskin Sam. By Col. Ingraham.
182 Name, King oftho Tram s;
Tan Bonn Gum's Vummcn. By Whit aker.
133 . the Rover. By W. Carleton.
134 Dar 0 Dan. By Col. Ingraham.
135 The Bush Ran or. By Johnson.
136 The Outlaw- unter. Johnson.
137 Long Beard. By 011 Coonies.
188 The Border Bandits. Johnson.
139 Fire- e. m SEA Hum: ’01".
Tu Bums: or A use En. By 001. P. ingraham.
140 The Thr Spaniards. By
George Walker.
141 Equinox Tom. By J. E. Badger.
142 Captain Crimson, THE MAN or ran
Ines FAcE. By Major Dangerfield Burr.
143 The Czar's Sp . By Monstery.
144 The Hunchba ofNotre-Dame.
By Victor Hugo.
145 Pistol Pards. By W. R. Eyster.
146 The Doctor Detective; or, Tan
annr or m GOLDEN Corns. B Geo. Lemuel.
147 Gold Spur. By Col. . Ingraham.
148 One-Armed Alf. By 011 Coomes.
149 The Border Rifles. By Aimard.
150 El Rubia Bravo. KING on THE
Swonnsmm. By Col. Thomas Boyer Monster].
151 The Preebooters. By Aimsrd.
152 Captain Ironnorve, Inn Conn-
rmim'nn Omar. By Marmaduke Dey.
153 The White Scalper. By Aimard.

154 Joaquin, TEE SADDLE KING. By
Joseph E. Badger, Jr.

 

 

155 The Corsair Queen. Ingraham
156 Velvet Face. By Major Burr.
157 Mourad. THE MAMELUKE. By
001. Thomas Hoyer Monster .
158 The Doomed ozen. Dr. Powell.
159 Red Rudiger. By F. “'hittaker;
160 Soft Hand, Sha . By Eyster.
161 The Wolves of New York; or,
JOE PHENXX'S GREAT MAN HUNT. By A. W. Aiken.
162 The Mad Mariner: or, DISHON-
ORED AND DISOWNED. By 001. Prentiss Ingraham.
163 Ben Brion, THE TRAPPER CAP-
TAIN. By Dr. J. H. Robinson.
164 The King’s Pool. By C. D. Clark.
165 Joaquin, the Terrible. Badger.
166 Owlet, the Robber Prince; or,
Tan UNKNOWN HIGHWAYMAN. By Septimus KUrban.
167 The Man of Steel. A. P. Morris.
168 Wild Bill, THE PISTOL DEAD SHOT.
By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham.
169 Corporal Cannon. THE MAN on
Four! DUELs. By Colonel Thomas Hoyer Monstery
170 Sweet William. THE TRAPPKR.
DE'I'EorIVE. By Jose h E. Badger, Jr.
171 Tiger ick, THE MAN on THE
IBDN HEART. B Phili S. Warns.
172 The lac Pirate. By Ingraham.
173 California. John. By AW. Aiken.
174 Phantom Kni hts. By Whittaker.
175 Wild Bill's rump Card. By
Ma'or Dangerfield Burr.
i763 Lady Jaguar,TEE ROBBER QUEEN.
By Captain Mark Wilton.
177 Don Diablo, THE PLANTER-COE-
um. By Col. Prentiss lngraham.
178 Dark Dashwood. By Major Hall.
179 Conrad, the Convict; or, WAS
HI GUILTY? By Prof. Stewart (lildersleeve, LL.D.
180 Old ’49. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
181 The Scarlet Schooner; or. THE
Nmsm or run SEA. B Col. Prentiss In sham.
182 Hands U 1y By Wm. B. yster.
183 Gilbert. s Guide. C. D. Clark.
184 The Ocean Vain ire: or, TEE
Ramses or Cum Cum. By LP. Ingraham.
185 Man Spider. By A. P. Morris.
188 The Black Bravo. Buckskin Sam.
187 The Death’s Head Cuirsssiers;
or, Buy: or ALL Bluvas. By CA t. Fted.WhlttakeI-.
188' The Phantom axoppa. By

M or Dawerfleld Burr.
89 ild Bill’s Gold Trail: or, Tim
Dusrmuno Dos-N. By~Col. Prentiss Ingmhsm.
190 The Three Guardsmen. '35“

Alexandre Dumas. . ,
191 The Terrible Tonksway; or,
Ow Rock! AND His PAnns. B Buckskin Sam.
192 The Lightning Sport; or, THE
BAD MEN or SLAUGHTER BAR. By Wm. R. Eyster.
19 The Man in Red. By F.Whittaker.
194 Don Sombrero. TEE CALIFORNIA
ROAD Gm. By Captain Mark Wilton.
195 The Lone Star Gambler: or,
TIE MAID or ran MonouAs. By Buckskin Sam.
196 La oset, 'rIIE DETECTIVE
Qunsx. B Albert. W. Aiken. ‘
197 Iievolver Rob. THE RED HANDED;

B J hE. J .
r ’19058ep'1‘ho sale?“ Schooner. By

Col. Prentiss Ingraham.

199 Diamond Dick, m DANDY mar
DENVER. By BucksklnSam.

200 The Rifle Rangers. B Ca. t.
Mayne Reid. y p

201 The Pirate of the Pincers: or, '
JOAQUIN's Dunn-Hm. By Joseph E. Badger. Jr.

202 Cactus Jack. In: GIANT Gums;
or, TnE MAsIIED Rosanne or Bus: BEND. By
Captain Mark Wilton.

203 The Double Detective. By Al-
bert W. Aiken. .

204 Big Foot Wallace. m KING or
3‘11: gun; or, WILD Wour, m WAoo. BY Buck-

m

205 311.. Ga-blor Panto. B Col.
martini-graham. y

206 One Eye, the Cannoneer: or.
anm Nnr‘s Lm Imam. By Capt. Frederick:
Whittaker.

207 Old Hard Head; or, Wmnml
um Eu nun-Wm MAIuI. By Philip s. Warns.

208 The White Chief. By Captain
Mayne Reid. -

A new ism awry week.

223$“ B‘mflm" ‘“ “i 5‘“. mil :2
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mid t of u’nehe centspg pyBEADLE& Alum.
Publighers. 98 William St . New York.