V a

 

 

MARCH. 1903.

; Vol. lXXXIV.’

THE LONE STAR GAMBLEB- or, THE MAID of the MAGNULIAS."

BY “BUCKSKIN SAM"—Major Sam S. Hall,

Amen or “nun: nuawoon,’ “WILD WILL, rm: m aucmo,’ “m passes, m,” nu, I'm, no.

COPYRIGHT. 1882. BY Bum: & Arum .
)1. J. [VI-Illh' & (1).. Publiyhers.
JAMES SULLIVAN. Pa~§>awr<~a,

"n-  379 Pearl inert. .Vew York-

 

 

10 Cents a. Copy.
$1.00 a Year.

Published Every
Month.

 

  

  

n

 

2

The Lone Star Gambler.

 

 

 

The Lone Star Gambler:

I

The Maid of 'the Magnolias.

A Romance 0'? Texan Mystery.

 

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

AUTHOR or “ KIT causes. Ja,” “ WILD WILL,”
“DARK DASHWUOD " ‘ THE BLACK
Bimvo." "THE TERRIBLE
1‘ lNKAWAY,” ETC.

 

CHAPTER I.
'A YOUNG MAle FANCY.

SOME five years pro ri us to the breaking out
of our civil war ther stwl, about a quarter
of a. mile from iha gouurilly “lucid but oft
raging waters of tho M x can Gull', uni u it
far from the m nith of the R 0 Bl'dZJS, a gran-l
and most beautiful ma .szou, wi;h grounds and
gardens that perfectly correpo Me I.

The structure was of wood, uni was sur-
rounded by a vast L‘Xl‘flns’c of orlimueufal trees
and shrubbei'y, having, hov/nvn-i', from its front
an unobstructed view of the our, where. fro u
its wide veranda one could gaz> out upon the
far-stretching deep at tim -s wnen sea and sky
Seemed to blend togelher in one harmonic is
whole 0* peace and quiet, and banishing all
trace of the horizm line. At 0th 1‘», when the
white-capped and nioflulainous waves (lashed
over the black and iorbildiu; rock; bolrv,
seeming, in the wild, strange and appalling
light of the tempest, like furiou: demons ever
changing their hideous forms and struggling
with each other in a desperate death c )nflict,
which ended in each and all being hurled to
death upon the jagged breakers. Sitting and
watching the war of elemen's, one would al-
most inevitably be led to picture the dark and
unfathomable mystery of the caves of the ocean
which, since sea and land assumed their re-
Ipective places at the vanishing of night and
chaos, has defied the investigations 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 grew 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 fllled the air. Beyond this, and stretch-
ing apparently for miles, was an immense
natural-wooded park, traversed by curving
drives and bridle-paths, with shaded prome-
nades and open sunny lawns. 'A miniature
lake, nearly circular in form, adorned its cen-
ter; and from it narrow walks diverged to dif-
ferent points 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
hospitably open.

To the north and scarcely more than a rifle
shot from the house, were two long rows of
small white-washed dwellings. These were
the slave quarters of the estate, and a little
village in themselves *

To the rear of the negro cabins were the
stables, and beyond these stretched the usual
vast and almost limitless fields of cotton and
corn; 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
Cplonel Lafayette Curbury, sole owner of this
princely estate. Many, doubtless, thought
him so, but only because they fancied that
they would be so were they in his place. But
Lafayette Carbury’s happiness, if it ever
visited him, was not expressed in his counte—
nance, or by laugh or speech; for, to speak
truthfully, he was, when not “in his cups,”
Iomewhat morose and surly. He had a pretty

 

vigorous penchant for wine and fast horses,

 

i
i
l

and, rumor had it, was somewhat strongly
given to games of chance.

He was a handsome man — but the Carburys,
we would be told, had always been that of
the average hight, and possibly 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 Ibo keenest black; while his
pointed, military beard matched both face and
figure, and comhleted the ensemble.

Such was Colonel Carbury at three-score
years.

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

His son, James Carbury, a young man of
twenty, was, like nearly all sans of wealthy
planters of that day, wild as a hawk. Since
his return from college, where he had by no
means dis'inguished himself, in an academic
sense, he had spent the great -r part of his time
in gaming, boating, horsan'acing, and cnrous.
ing; his companions, as in most cases of the
kind, being a set of young luen who ware
much beneath him in station and education.
His face was, in some respects, a singularly
a‘troctive one. Though hardly of that de—
scriptirm which compels respect. and 0 mil leuce
at a alone), it was, nevertheless, one the sight
of which would make many a Sisceptible fe-
iuu‘e l cart beat lho quicker.

Neither particularly iutvlligent nor refined
in llS oxm‘esion, and with an evident dash of
pride and uillfulncss in the finely-cut fea-
tures, thch was a magnetism which many
found themselves unable to resist. His hair,
tnwuy iu hue. and of a shade that was deeper

. than the amber-colored mustache, in its care-

  

 

‘ less arrangement, had a look which seemed to

speak of the owner‘s kn0wledge of its be-
comiugness. His sleepy, dark violet eyes,
almost fierce at times, had in their unknown
depths some latent force of good or evil, some
undeveloped substratum which the future
might, or might not, bring to the View and
inspection of the world.

Cora Carbury, tho 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 clime, she had in those few brief years
nearly developed into womanhood.

Watching, unseen, thisqyoung girl, with her
soft, rounded arms folded upon the window-
sill before her, While her guileless blue eyes
gazed out upon the sunset sky, the vivid hues
of which in their gorgeous opal seemed re
flocted in faint delicious tints on her fair cheek
—with even this distant view of Com Car-
bury’s rare, childish beauty, one could scarce

refrain from giving utterance involuntarily

to an exclamation of'surprise and pleasure.

Free and joyous as a bird was Cora; at times
galloping upon her pinto pony for miles over
the surrounding country; at others paddling
her tiny boat over the waters of a wide, shal-
low bayou that was adjacent to her home, or
sitting solitary upon the surge—sputtered beach,
and singing to the sea—gulls as they skimmed
the water, or swooped low, in their fearless
flight over her gold-crowned head.

She was a girl whom to see was instantly to
admire; to know, was surely and steadily to
love. Young in years though she was. her
charms of mind were no less than her graces of
person, and the two made up a rare and bean-
tiful commingling that was well-nigh perfec-
tion. Admiring, as all did, the glowing pres-
ent in her face and form, the thoughts turned
invariably to the prom e of a still more glo-
rious future—a. time when the sweet opening
rose of the morning-tide would be the “ queen
lily and rose in one " of the noonday.

The mistress of the mansion, Colonel Car-
bury’s wife, was, and had been for some time,
in ill-health, being confined, for the greater
portion of the time, to the house, and‘ indeed
frequently to her apartment.

Across the bayou, and about a mile from the
boundaries of Magnolia Plantation—as the
home of the Carburys was called—resided a
wealthy widow lady, who had a son now in his
eighteenth year. We havesaid 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 Lora Star
Stat"; but at his death it was found in] settling
up his affairs, that the estate was (if -ply in-
volved, and a number of the slaves has then to
be disposed of to satisfy the most clan orous of
his creditors.

But appearances go a great way, and the
Adler mansion was as attractive and superb a
i-esnlence, in nearly every respect. as that of
the Caruurys, and the landed estate was quiu
as large and valuable as Magnolia Pan'ation.
but having, after the (1 cause of her husband,
and the adjustment of his affairs of which men-
tion has been made, but few uegroes compara-
tively remaining, Mrs. Adler was, in conse~
queuca, umble to curry on planting as exten-
siver as heretofore, and her fields were now,
many of them. filled only with rank weeds and
glass, “here once the snow-white cotton bolls
hung thickly, and the tall golden corn waved in
the balmy breez,I from the Gulf.

The lady herself, much stricken with grief
at the loss of a husband to whom she had been
(levolerlly attached. seldom visited, and con-
sequeutly neither she nor her affairs were of-
ten menlioned by the neighboring gentry. In
fact, though still blooming. and on the eastern
side of forty, Mrs. Ad‘or dropped, not gradu-
ally, but at once, fr )m the Select circle in
which she had fill 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 j

own son.
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-
lug.

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 walls of hanging
Spanish moan and read and dream the long
sleepy afternoons away. Occasionally he
would glance up from the page, and his eye
would wander listlesst for a time along the

low stretch of yellow sand that formed tho _

soft} border to the gorgeous malachite of the
Mexique. Far out in the distance lay the
green and glassy water. The waves rose with
a gentle murmur, and anon fell with a low,

musical 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 attuw to the
melody of sound and color, neithe - 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 fhat he might listen to the faint. music of
wind 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 would roam the woods in
search of rare wild-flowers, chase the gaudy-
winged butterflies, or laughiugly lave her tiny,
pearl-tinted feet in the advancing waves of the
Gulf upon the gently-sloping 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, graceful 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 he wondered at that Cora grew
to love him: neither was it strange that she
became to him the one bright, pure angel of

And yet she was a fond mother in ‘-

 

  

  

 

."5~..~g_..-.;’:"- ~ ,. 

The Lone Star Gambler.

 
  
 

 

lllis dreams, by day and night. I’roplnquity,
, 'hy itself, is potent always in bringing about
i, just such a state of things, nnd in this case. it
,5 was largely aided and abetted by the nttrac~
ions on either side.

They were too young for words and profes-
unions of love, and yet, with the boy, it was a
, constant struggle to re'rain from telling his
' child idol how fondly she was worshiped.
But Cora. seemed to expect nothing of the kinl.
'Smiles and glances on both sides had already
spoken, and it might have marred the bounty
of the picture and struck a discordant note in
'the love-soig, had he done so. For thus it was.
“l,N.»-ithcr was happy, except when in camp-my
" with the other; and thut, although no confes-
‘.~silm of love had ever passed betWeen them,
save only in the tell-tale, melting glorious of
'the eye, which, in their case» if not in all cases
more more pointed, eloquent and truthful,
tfhnn even the must meaning words.

 

 

CH AFTER ‘I.
A MOTHER'S THREAT.
l THE heads of the Carbury nnd Adler f'xmi-
llies hud b'len enemies for years. Lung ago, a
dispute. in regard to a bound-try line between
the plantations brought on a suit at law. and
this was decided adverse to Colonel Curbiiry.

To such an extent did this exasperute ‘he
:sonimv‘iut iruscillle gvntleinun, that he grossly
insulted his successful competitor in puzeiic,
rend (hot in so humiliutingr a manner that Mr.
Adler, smurtmg under the insult, f‘lt obligei
to challenge him.

A meeting was accordingly arranged, and
both men Were wounded at the first fir i; they re-
covercd, however, ani from that time rem llllrfd
‘ 7 enemies though avoiding each other as much
, as possible.

This must unpleasant affair occurred some
years previous to the death of Mr. Adler, and
at n. time when Cora mill Charles were very
younb; but, children thlugh they were. both
had been warned by their respective parents,
that they must no longer, when they met,
'rccozniz.) each other. ,

Love, it is said, laughs at law and look-

"i smiths, and it is to be presumed, this is not
exc usively confined to an attack of the malady
at mature age. Even buy and girl love looks
upon all matters not closey connected with its
all-absorbing self, as too utterly unimportant
the be worthy of notice So it was that the
children of these implacnb‘e foes, though they
did not meet es fr. quently as before, did, not-
withstanding, eontiuue to bask now and then
in each other’s smiles. Unknown to those in
authority over them, they would wander, hand
in hand, upon the stands on the Gulf shore, and
sit, side by side, beneath the fragrant magno-
lins. on and long-continued were these inter-

" views, which, though scarcely stolen ones,

were, nevertheless, without either the knowl-
edge or consent of their parents.

3 l Thus matters stood at the opening of our

story—Colonel Carbury, though his old enemy

now lay in his quiet grave, not only held a.

most unjust and ungentlemunly 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,
because pecuniary matters Were not as flourish-
ing with her as formerly. It annode him,

 

 

: A 7",.

   

 

, ,3; .31..» 

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
worthless book-worm; and would doubtless
have thought better of him had he sported,
drank, and gamed, like the illustrious scion of
‘his own house.

Charles well knew the state of things, past
and present, and, boy though he was, could
picture to himself the future.

He knew 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, than wedded to
the son of the man whom he hated, though
dead But, in spite of all this, the boy was
continually forming plans in his own mind to
break down the barrier of pride and hatred be-
tween the two families, and was forever build-
ing castles in the air for Cora and himself.

Adelaide Adler bud reared her son in luxury,
andhad given him no education by which be

because, having been forced for want of,

might, in an emergency, gain his ewn liveli-
hood. Often and often had he endeavored to
persuade her to dispose of her immense tract
of worse than useless land, retire into the m-
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 suflicicut number of. slaves remaining, to
procure for thorn all the support that they
might require, and indeed to furnish all ren—
sonable luxurits, as long as either of them might
live.

ment, but ver grout injustice. So much so,
thut it wus little wonder if she hated the name
of Carbury. Her great anxiety and distress
of mind during the dangerous illness of her
husband, Wllll'h ensued upon his duel with the
colonel, “as now ever present with her; anti,
along with this, was the knowtetlge that the
latter had cruelly and vindictiver caused
m-iny of her foxrnvr friends to desert her in
the hour of h r grcufc~t grief, when the port-
nurof her joys and sorrow; “its at lust turn
from her side by death. All this bid ilnbit:-

senllim mrs.

But, sud to say, it we: the cause of the
gradual ulie' uting of her son from her affec-
(ions; 1‘ .r he “us never weary in his sounding
the pruin of Corn Carlnury in her ours, while,
as often, she warned him uguinst thinking for
u moment of on ullitnvcu with the house of her
fifher's enemy and her own.

“ A Cerury a: d an Adler can never mate,

came up for the hundredth time. “ There is u

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 niagnolius, if you walked past his resting-
pluce with u Carbury by your side i”

“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 God! 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. lknow 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 dyv
ing? And does not that prove that. when we
gets glimpse of Heaven, when we begin to
realize the goodness of the Creator, and our
own utter unworthiness, when we see at the
last how exceeding wrong-headed our course
of life has been, we ought to think more upon
our own faults, and, forgetting 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
very good reason—or rather, bad one—that
they do not allow themselves to think upon the
subject, and continue to be ruled by their own
narrow-minded and selfish prejudices. Mankind,
it seems to me, are very much what circum-
stances aud 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 kindliness of feeling extended from
one to another, and, in consequence, for less
of misery in the world.”

“Charles Adlerl Doyou mean to tell me,
your own deeply-injured mother, that you
would, without malice or hypocrisy in your
heart take the hand of Lafayette 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 fa-
ther.”

“ I do not believe you, Charles.

 

The blood

Mrs. Adler was indeed much to be pitied; ,
for she had suffered, not: Lnly a sad bureave— ‘

 

tort-d her, Lllld. she cured not to con ‘eul her real ‘

Charles,” she said one day, as lllc subject-t

dark stream I f blood between the two families; .
and, if you lCI‘SlSll in meeting that frivolous, l
hoydenish girl, Corn, there will be more blood ‘

 

  
  
 
   
  
     
    
   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
   
  
    
   
    
    
  
   
  
   
   
   
  
   
  
   
   
  
   

of an Adler, or :1 Clarke, could not run in tho
veins of one who would so degrade and hunk
ble himself as to court the notice and friend-
ship of a man who once raised a deadly wel-
pon to take his father’s life. Both your poor
father and myself belong to proud and haughty
families, and many 0. member of both has
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 tamer '
to forgive and forget them. No, my sonf‘
Boar yourself huughtily, now that you may be
suldto have come to man’s estate. Put your— '
self in the way of Colonel Carbury, and of
that worthless son of his. Court their insu‘tu, ,
instead of their favor. Then challenge the in- -
sulter. I know very wnll that your (other
must have taught you tr shoot, and insisted
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 .
yurt of the country. It WhB only the imbe-
01'1:y that aipronching death brings with it,
which ('uustd my poor husband to ask for the '
colonel in his last houis. I do not believe he
ltiew, at the time, what he was saying. He
could not have done So.”

"You. pain me most deeply, nltll‘li"l‘, by-
spehking in such a way. I sincerely wish,
more all things, that your mind lllld heart
L‘t‘tlltl he so changed that you might see this
s (l business in the true light. Do think,
think deeply of what I have said in regard to '
the worse than foolishness, the wicltcrlners, of
ntrsing ill-will and animosity; and the con-
tent of mind which comes only from the exer-
cise cf that true hunhnity which is him of
(‘hunify toward the faults of others. If we
would but trv so to live, that the just. judg—
ment, which all shall receive when the last
trumpet sounds will pass us. unque~tioned, 5
through the golden gates, where envy, hatred
and mnlice can never writer!”

" Have you finished, Mr. Charles Adler} If
so, permit me to say just this much. I have
lived a little longer in this world than you
have; and, with all due deference, I must be
allowed to say that I do not stand in need of
your advice. I would like to see a proper
spirit of pride and munliness in my only son I
wish, more than augbt else, that you were
more high-spirited and independent, and
worthy of your ancestors. I had ho; ed you
had, by this time, put away childish things;
but I perceive that I shall have to wait a little
longer before you have become a man. When
you shall have reached my age, you will have
formed very different opinions. Mankind are
what they are, and not what you would make
them. They are selfish and unjust, and that
continually. They will seek your society
when you are prosperous, and will shun you
like a pestilence when you are in trouble and
adversity. Take my own case, if you need an
illustration. I have no friends—not one upon \ 1
earth—and now my only child trents my .
counsels with contempt.” “

Turning in her angry and impatient walk
acress the apartment, Mrs. Adler now faced her
son, and in a tone of determination, backed by '
the sternest look he had ever seen her wear,
while her eyes flashed with sudden fury, she
exclaimed:

“It is a mere waste of words for you and
me to talk. Hear me, once for all. If you
disgrace your name by an alliance with that
detestable family, I shall disinherit you and
leave this plantation at my death to some
charitable institution; for that insipid Cora
shall never cross my threshold, and not one
penny of my money shall ever go to an} port a
child of Lafayette Carburyl”

As she paused from her sudden burst of
anger, Charles opened his lips to ofler 9. mild
and respectful expostulution, but, with a hasty ,.
step and a. forbidding gesture, the indignant ’
mother awrept from the apartment.

no. ...-»~-. g <

. .ueisltru

   
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
    
     
        
   
   
      
       
       
      
     
      
       
          
 
            
           
          
     
     
     
      
      
         
      
      
       
       
      
        
     
     
     
     
         
 
       
          
       

 

CHAPTER III.
THE osunnnns.

ABOUT the same time that Charles Adler and
his mother were engaged in the conversation
which terminated so unpleasantly to the for-
mer, two young men mounted upon spirited
horses. the animals by their foam sputtered 
sides showing that they bud been ridden long ,
and fast, ambled into the open park through \ ’
the timber in the rear of the stable; of Mng- '
nolia Plantation. Here they =hckened their .‘

a

 

The Lone Star Gambler.

 

 

 

K 2.71

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-
ct.

Hastin removing the equipments of their
horses, 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-
od boards, and had various closets for harness
and the different appointments of the stable,
and the windows 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 Cora, the other was known as
Hank Roberts, and had of late been the recog-
nized boon companion of the heir to the Mag‘
oolias.

Young Carbury has been already described
as singularly attrsctive in person; indeed, both
{sung men were well formed, and would have

on considered as possessed of a more than or.
dinary share of good looks, bad it not been for
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,
these and other young men of the neighbor-
hood, of similar stamp, had been wont for
some years back to 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 excellence the idle sea-
son on the plantations.

A goodly store of such necessaries of a dolcc

rm‘entc life as liquors, cigars, pipes and to-

co were secreted in a private closet, which
was unknown to any except the parties most
interested, and the one faithful old negro who
had the charge of the stables.

When 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 cards,
from the sanctum sanctorum of the delectable
James, they seated themselves at a table in
the middle of the apartment, and after tossing
08 a. succession of stiff drinks, began the great
occupation of their lives, each placing a tempt-
tng pile of gold near 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-

pass over some four or five hours of the

time that followed, and again look in upon the
, who have meanwhile been not only play-
for heavy stakes, but drinking deeply.

James Carbury‘s long, tawny hair is dishev.
dad, 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 drank, 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 pocket and for some moments con-
tinued to wipe his forehead and eyes.

Quick as a. flash Roberta caught up the glass,

its contents upon the floor alongside of
fiend then as quickly held it to his lips,
wi the bottom considerably elevated, until
(hrbury lowered his handkerchief; he then
mocked his lips, closed his eyes and contorted
his face, as though he had found the brandy
more powerful than he had expected, at the
me time replacing the empty goblet some-
what violently upon the table.

Althmh Hank Roberts has every appear-
ance of hing considerably intoxicated, it is

more than a well-assumed pretense;
bhssnoturuliyamuch strongerhead thanhis
more rookie. companion, and, besides, he has
been very careful to drink only when he could
"in any way avoid doing so without attract-
lunotioe. Olcarlyhe might bechsmd as a
W in flat respect, whle poor Oar-

bury was nothing more than a not particularly
promising amateur.

Bank 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
f« 110w help himself 3 The stui! is fourth-proof,
and goes to the spot every time; but a nr‘u
has to gulp it down every few minutes, or else
feel as squirmish as blazes. I don" 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 snakes in my boots before I know where
I am, or what I’m aboutl"

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 bands, and
wild, almost insane stare toward his partner, as
the latter went on shuffling 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 Roberts, who asked care-
lessly:

“ What are they worth, J iml"

“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 despera .”

“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! But I’m after you
hot and heavy. Sling me those blasted cards!”

Hank deliberately dealt of! 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 head movement discarding, with-
out, as he thought, being discovered at the
trick. As he did so, he called out in a
triumphant way:

“ I’ve got you, Jim Carbury; I’ve got youl
If you think you're bucking against a bob
tailed flush this time, you are badly fooled.”

“ What have you got, Hank?” asked his com-
panion. The tone was the coolest and calmest
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 hand!”

Hank quietly displayed his cards.

“ Well, sir,” said Carbury; “ the cards call
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 on-
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
pair of aces and a pair of kings, and then filled
on aces by giving yourself three cards to select
from, in place of one—Ill you were entitled to.
Now, look here, Hank Roberts! You have
won more than twenty thousand dollars from

 

mc,cn my own premises-ad atthis very
table. You, morethanonyomchqhsvc

 

“:13

made me what I am—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 1”

At first, Hank Roberts turned as pale
death; but, as Carbury continued, he began
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- ' I t
ing cheated, at this, or at any other game? 3

“I mean to say just this, Hank Roberta,’
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 we. _~
pale as marble; but his form, nevertheless, ‘ ‘
trembled with excitement the most intense, as I
he hissed the last words. No sooner, however, 1,
had his lips closed, than Roberts dealt him a
powerful blow, and he fell forward upon his
face on the floor.

CHAPTER IV. "
mscovaav sun nns'rn. 'r

Tan gambler clutched the gold, and had just-
concealed it about his clothing, when, as he; i
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 Jim! What do debil'
done make dat jounce on do flo’i"

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

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

With deep concern and grief pictured upon-
his ebon face, the old negro, who was strongly L

 

 

.H “M

attached to his master, ran for water, and

with much fuss and lamentation began bathing

the young man’s head. Hank Roberts coolly i

lighted a cigar from Carbury’s box, and pro. ' l

pared to leave the room; but, before he could‘ ,’ [

cross the apartment, James revived, and rising

to his feet with an efi'ort, sprung to the door,

and placing his back against it, glared from hie ,-

bloodshot eyes the intensest hate and madness, ' \

as he cried out: '
“ Hold, Hank Roberts! I have been told'

many tales about you in the last few months,

but I have heeded them not-well would if:

have been for me if I had done so. I now be- , .

lieve you to be, as I have been informed, ,2,

Sneaky Jim, alias Shufiling Cyrus, who mur-

dered a young girl on a Red River. steamboat,

and threw her overboard, having first blasted .

her life and lured her from a happy home. I 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 0r-

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 aim A

You have swindled me at cards, and made a

felon of me to procure the money wherewith I

might pay my gambling debts to you—debts

which I never really owed. And now you ' _‘I

have struck me! ‘
"I am no pugilist, and do not propose to

fight in any such way. I will leave you here,

while I go to the house for my-revolver, which,

if I had with me now, you would be a dead. “F
man. You have your pistol, and you knowI V .
how to use it. We will have this thing out in , 1 ‘l
a fair and square way, by monlight, and y. ‘-

without witnesses. Dan, don’t mow this man
to leave the stables! Peas out, and I will lock
the door.

“HankRoberts, lama dead shot. 1 shall
give you a fair show, which is more than you ‘
deserve. Butlintend tokillyou. Nome: a»

shall say that he struck a. Csrbury—no mus _:,
shdldolgandnvctotell of it. Ishcllkin 1‘-

:ggugorthatblow;lswcsrlt, hyallth.
Thenoudrchfiobcrnwouklhsvoupflqh

 

 

 

 

         
     
       
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
       
       
     
     
     
     
     
     
       
       
       
     
       
     
   
         
     
       
    

   

8—" _ A ‘7 ' ,_“ I :Z:V;:'I‘f‘.h:‘f:'i":;fi” T ’ " '

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. full goblet of brandy and
drank it with desperate eagerness, then, draw-
ing a long-bladed bowie-knife from his belt, be
felt the keen edge, and muttered in a soliloquy,
his low but deep and hoarse voice expressing
the astonishment and apprehension which he
felt.

“ How, in the name of all the mysteries, (lid
the fellow get that infernal information? The
mention of that performance of mine on
the R2d River brought clearly back every
devilish circumstance connected wiih it. I
could hear again Annetto‘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 mo'up for the dangerous work
which I feel in my bones is nlnad 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 rcot free, or I am
greatly misiakon. I must get dway 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
loose, and I shall be torn to pieces.

“ By henvensl they know too much here. It
is dangerous, devilishly dangerous, and so sug—
gestive of a rope that I can actually detect the
smell of hemp and fuel a choking sensation at
my throat now. But it must be done. They
must die ~hoth 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,
disclming an opening through which he
crawled into the stable, continuing, as he did
'30, his soliloquy:

“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 Car-
.bury among them, that when I pretended to
be sick and tired of cards, and made out that I
was ofl’ fishing in the bayou, I was in the bar-
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
cgroped his way to the outer door of theistablc;
but, before he reached it, suddenly it opened,
and Dan, the negro hostler, ran against him.

“Gol a’mightyl Who dari"

These were the lastwords that the poor slave
rever uttered, for, as they fell from his lips, in
.his utter surprise and fright, 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-
'hr-uld by other human cars than those of the
parties in this deadly conflict. Sounds of the
struggling together of strong and desperate
men, mingled with a horril gurgling and chok-
‘ing, and quickly followed by the grtting of
:steel, us again and again it was plunged in
imad thrusts through flzsli and bone‘. Then
ncanoe a heavy fall upon the flour, and the hor-
.‘I'lblB gasping of a human being in the death-
:agpny, as the knife was withdrawn, and the
lblood spurth against the rough boarding and
over the plank floor. .

The first part of the dark and cowardly

work which Hank Roberts had laid out for‘

himself, was completed to his satisfaction.
With his gore-stained hands outstretched and
holding the dripping bowie-knife, the nasassiu
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 wnh horror—fled from the crime-
itainted air, and the blood that was crying to
jI-Ieaven for vengeance. Away from the dread
death-struggles of his innocent victim—Dan,
the old and faithful header of Magnolia Planta-
fiion, and once the servant of the Adlers.

CHAPTER V.
mom THE JAWS or DEATH.

, ’FOR a few minutes after his mother’s de-
—pnrture in anger, and with that gesture which

,torbade further reasoning, Charles gale; paced

 

The Lone Star Gambler

 

 

ibe apartment with a troubled expression upon
his handsome, boyish face. Then, crunching
his but 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
throw off 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. deuthliko
feeling, and filled his brain with the most hit-
ter despoudcncy.

Vtht ought he to do? 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 b's mind
that he must leave the paternal roof. He
would go, without delayyand begin the work
of carving out a name and fortune of his own.
But the more he pondered over it and laid his
plans, the greater grew the difficulties in the
way of it, and the more it seemed impmsible
for him to accomplish any such undertaking.
Had his education been of a more practical
natui‘e; had he even been taught book-keep-
ing, or some knowledge of' mercantile affairs,
the future would not have worn quite such a
gloomy appearance. As it was, the outlook
Was not promising.

While thus perplexed 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 quicken its circulation.

For one instant Charles Adlcr stood in his
was rs. as if frozen to the spot, and dazed with
wonder. and agonizing concern; then, smash-
ing his'hat into a shapeless maps. 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 shrick 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 behold 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 apartiully
submerged snag, striving, with a strength that
was born of intense horror and deadly fear, to
draw herself upward. Her fcet were beneath
the surface of the wafer, her garments were
saturated, and her golden hnir hung ovl-r her
shoulders, glittering and glinting in the sun~
light; while beneaih and near her was the
hideous, slimy head of an enormous alligator,
the monster slowly approaching, and appa-
rently about to inclose her fairy-1.1m limbs
Within his terrible jaws.

With a ringing cry of encouragement, fllr
though his brain was throbbing at the some
time with the horror of the situation, Charles
Adler tore off his coat and boots, jerked his
huge bowie-knife from his belt, and sprung
afar out from the high bluff into the deep
waters of the bayou.

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

As Charles struck the water mm a sounding
splash, the attention of (he 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 hcr hold on the limb, fell with
a cry of (It Spall‘ and horror into the dark water,
lacking for nothing but to be crushed to death
the next instant.

No scunvr did the exhausted and fear-rura-
lyzod girl strike the surface of the bayou, than
again the sli'iy monster turned toward the
snag; but, heliore Cora arose to the surface,
Charles swam directly up to the head of the
gigantic saurian his right hand held clear all!
ihe water, and grasping flrmly his long-bladed
bowie. i

ankly the huge jaws parted and yawned
dismally, and as quickly was the hand of
Chores Adler thrust between the rows cf

 

- glittering teeth, the bowie held point upward

l.

 

   

'around him with rage and pain.

and piercing the roof of tho monster-'3 monih
as it closed its ponderous jaws; the handle of
the weapon being dexterously left on the inner
side of the row of teeth 01 the under jaw.

The moment that Charles had accomplisth
this during not he dived deliberately under the
water, and swam in a hnlficirule around the
paln-maddenod monsti r, and toward the snag
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 low seconds he had reached her side, ,
climbed upon the stag, and drawing her upon
the log, clasped his light arm about her waist,
supporting him~clf by fielding on to the pro-
jecting limb with he left hand.

Not. a. word was spoken by either, for both
sat silent, and with pallid faces; he, panting -
with his late exertion, and the, with excite-
ment and dread, for eyes speaking the thunk-
fulness that was now-born in her heart, and
the feeling of relicf more intense than words
could express. Don n beneath tbcm they
gamed upon the furious alligator, as it lasted _
tho water into foam from the huge jaws that »
were field open by the torturing bou ie‘knife.

For a time the amphibious monster thrashed
the surface of the bayou for some distance
He then
plunged down into thedark depths; Soon, how-
ever, returning half—drowned. Then it slowly
swam away from the scene of its (kind, and‘
crawled into the tall reeds which grew near
the opposne bank. '

Charles Adler bent his head, and turned his
palo, ai xious fuco, looking upon the uplifted .
features of the shuddering maiden. whose hair, I
now dripping with water from the bayou, dud
the light of the now declining sun bl: zing upon
it, fell over his arm in waves of gliticring '
golden threads; her grateful eyes met his, and
in their depths be read, as in a book, the as-
surance of an undying love. ‘

Banding still further, hc pressed his lips to
hers, while both trembled with the irtensity 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. “Ican never repay you. I can-
not even speak my gratitude as I would. You
have saved me from if 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, as the last
were uttered, she shuddered, and clung more
closely to her preserver.

“I thank God for it, Cora,”he said. “He
has blessed me, as I believe man never was ‘
l)1( ssed before; for I do not think there ever ,
was an angel like you upon this earth. But
happy, a)“, heavenly as this moment is to me,
we omit consider your drenched condition.
Hold on firmly to the snug, darling, while I
try and recovur your bout.” .

“ 0h, do not leave um, Charles! . There may
be more of those hideous monsters in the bayou.
I know I shall never dare to row again."

The young girl’s words of ontrcuty were,
however, allowvd to pass unbecded, for Charles
plunged into the water once more, swam to
and righted the floating skiff, and then re- 
turned. Seating him~elf upon the log, he
SUCCI‘f‘dcd 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 can
had been lost.

“ I shall try to enter the house. and change
my garments wi’bout being sew,” was Cora’s'
remark, as her lover as: istcd her up tic bank;
“ for, if father or mother should Sve me in
this p'ight, I should be i'orcrd to explain every
thing, ar-d then they would probably prohibit
me from coming to the bayou again. Oh,

I s

dear! I shall new-r, never forget that horrible
monster. I know it “ill visit me in my
dreams.”

“ I hope I shall accompzinv it in that caso,"
said Charles, with a laugh. “sin hid it chance
to disturb your slumbers; us then. ir. 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 tnchange your net garments at once,
or you will certainly be ill. I would like, more
than anything elsein the world, to meet you
in the magnolia grove this evening, if you have
recowred sufficiently from your fright, my
darling; for I have thin: to say to you which
must be spoken.” ' A .
“ I will be there an hour after sumet, 011" 7

. r , I ,  I \

    

    
  
  
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
    
   
   
   
  
  
   
  
   
   
  
   
       
         
       
   
       
     
     
       
       
   
     
       
     
     
   

6

 

The Lone StafGEffibléf.

 

:-:

lay. 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 ieed I know very well
that you do not-—but, I am ashamed to say, my
brother James is almost constantly with him.
He plays cards, I am aware, and drinks to ex-
cess, and induces my brosher to do the same.
,_ Some say that“ he is a villain at heart, and
i that, if the truth were told about him, his
past record is very bad. I have never spoken
,, of it before, although his forcing himself upon
-‘ my attention, in the way he has taken to doing
of late, has greatly troubled 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, Core. 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 actor 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
‘that amounts to so very little. I shall be
sompelled to laugh, if I see you attach so much
hnportance 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, tuning a kiss, in a careless, laughing
way, Cora Carbury ran hastily toward the
garden of Magnolia Plantation, disappearing
among the flowers, 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, forgetting
the last injunction of Cora in regard to Hank
Roberts, he sat down for a. time and brocded,
bay-like, over 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-
ture.

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.
THE TRAIL or ran snarEN'r.

WHEN the dastardly as-assin of the poor old
negro ‘fied in horror from the scene of his
sowardly crime, a bright moon was softly
shining down upon the weird loveliness of the
beautiful semietropica‘. 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 trees, and much dense shrubbery,
which caused it to be quite dark in their immo-
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
avenging demons in Hades had been suddenly
let loose upon him, and were in close pursuit.

Having made up his mind, the very moment

1 that he found his true character was known to
' the man whom he had duped and defrauded, to
kill him without giving him the opportunity of
defending himself, Hank Roberts now, stealth-
ily, after reaching the thick shade of the mag—
nolias, made his way by a circuitous route
through the deep shadmws to the margin of the
grove which was located to the north of the
mansion, and adJoining the gaidens; the latter
extending a long disrunce in front of the house.

Here, there were no scarcity of hiding-places;
and here, by some 01 these winding paths, the
wrelch well knew that James Carbury would

be obliged to pass, on his way from his dwall-
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 lawn was illuminated by
the bright moon, and stood out from the sur-
rounding gloom in almost the clearness of 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, and 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 com-
manding a view of the lighted open space
which has been described, the magnolias on his
right hand and the garden paths leading to the
same from the mansion on his left, he waited
and watched. .

But a little time had Hank 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 n0w, 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 he and his delectable dupes,
the sons of the planters in the neighborhood,
had been invthe 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
his 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-
fadiag form in the moonlight.

Happiness supreme might be supposed to he
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 li;s
to her pure white forehead, and the manner cf
both showed that they had come to a mutu:l
and most agreeable understanding as to their
future. 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 the
spoken that night, had passed his lips, and. had
been favorably received.

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—n0 mortal in
a moment of such unalloyed 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 inconsolahle grief, the most
insane and brain-torturing desperation.

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

 

 

x

the utmost realizations of happiness and wit
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 zephyr,
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 unsuspect-
ed, was crouching ready to hurl him into the
worst and most agonizing of tortures.

Having bathed his hands and soul in the 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 i
that can perhaps be imagined—a. state of mind k
that boded no good to any human being he
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 gazed with blood-shot and
fiendish eyes, filled with their deadly purpose,
toward Charles Adler, who stood with his-
arms folded; a perfect model, in the glory of
his young manhood, of strength and beauty,
wrapped evidently in the deepest th0nght 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
hand, the young man came running hastily-
from the mansion by a different route from.
that which had been taken by his sister Cora.
At times he would leap over the flower-beds,
as the path made an abrupt turn from his dio
rect course, which at last brought him to thok
very spot where Charles Adler stood, unwill—
ing to steal away in the darkness, when he
saw the man upon whose grounds he was,
coming fast toward him. '

 

CHAPTER VII.
“nmon WILL com: or ram."

0!! liken. madman dashed James Carbury,
uttering a about 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. Her
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?

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—re--
member that! Justice will direct my bullet.
through your craven heart 1”

“Hold, James Carburyl One moment, if
you please,” said Charles Adler quietly, as he
stepped quickly into the moonlight to meet the‘
brandy-crazed man who sprung toward him..
“ You have made a mistake, Carbury. I aim
not Hank Roberts, the man whom you seem to
be looking for. Put up your pistol, I beg of
you, and when you are calmer, and in full ,

possession of your sober senses, 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 know you have no right to be. You are
well aware that Miss Carbury’s parents have
forbidden her to speak to such as you. Take
thati if you are not a coward, as your sneak.
ing, clandestine manner indicates. But you
shall fight me, nevertheless!”

As James Carbury spoke, he struck Charlen
a heavy blow in the face. '

 

1,.

 

 

The Lone Star Gambler.

7

 

 

For an instant, young Adler stood, pale as
death; trembling in the attempt to battle with
and control his passion, 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 oi! the ground, and
then took his position at ten of his irregular
paces from his unwilling opponent. Charles
Adler was now calm.

“ I do not wish, nor do I intend to fight you,
James," he said, but in a voice that, steady
though it was. sounded strangely hoarse and
unnatural. “You are intoxicated to-night. I
will reason with you when you are in aflt
state of mint to understand me. You have
grossly its Hod me, but I can make some
allowanc '., and will pass that over. You are
not respwwine for your base and cowardly
act; and, a« 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 fury:

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

“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, James Carbury! I shall shoot in
the air.”

A stifled cry from the direction of the man-
sion came upon the soft evening 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'shrubbery. Crazed
and intoxicated, James Carbury raised his
pistol, and then yelled at his antagonist:

“ Shoot at the word, Adler!”

“ I shall shoot into the magnolias over your
head," was the firm reply; “and God forgive
you, if you take my life i”

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.

“ One—two—tbree i”

As the last 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 Cora,
whose voice he recognized in that agonizing
scream.

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

There, 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 few
paces to the west, and above them, lay Cora,
the angel of his waking dreams. 'lhe faces of
both sister and brother were upturned to the
moon, pale as if chiseled from blocks of Parian
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 for-
ward, his strong frame trembling like an aspen,
and knelt beside the form of Cora, his eyes
glassy with unspeakable horror and sickening
grief and despair.

He felt her delicate wrist, but could detect
no pulsation. He placed his hand upon her
head, and touched the wound, which, to his
great relief, he found had been caused by a

What means

 

bullet which had glanced, and therefore it
could not, he judged, be dangerous.

Charles then returned to the side of the
prostrate form of James Carbury, and, tearing
open his vest and shirt, found that a bullet had
pierced the young man’s heart.

“I am lost! Lost! Lostl" he cried in the
bitterness of his heart. “Father in heaven,
pity me! I am lost, indeed. The gibbet, the
doom of a murderer awaits me, although I am
innocent of any crime. Who can have done
this dastardly deed? It is not possible that I
could have inadvertently lowered my weapon
at the last moment. Is there no way of ex-
plaining this fearful mystery? God help me!
I shall go mad, insane, and my gibbering lips
shall mutter nothing but blood!”

' 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 off, as if the fiends
were on his trail, through the magnolias, and
in the direction of his home-the home that he
had left scarce more than one hour before with
high hopes and happiest anticipations.

Wildly, from time to time, as he ran, he
clinched his hands and raised them toward the
bright clear heavens, as he cried out in a voice
that was choked with despair and desperation:

“She said it! My mother said it! Blood
will come of this. I should think—so she said
-—that your father would rise from his quiet
grave, when you walk past it with a Carbury
by your side! It has come! It is that, and
nothing less. The curse of my injured father
has scorched my brain. My lips are parched,
and 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
breathe. But no, I can not breathe it!

“ 0h, horror of horrors! What have I done,
Almighty God, that this terrible wrong, this
most damning wrong should be hurled down
upon my innocent head? The proofs are too
plain—too strong against me. Even she, Cora,
my own heart’s idol, will see, and admit it, and
raise 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. Oh, God! 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—even when I
shall have lain long in afelon’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 miscreant? 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 face!"

CHAPTER VIII.
MY SON! MY son!

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
slavas 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 sil-
ver, as the full moon shone out steadily from a
cloudless sky upon its smooth and motionless
waters.

“Bress de Lo’d, chiliuns!” broke at length
from the lips of the aged cook, “I’s feared
sumfin drefl‘ul’s done happened. Whar de
curnil? Whar my ole marster? Young Marse
Jemes hain’t been see’d hyerabouts sence
mo‘nin’. I doesn’t like dis tur’ble kine ob still-
ness. “’Pears like death ter dis ole chile, an’
I‘s feared dat we-’uns done got weepin’ an’
mou’nin’ afore us. I feels hit inter my bones.
Gumbo, yer good fer nuilin’, lazy ydung nigger,
go an’ call yer marse curnil!”

The slaves huddled together and stood whis-
pering, while they gazed with wide-open, bulg-
ing eyes out into the darkness which hung ovrr
the grove like a. heavy pail, and which, to their

 

superstitious imaginations, was peopled with

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

A moment more and the negroee had de-
parted in silence, Gumbo, meanwhile, havhg
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 me disturbed? What has
occurred to call for all this noise and confusion
at this hour of the night?”

“601 a’mighty, marse curnil! didn’t yer
hear dat shootin’?"

“Shooting? No. I have heard nothing un-
usual. I have been asleep, however. Where
was it? Did the reports sound as if fired in
the grounds here, near at hand? Where is
your young master?”

“ Hit done sounded, ’pears to dis chile, right
clos’t. Marse Jemes, did yer say, marse cur-
nil? Ihasn't sot dese ole eyes on him sence
breckfus."

“ Run out through the garden, will you!
Call some of the boys, and then send Phillis up
to Miss Cora’s rocm and see if she is asleep.
Hal Joe, you are there, I see. Go and find
out if your Marse James has retired.”

Slowly and reluctantly two of the affrightel
negroes proceeded through the garden, both of
them trembling with fear and imagining some
horrible shape about to emerge from each
flowering shrub. The two slaves who had
been dispatched to the chambers soon returned
with scared faces, and reported that neither
“Marse Jemes ” nor Miss- Cora were in their
rooms, and that their beds had not been dis-
turbed.

With a very emphatic ejaculation, and one
which expressed his surprise and concern, Col-
onel Carbury sprung from the veranda to the
graveled walk, but at the same instant a pierc-
ing cry of terror burst on the night air, and
the two slaves who had been sent to explore
the gardens came bounding over the floworc
beds from the direction of the magnolia grove,
as if a legion of demons was in pursuit.

"Hold!" yelled the colonel. “Stop this
crazy nonsense. Do you hear? What have
you seen, you cowardly vagabonds?"

“Marse James!” exclaimed one, with trem-
bling lips, as he glanced in horror over his
shoulder, and then fell flat on his face and lay
groveling at his master’s feet.

“ Missy Cora," heareer whispered the other,
while his eyes rolled about in terror and his
strong frame quiver-ed as if in an aguc-flt.

Colonel Carbury waited to hear no more.
He sprung crashing through shrubs and flowers,
directly toward the grove, darting down a di-
rect path as soon as one was reached, with
such preternatural speed that when he saw
upon the ground before him an outstretched
human form witl the pallid seal of death upon
its face, he could not stop himself, but gather-
ing his strength as at a single glance the fea-
tures of the son whom he had indulged and
idolized were pho1 ographed upon his brain, he
leaped into the ai. high over the blood-stained
body, and one wi d, agonizing, despairing cry
of utter horror burst from his lips as he fell
with a heavy thud, as though suddenly de-
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 saw
him Icapinio the air and then fall senseless,
their superstitious terrors took complete poso
stssion of them. Rushing toward the house,
they scrambled, rcxeaniing at the top of their
lungs, into the hallway, the two men in the
garden-1 nth crawling uprn Iheir hands and
knees, with wild and disconnected prayers
upon their lips, up to the veranda and into the
dwelling.

Not so, however, with Aunt Huldy, the ven-
erable cook of the Carbury family. Failing to
her rheumatic knees, and praying for" a mo.
ment or two most fervently, she arose and ran
to the room of her mistress, whom she found
already up and hurriedly dressing.

"Don’t yer go ter bother yerself ’bout de
fuss what darn good fcr-nuflin’ niggers done
make, missus,” said old Huldy, in an assumed
tone of unconcern. Then, without waiting to
explain or to answer the questions of Mrs. Car-
bury, the cook quickly desccnded the stairs,
ran out upon the vernnda and into the garden,
and from thence, walking slowly, she proceeded
toward the magnolias, muttering to herself II
she went:

 

vxe:

 

 

__ _s_ ,_ .w.  I 7.,I.v.vm, ,

The Lone Star Gambler

 

 

“ Reckon dis ole chile am ’bout done wid dis
worl’, an de ole debil hain’t got no call fer
claim her. ’Pears ter me sumfin drefful hes
done bu’s’ loose, an’ nobuddy 'cept ole Aunt
Huldy got ary sense left. What (lat? (lol
a’mightyl dar am ole Morse Gurnil in a. dead
faint, sho’l”

One step further old Huldy made, after dis-
covering her old muster thus lying upon the
sward; 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, viliile 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 hands, 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 swurd, and
with an awful dread tearing at her heart, she
came to the prostrate form (-f Cora.

“ Morse 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 chilc,
my angell Oh, Lo’dl why has yer tuck ht-rl
She war needed in dis worl’ jos’ cs much es de
sunlight. What debil in do shape ob human
hes gone an’ done dis dreflTul work? Did my
young Murse James shoot be own sister, nn’
den kill hisselff De Lo’d bress us an’ save us!
What am we po’ worms oh (la dus’ comin’ tcrl
What am my ole missus ter do now? Dis yere
am houn’ ter kill her, she”. De good Lo’d
makes de win’ blow wa’m on de thin-skin’d
lambs, but dis am too drciful fer. de po’ weak
missus.”

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

“Biass de good Sabior, my chile am alive!
De angel am spnr‘d tor cheer de las‘ days oh
ole ‘Auiit Huldyl” And the old woman rocked
her body backward and for“ aid, grasping the
delicate hands convulsivcly and pressing
them to her lips, then caressing the long goldt n
hair, and wiping the blond from tho wornded
girl's forehead, with a loving and gentle touch.

Suddenly Aunt Iluldy remembered the
colonel, and t-pringing to her feet, she ran to
his side, and begun rubbing his hands, while
she endeavored to raise him to a sitting pos-
ture.

S owly, and as from a lethargic slicp, Colo-
ncl Curbury’s senses returns 1; and he opcntd
his eyes, glancing inquirmg'y into the face of
the aged servant, and then lcoking uroui.d him
in wonder. But, before Aunt Hultly could
control herself sufficiently tc explain the terri-
ble facts the true conditior of affairs dnr‘.cl
through his mind with electric swiftncss, a: d
be sprung to his feet, where he reeled Llld
staggered like a drunken man.

With a stare of agonizing horror bent for a
moment upon the dead form of 11.5 son, he
turned suddenly to a white object upon his
right; and, with 'a heart—rending cry (f the most
intense and excruciating agony, he tottorcd
toward his daughter, th hands upraiscd and
pressing his forehead, his eyes fixed and glas-y,
and his lips quivering with a horror that “as
indescribable.

“Thank do good Iia’d, Morse Curnil, dot
Miss Cora aui spar’d tei‘ yer. ’She ain't (lead.
De po’ chile am stunde/l." And the old slavo
knelt by her master‘s side, as he too fell on his
knees near his beauti'ul and much-loved daugh-
ter, and sobbing conviilsively. ,

The flood-gates of grief had opened, and tl-o
strong man‘s brain was soon partialy i‘eliei ed
from the weighty av ilanche of anguish which
had so suidenly cane 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, clasting each nther’s hands; both tquul
for once in their terrible grief—united by a.
common bond of suffering.

Then the old planter sprung to his feet in
fury. ,

“Run, aunty; run tolthe house!” be ex-
claimed. "Bid Ben and Mose ride for their

 

lives. Tell them to summon Dr. Maule at
once, and then tell the sheriff to collect apossc
and come to Magnolia Plantation immediately.
The villain, or \‘lilLlllfl. who have done this das—
tardly (lCt'd, shall suffer a thousand deaths!”

Aunt Iluldy 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 btcn 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-
lcss 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‘dcud—murdered by some person
unknown—and that their beautiful atid beloved
young mistress was seriously wounded, began
at once to fill the air with their lamentatiuns.
But they all strove, nevertheless, 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 assassin, or assassins; for, upon
learning the sad facts, they knew that human
beings, and no supernatural agency, had to do
with the dread tragedy. ofthe night.

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

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 sufficient
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 tmsed her arms
wildly, while her blood burned with fever.

These symptoms cau>ed Dr. Mauie to decide
that her case might be more seiious than he
had at first imagined; in fact dangerous, for he
apprehended Congestion of the brain, or at the
least, brain few-r. He therefore resolved that
he would remain at the plantation through the
night. ,

“ Bress de Lo’d l” exclaimed Aunt Huldy, as
S! 0 opened a closet to hang up the garments of
her young mistress, “j‘s’ feel ob dem clo’s,
Morse Doctor. Missy Cora done wored dein
dis arteriioon. Dcy is wet, plum froo an’ from
What kino ob doin’s hub bin goin’ cn dis dref—
ful (lay an’ night!"

Tire doctor approached the closet, and ex-
nmincd the saturated garments which Coiahad
rt moved on her return from the bayou, after
her adventure nith the alligator.

“Has the young Ldy been out boating to-
day?” asked Dr. Maulo.

“I ’clur’ tcr giac‘ious, I (leesn’t know whar
de po’ chile done bin; I lies h d t r cook a.
leap ter day. nn’ besn’t' src’d her party face
roun’ do kitchen onc’ .‘ An’ dot ain mighty
strange too, fer l'tte niissy mos’ allers~comes
101‘ see h r oleaunty snme time oh de day.”

“ She may have Hillel: cold from such a. wel-
ting its that must have llel it; but not suflicirn’,
Isl» old my, to cause Such a few r. Nulllltl‘
Would the bulltt occasion it so suddenly. SL9
must have received a terrible mental shock in
tome way, and I hope we may be able to icon it
something in regard to what has octurrcd, liy
“hat she may say while delirious. Where is
Colonel Cat-bury?"

“Ho om j-.s’ a weepin’ an’ a mo‘n‘n’ ober po'
Mars: Joint-s, I rrclmns. Oh, Lo’dyl Dis ole
chile mus die ’foie long!" And bursting into
t ars, the faithful old ncgrtss left the room,
holding (-los-ly and almost lovingly to her
breast the wet garments of her young mis-
tress.

At length the suffering 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, now lovelier, if possible, than before, was
white as the driven snow. 'Her golden hair lay

in long wavy masses, wet with the down 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

 

 

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

And without, far down by the dark magno-
lius, the father knelt alone by his murdered
boy. He bent over the cold, stiff 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 agreat
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
ru m—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 had in-
deed been, "‘ 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 son I”
,l

 

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 art ival 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
in peaer to be the only thing that it was pos-
sible to do.

As the doctor made this suggestion, the
pressedu. stimulating mixture upon the colo-
nel, 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 Carbury?” asked Dr.
Mauls.

"No," replied the colonel, in a iremulous
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 sheriff; and
twelve men were then marched by a rounda-
bout course, and statitncd in the garden path
toward the mansion, not far from the body, in
nrder that they might not efi‘ace or destroy
any signs winch might lead to the detection of
the murderer, in the clear space in which the
tragedy had occurred.

The the negro men who had first discovered
the body, with Aunt Iluldy and the colonel,
were duly swoin and gave their‘testimony; but
this only sufficed to leave the mystery as great
a mystery as ever.

"Gentlemen of the jury." said Dr. Maule,
“'I will now remove the phtol from the hand
of poor James Carbul‘y, and toss 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 ct nclusively
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 n ould be brought under clnsidera-

tion if the evidence should chance to point in I

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?" inqui—ed 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 corn—
mitting such a fearful crime?"

“No one that I know of could havo had such
a motive,” was the colonel’slreply. “ My poor

boy was on the best of terms with every one in t

    

 

 

 

 

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this neighborhood, I believe, if I except young
Adler.”

“Charles Adler? Indeed! Has there been
any quarrel recently, to 1 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 themselves. It was the first dawning
of a fearful suspicion; for there was not one
among all the planters and rancheros for many
miles around who did not know of the bitter
feelings which had so long existed between the
Adler and the Carbury families.

80 readily will the mind, in such an
emergency, lay hold upon the faintest clew,
and a trifle, though “light as a r,” becomes to
the man who is hungering 1 r the slightest
scintilla of evidence, “confirmation strong as
proof from holy writ”

“ Gentlemen,” said Dr. Mauls, “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 beof some assist-
ance 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 which the shot came.

And the pistol, being in the murdered man’s
hand, with one barrel of the same discharged,
hows, very plainly, I think, that there must
have been an assailant in front of our poor
young friend, at the same 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 inclosing him in her

’9"

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 poor young man’s body,
indicates—indeed, to me it proves conclusively
I -—-after deciding what must have been the
manner of Miss Cora’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
Corbin-y make, in regard to his son having
hem on good terms with every one in the
neighborhood, with the single exception of
Charles Adler. Miss Cora Carbury, whom I
lave but now left, in her delirium has repeatedly
‘Don’t shoot, Charley! If you
love me, don’t shoot i’

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

The Lone, Gambler.

the minds of any of you.

 

 

appear positive that some person, by the name
of Charles, secreted himself in yonder shrub-
bory, and by him James Carbury was assas-
sinated in this dastardly manner. At the
same time, he doubtless had a confederate
posted among the magnolias, 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
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
beenafamiliar friend. If this were not the
case, why should she have called him
‘Charleyi’ 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. Mauls. But, scarcely had he
ceased speaking, when Tom Stevens yelled:

“Saddle up, menl Saddle up!" and the
jurors rushed, as one man, beneath the magno-
liss, to their horses.

 

CHAPTER X.
o N r H n 'r n A I L .

“LET loose the blood-hounds! Lot loose my
blood-hounds 1"

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 believed that Charles
Adler could have killed a mouse. But I for-
got—it was the deed of a coward, and worthy
of the race he springs from. Loose the blood
hounds, I 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-
pen‘fznce that of a man crazed with grief, the
colt. 31 continued:

“Hm, Mose! Run for my horse, boy! I
will bid the chase—none other than myself
should i0 it. Doctor Mauls, will you please
attend in having the body of my poor boy re
moved to 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 weak 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—Dick! Dick, I say!”
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—a1-
though it does seem, I must say. to be a cer-
tainty—upon an innocent man.

“Sheriff,” he then said, turning to that
official, 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 Curbury 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 inthe fiend’s name is the matter
now!” yelled the colonel; at the same time
laying hold upon the man with a gripe of iron,
and placing himwithajerk uponhisfeet

4,... .‘

 

 

 

“Speak, Mose, you worthlem rascal, or I’ll
throttle you 1”

“Oh, Marse’, Marse Cumill" said the poor
fellow, his teeth chattering the while; “Ole
Dan am layin’ dead on do stable 110’! He am
all blood, Marne Curnil. Do 019 debil am let
loose tor-night, sartin’ sho’l”

“ Great Heavsnsi” exclaimed his master in
horror. “ What does this mean? My hostlsr
murdered too? Get a lantern, Mose, as quickly
as you can. Gentlemen, am I going madl Let
loose those blood-hounds, I sayi Where are
Joe and Jim? Have my slaves all deserted me
now when their servicos are most needed!”

“ The poor fellows are terribly frightened,
colonel," explained Dr. Mania; “and it is no
wonder. You cannot blame them, under such
dreadful circumstances. Come, gentlemen, let
us go to the stables. Colonel Carbury, where
are the bounds kenneledi”

“ In the far end of the negro quarters,’ was
the reply. “ Here is the lantern, sherifl. Now,
Mose, keep your wits about you, and bring out
the bounds. Run, boy, I say! Lead these
gentlemen to the stables. Como, doctor, the
murderers may have left some claw in that
direction, which your keen eyes and calm
judgment may be able to make somethingof,
and which no one else amonglus 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, now 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
wainsooting.

“There has been a most desperate struggle
here—that is evident—and doubtless in the

_ dark," 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 llim
at least half—a-dozen times, with a large bowie
knife. Gentlemen, I told you more than one
man had been engaged in tonight’s bloody
work, and this new crime gives my assertion a
look of truth, which otherwise might not ha"
been so plain.”

“Poor old Dan 1” 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 on
family slave of the Adlers, and loved the
ground that Charles walked over. I confeni
am utterly at a loss to see what motive them
could have been, for him, or indeed any other
man, to murder poor honest old Dan.”

“1 war a-thinkin’ jist that same thing 'bou.
Charley an’ Dan, Curn’l Corb’ry,” spoke up
one of the rancheroe quickly; “an’ hit ’peon
to me that Charley Adler air ther las’ man
hyerabouts ter hev a dif’culty, with my
ger, an’ ‘speshly Dan. Fact air, all that
thinks a heap 0’ young Adler.”

“ The mystery certainly grows deeper, geo-
tlemen,” said the doctor; “ but bun come the
bounds.”

As Dr. Mauls spoke, threehugo blood-hounds
entered the door, held in leash by M
whose eyes were bulging from his head, :3
his black face turning grayln the um

light. .

The dogs snuffed the blood-tainted air, and ‘
pointing their noses upward, shot out a curl.
of most unearthly howls, that sounded torrim
in the confined limits of the stable.

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

As the sheriff ceased speaking, lle stooped
down, and began straightening out tin limb
of the dead negro. While thus engaged in
suddenly cried out:

“Eullol What‘s this! Here‘s a claw, boys,
sure‘s you‘re born!” And he drew outfrom
beneath one of the legs of the murdered slave,
abloodstained handkerchief, holding it upon
hedidso,tothegueofall. ‘

“Loose the bounds once more!” yelledth
colonel. _

“Stephen‘s second! Hold the interns!“

    

, A

 

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10

The Lone Star Gambler.

 

 

 

way, will you?” ordered the doctor, as he took
the square piece of cambric from the hand of
Tom Stevens.

After a brief examination, the last speaker
added:

“Gentlemen, here is another link in the
chain, which is more direct and conclusive evi-
deuce 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 isn name, and that
name, by heuvmw, is

‘CIIARLES ADLEn!’ ”

CHAPTER II.
TANHLED “mums.

“ I DOESN’T keer a dung!” broke out the
ranchern, who hull onvc before spoken in favor
of the young man, town! whom the evidence
pointed as the assassin. “Uncle Dan [nought
ba’ picked that m; uy: hi<<c|f, anywhur rour.’
ther bayou' an' hit’s my ’pnn'on hit out j'st
what he dill (in. Anyway I nssv-X'wntcs,
boyees. thet Charley A ller never stuck Uncle
Dan, an’ I’m willin’ tor bet my sculp on hill"

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

f‘ Ya as, curn’l, I reckon I’m a friend ter
.11 men what’s squat" un’ wnite, an’ this hyr-r
boy what everybody is so ready ter ’spect, was
one that filled that bill evrry Univ.”

The behavior of the hounds now drew the
Ottention of all hands, and doubtless brought
to an end what might otherwise have been a.
war of words; 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 that stable, an’
Charley Adler ain’t with ’em, bet yer last
doubloon on it!”

All sprung on the instant around the corner
of the harness-room after the bounds, 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 a dozen of you go out, and station
yourselves around the building! 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
burst in the door of the harness-room. The
villains may be secreted in the closets, and the
door is locked. "

“ There is no need of that,” said the doctor,
who was 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.

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

“ What is all this, gentlemen?” exclaimed
Sheriff Stevens. “ More mystery here! Do
Eon keep a. club-room in your stable, colonel?

are are brandy, glasses, cigars, and cards.
Old Dan must have been enjoying himself be-
fore he got his through ticket for the unknown
regions.”

“Poor Dan has had nothing to do with ’this
part of 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-
neath the table. “Gentlemen, I can tell you
one thing there has been a big game played in
this room to-night. Here are papers in which
have evidently been rolled thousands of dollars
in coin, and the paper, as you see, is old blanks
belonging to the Brazos Bank.”

“The Brazos Bank?" questioned the colonel,
anxiously. “That is where I deposit. Let me
examine them.”

“ Open those closets, Mr. Stevens,” suggested
Dr. Mauls; “ we may find there something
which may be of service as evidence.”

With revolver in hand, cocked and ready,
the sheriff proceeded on the inspection; but
nothing except harness was found, until the
last closet was opened. There, to the aston-
ishment of all, even of Colonel Carbury him-

 

 

self, a set of shelves was revealed, upon which
were various 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 cs thcr nore on aalligator,
curu’l.” said Phil Munroe. “Jim an’ somebody
hes bin in ther habit o’ playin’ keards hyer.
Fact air, they hes bin hyer this very cvcnin’,
fer ther brandy spilt on thcr table hain’t dry
till yit. Charley Adler doesn’t drink nor plk'y
keards, I‘ll sw’ar hit; so the question now‘air,
who thcr galoot war what was with J0me}
Carb’ry. I‘m a-thinkm’ lhet all thcr bloody
biz commenced right hyor, at this hycr tnblg
nn' through too much brandy at that. Some-
body‘s been an’ lost a. heap ()7 money fer sure.”

“ Hank Roberts was with James 0. great deal
lately,” said Tom Stevens. “The two were
always together, weren’t tin y, colonel?"

“ They were quite intimate nsaociutes, 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
Hunk 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 Mngnolias afterward; or else
that James Carbury having won, the loser fol-
lowed and killed him. Then discovering 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. When
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 affair all through, and very
puuling.

“ 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!” called out the sherifl’,
pulling the board away from the back of the
closet as he spoke.

The hounds made a rush, their noses to the
floor, snufling 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 l” yelled the sheriff,
and in a moment after, the rancheros were in
their saddles, spurring through the magnolias
after the dogs.

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

“Did I not tell you that the assassin shot
from that point?” cried out the doctor, as he
come 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 reheat his last injunction:

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

Then, yelling to the blood-hounds, as with
terrible and appalling howls they dashed down
the bank, he cried:

,‘ madness, rus

 

 

“ Spur, men! Spur! Keep up with the \
dogs! A thousand dollars for Charles Adler, ‘
dead or alive!” l

Away thundered the entire posse, Colonel ‘
Carbury 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 (1001', 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.
Tun FLIGHT FOR LIFE.

CHARLES ADLER, flying from the scene of
the mysterious tragedy, in estate bordering on
'1 through the dark shades of the
nwagnolias, in nd the head of the bayou, and
was soon rum. 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 x‘
from the hights of supr—'me happiness into the ‘
blackest depths of misery and hopeless de- l
spair. 1

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-f
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 ?l
high principles which he had, by long study “ l
and much thought, determined to adopt for, "
life-long practice, were now drowned in the I, '
immeasurable and intense hatred and detesta- 
tion which he felt toward the unknown assas-
sin who had blighted his life forever. 1 >

That there could be a man, upon the earth _ .
so fiendish, as to contrive and accomplish so I’.‘
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, he clamor-
ing for his blood. Not only this, but—the
thought seemed to tear through his brain like
a jagged 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 v. I
asleep. I

“ Poor little Pomp!” he muttered. “It is a 4' .'
pity to awaken you. I would gladly, this - «j ‘ '
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 me as a murderer. I ‘1
must not awaken you, or you too will be a wit-
ness against me.” ' '- "

Rushing up the stairs to his room, he quickly ‘ I 'I
lit a candle, and then threw himself upon a U x,
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 touchl I shall go mad, and
in my despair rush back to meet the mob, who
will at least relieve me through death of my
horrible torment!"

Bathing his hapds, he threw the water from
the window, and then laved his head. 1

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 God!
and not that of a fellow-creature; and, though A
be realized that he had been wounded, he felt , ,
thankful, amid all the horror of his position, ., I
that he was guiltless of that of another. , ' ‘ :

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

 

 

 

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1w a

Jame-i Carbury had indeed fired his pistol at
him, and that~ some third party had shot his
opponent dead, and wounded Cora. The re-
port of the revolver had beer very loud; this
he remembered, and he know that some person
or persons must have been secreted in the
shrubbery, and had taken advantage of his po-
sition in the duello into which he was forced,
to fire when James Carbury gave 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.

had wounded Cora did not occur 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-
vous affair.

However, it did 'now occur to him, and very
forcibly and regretfully, too, that he had beet. 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-
aassin.

After hastily removing his clothes and attir-
jng himself in hunting costume, he opened a
.trunk, took from it a pair of Colt’s navy revol-
‘vers 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-
Jow-men. Had I taken the life of another, un-
less it were that of some ruffhn which I had
been forced to take in Self-defense, or to save
that of another, 1 would gladly welcome death
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
hnman being, even in thought, and 1 will live!
It is my right! I will live to see justice done
upon the fide who has committed this base and
cowardly murder—yew, I will track the demon,
in the guise of mankini, to his death, and I
will choke a confession from his dying 'iips.

1 That the same bullet which killed her brother

‘Justice, I dedicate my life from henceforth to

thee! James Carbury shall he 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
I must hasten.”

Brushing out his long, dark-brown hair, he
hastily thrust a black, wide-brimmed 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.”

“Golly! Marse Charley, whar yo gwinel”
asked the little darky in amazement. “Dis
yore ain’t no night for coons an’ ef you is boun’
ter go to de bottom, we-’uns doesn't want no
boss.”

“Do as I tell you, Pomp. Iam not going

1m 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 beieve
anything wrong that anybody may say about
me, will you?”

“G01 a’mightyl Marse Charley, you isn’t
never done nufiin’ out do way—I knows dat.
An’ ef you‘s goin’ away dis here little nig am
ies’ gwine ter cry hisself ter defl’. Don’t ye go
for ter tell. me dat yer is, Marse Charley i"

“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
and grief, little Pomp ran to the stables, tak-
ing his young master’s saddle-bags with him,
and Charles turned aside into the library, and
dashed off two letters—the first to his mother,
which he left upon the table; the other, he
Sealed, and addressed to

“ Miss Com CARBII'LY,
“ 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 neighcd at the approach of his
master.

“Herc, Pomp," said Charles, handing the
boy the letter; “kt-op 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.”

“Oh, G01 a‘mighty! What am dat, Marse
Charley?” cried poor little Pomp, trembling
with fear as he took the letter.

“ What is it that you see, Pomp?"

“I dorsn’t see nuiiln’, Murse Charley; but
doesn’t ye hear (lat? Listen 1’

“They are after me, Pomp! Ilide in the
stable, my boy! The blood—hounds are on my
trail. Good-by!”

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 XII'.
OFF THE TRAIL.

CALM as the placid waters of the Gulf, was
the broad expanse of prairie, over which Colo-
nel 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 warse 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 the cool and
lengthened shadows, and the prairie had all the
appearance of resting, like the sea in a calm,
with no object upon its broad bosom to break
or to mar its solitude—none, except the ex-
hausted steeds and their equally worn-out
riders, returning to Ma nolia Plantation, de-
jected and disappoln in their thirst for
blood.

“ I will find him yeti I swear 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
univer-e from end to end, until my dying day.
He shall not escape met"

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

“ I hopes that we may, Tom,” was the reply
of Phil Munroe, “ ef ’tis a younker what I hes
allers banked heavy on. But dog’d ef 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 believed they had struck, when, leaving
the stables, to which the murderer had evi-
dently returned after the killing of James Car-
bury, he had gone direct to those of the Adler
plantation, beyond a. doubt to secure a horse
for his flight. Phil Munroe, it will be seen,
was scill faithful in the face of the most con-
vincing appearances to the contrary.

But the pursuers were speedily baffled on
leaving the home of Charles Ad'ler. ‘

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 sohs, 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 opposito
side; but the search was still fruitless. Thu
hounds were completely baffled, 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
‘speedyand successful issue.

Alter a rest of some hours, and having par.
taken of refreshments at a plantation homo
some miles distant, they continued the now 1111‘ '
certain pursuit by riding to a point at which‘
it was almost certain the fleeing assassin would
touch on his way to the Rio Grande—for il’
was taken for granted by every member of the
party that the great frontier stream would be
the fugitive’s oojective 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 ,
some half a dozm directions, and as they had
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
"(an8, was received with universal favor. Here
they all believed it would be next to impossible
to miss it, and they did not despair of getting '
information that would identify him, from an
old Texan hall-bleed who lived upon a ranch
near at hand. But the blood-hounds were still -
at fault, and the mestizo ranchero had neither
seen nor heard of any one answering the do-
scriptitin given of thc 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 of his hav-
ing halted. Besides, it was now certain posi-
tive that he had not touched at this point in
his flight, since the dogs had failed to come up
with the trail. The scent, which will not lie
on the water, had been dropped at the bayou,
anl the point at which they would be able
again to take it up—wliether up or down the

’ stream from the pluce at which it was evident

that the fugitive had crowed—had not been
discovered. Hence the return of the cavalcade,
weary and dispirited.

To Lafayette Carliury, who, in this long and
almost silent 1'! turn from the chase, there was
abundant space for thought and retrospection.
The reflection which were ever uppermost,
rising and floating above the bitter poignancy
of the grief that by this time was deep and
noiseless, were of the bitterest kind. It would
seem, he thought continually, that the sins.
not only of his youth, but of his manhood and
old age, were now, at the late eventide, coming '
home, like the well-known domestic fowls, to
rOOSt.

Reckless he had been through the six decadu
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 excou,
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 himsdf and
family to the verge of ruin in a single night
at the card-table; but this was neither known
nor suspected, for he was never irritable over
his losses, and the consequence was that even
those who knew their amount, never deemed
them to to of material importance with him.

But the fickle goddess never deserted her
votary for any length of time, and soon he
would find himself again upon his feet, and
that more firmly than ever. 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
father he had been—were more agonizing than
pen can portray. In his bitter self-accusations,
as well as his sorrow for the dead, and his
mad dream of vengeance, he never once
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 fall to
be fatal; and who must, are this, have been in-
formed of the tragic fate of her boy. 01
Cora, wounded and perhaps dying, tossing in
the wild delirium of fever on her couch, and

    
   

  

 
 

, mand admiration, or even confidence.

1.2

 

The Lone StariG-ambler.

 

 

 

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

“Don’t shoot, Charleyi
don’t shootl”

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
billowy 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-
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 to have 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 vowed 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
languinary 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 life!”

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
to the plantation, they were :to separate; Tom
Stevens, to his home to lay plans for the mor-
row; his mounted escort, to their respective
habitations, there, it might be to await further

If you love me,

‘ orders; and Colonel Carbury, to his own he-

ret ved household, by himsolf.

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

Lights 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
Jae. A dim illumination was also visible in
\‘he 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
.‘Iaving dismounted near the entrance and ap-
puoachedthe 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
not the ear of Colonel Carbury; and, failing
to catch its import he looked inquirineg into

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

“My mist’essl”

With the strength of youth, or rumor 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 XIV.
AND ALL FOR NAUGHT.

“ GONE! And for what?”

It was a lady, and one in the prime of middle
l life, still handsome andlof 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
Charles Adler.

Adelaide Adler had not set eyes upon her
son since their parting in anger, immediately
after their early dinner on the previous day.

though a. narrow-minded and somewhat selfish,
as well as passionate and prejudiced one, it
must he 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 oflended
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.

“ Morena, my dear mother,“ it began—“ you will
let me call you so, if it be for the last time—I am
leaving my, home—I go to—ni ht! Believe nothing
that you car except 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. I 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 race ized me.
There is no safety but in flight; and t on h life
without Cora Carbury is not worth flyingior. must
live to track the murderer who has to-night blighted
my whole life.

" Farew Ii, my mother. May we meet some day.
when we s all 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— ut no
matter. May God bless and comfort you!

“ I feel that the blood-hounds will soon be on my
trail, and I must not tarry. Good-by!

‘ Your wretched son,
"CHARLEY."

“Gone! And for what?”

Like most mothers of only sons, 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, sincejier husband‘s death,
had been so sadly embarrassed and shorn of its
splendor. This had been her hope for years.

Her boy could aflord 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 effusive in the least; but then, there had
never been a vein of positivism in his compo-
sition, and the good lady’s plans for him did
not seem at all difficult of accomplishment.
This, of course, was previous to the, eflsctual
opening of Mrs. Adler’s eyes, as to \the true
state of things between her son and the heiress
of the Magnulias.

The pretty little (Turn. h:- l she stood alone,
though not entirely upon t  - -'vn sweet merits,

 

But she was an affectionate mother in her way, ‘

 

would have been quite acceptable as adaughter--
in—law. Her dower would have been sufficient
to have 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 r

his wife. To the widow of the injured Kenton
Adler, this, from the last scion of the Adler-
house, was well-nigh insupportable. Was thr.
feud of the Montagues and the Capuiets to and ‘
in such a way? No!
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 be 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 women
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 he 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»l
now, at last, rest in his grave. ' ‘

And for this—for what? as she asked herself a...

the question—her boy had gone; 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—whomi—the man:
who had rid the world of her pet aversion,
James Carbury!

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 Carbury,
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
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 bier
enemy. She would have shut herself up in.
her haughty seclusion more closely than even;
as feeling that she had nothing in the present
to chug to, that the future held but 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 avenging 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 “lent.
less as a Camacho. Some strain of Indian
blood in the veins of her much-boasted ances-
tors, the Clarkes of Kentucky, hadtbo mastery
with her; and, when we think of its very

Rather let it close, like» v _

 

 

 

 

 

IR

 

3 any,“ i. »

The Lone iStarflqambler.

 

 

possible results under circumstances that would
favor its free action, we may charitably hope
tint it was lcm sin than insanity.

But how would it be now? She must, and
she would be silent, no matter what came of it.
No one should ever know from her whether her
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 re
served than ever, she-would become during the
remainder of her life. Its remainder—11y,
there was the rub. She must live on, for long
years, perhaps, though there was nothing now
on earth to live for. The boon of death, so
often rasth and piteously prayed for by
weaker women than herself, can never be had
for the asking.

“No one ever understood me,” said this
worse than bereaved mother, as she destroyed
the note which she had read and re-rend. “I
never could act like the common herd. I can-
not be tame, and self-repressed, and prudent,
as it is the fashion to say instead of hypocriti-
cal. With me it has always been—do all, dare
.all, risk all, whether I suffer or am happy.
Well, I have missed my vengeance, it seems.
It has slipped out of my hands. But I will not
weep and fret over it, though the fates have
been so adverse. Neither will I lamont over
the disgrace and banishment of my soni”

Thus did the lonely lady at Fair Oaks steel
her heart to every softer feeling of woman’s
nature, and only exclaim in bitterness, when
.she thought of the good and noble boy who
was now outlawcd—U Gonel And for what?"

 

CHAPTER. XV.
THE SON OF HER. sonuow.

THE patient, long-suflering wife of Colonel
Carbury was dead.

Life may be borne for the entire lcngth of l
the allotted period before s )f‘f‘OW looses the sil- ‘
ver cord; but sometimes, in mercy, the bitter ‘
tie which binds the sufferer to earth is severed
with but little warning. So it had been with
her. Life, it is said, is impossible without hope;
and, as the only anchor of the poor, feeble wo-
man for years had been the frail one now cut
loose, as in a moment, she no longer clung to
existence.

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

“ The more than Michal of his bloom,
The Abtshug of his age."

‘if we may dignity his evanescent passion with

the name, had scarcely survived the birth of i
their son. On him he had centered all his af-
fections since that moment, and had been jeal-
~ous of any affection which the child might ex-
hibit toward his mother. But James soon out-
grew this. To his wife, Colonel Carbury was
.always stu'iiously polite, and in her presence
was very rarely rude or boisterous. T113
truth was, she was one of those gentle little
creatures. with a perfect rupose of manner,
who always act as a sedative on a. more mercu-
rial temperameiit. All the same, however, the
colonel was invariably courteous and consid-
erate in his treatment of her, especially after
1‘19 became so much of an invalid, and the
probability is that the thought never on ‘0 oc-
-curred to him that she might have anything
whereof to complain.

His son ——the Ill-fated James—he had loved
devotedly. Now that he was gone, it is possi-
ble thlt, in his great sorrow, he might have
been dlawn nearer to the uncomplaiuing
woman who had shared his joys and sorrows
109 more than a quarter of a century. But
now, she had bven taken from him also.

There was Cora, it was true —though she
had never been more than a secondary predi-
cate—but she might be, even now, on her
death bell. There wasxnothing. the strickcu
nun groaned in agony of spirit, left for him to
live for. Under the first stroke of this new
bereavement, h! forgot, for the time, his oath
of veirge‘mce.

Poor Mrs Can nury! The and had come
speedily. Kindly and as cautiously as it could
he done. Dr. Malle had communicated to the
invalid mother the fearful news, when it was
no longer possible to keep the kuoirlcdgo from
.hcr. Contrary to his fears, she had received
it mildly and submissively, with no frantic-out-
[burst of grief; but, none the less, her heart was
broken. It was the last stroke that the spirit,
:so long snatched to its utmost tension could
\bear. There was not sufficient vitality left in
her enfcenlo-d frame to make the faintest

 

‘passive way. she took the quieting potion

l beauty, his wit and intelligence, and his really

 

struggle to impriswn its immortal tenant. The
.nioctor held her band, and said, in his kind way.

the platitudes which are thought the right
thing to be said on such occasions, and she
listened quietly, thanking him with a sad
smile Wllcll he had flnishcd. Then, in the same

which be administered, and which she so little
needed, and soon fell into a quiet sleep.

An hour afterward, the physician, who still
lingered at the plantation, carrying out the
injunctions of the colonel, left the bedside of
the now sleeping Corn, and entered the apart-
ment of her mother.

Mrs. Carbury no longer slept. The awaken-
ing had come; but it was on the other side.

It was a {it ending for such a life. The
bitter cup that was hold to her lips at the lust,
she had barely tasted; then smiled chetly,
and fell asleep.

Hers had been no uncommon lot in life.
Recognizing the fact that her husband’s love
was no longer hers, she threw out all the ten-
drils of her fond, true heart to her first-born.
He proved, alas! as so many do, an object all
unworthy of it; but what of that? All the
more fondly and passionately did she love the
boy; although, in her case, unfortunately for
her peace of mind, love was anything but
blind. To his doting father, James Curbury
was to the last, Benjamin, the son of his right
hand; to his patient, hopeful mother, he was
Benoni, the son of her sorrow.

But she forgave him everything, and loved
him, if it was pessible to do so, only the more.
Her whole being bad gradually become
absorbed in him. She loved him, from the
first hour of his birth, with all the intense
strength of a really strong nature—strong to
endure and suffer. The pretty girl-baby, who
was born to her some seven ycais later, was
her pet, but the boy was her idol. She almost
literally gloated over his bright and vivid

loving nature. If she knew his faults. which
she did, and believed in her heart that ho was
falling into habits of dissipation, she still hoped
and believed that her love for him, and his for
her, would be his safeguard, and that she
would live to see him honored and beloved by
all.

This hope, as has been said, was her sheet
anchor. It was cut locse, and the frail bark
could only drift; but it soon was waited into
the haven where she would be.

It was upon this quiet wreck of one of his
few remaining hopes, that Colonel Carbury
came, when he dashed so wildly up the stairs,
and into the chamber, where, after “ life's
fltful fever,” his gentle and faithful helpniate
“slept well."

Flinging himself, with a deep groan. that
seemed drawn agonizineg from the innermost
depths of his soul, by the side of the couch
whereon all that was mortal of her rested, he
'lay there prone upon the floor, worn out in
body and spirit, until a new day dawned upon
them. Then, 'onco more, the cold, gray, for-
bidding .reulilies of daily life forced them-
selves upon him. The thoughts of the daugh-
ter who was alive, and the son who was dead,
and which had rot visited lii‘n since the last
shock had come to him, now returned. The
new day brought with it sud duties, and duties
which must be performed.

Suns arise and shine in this world, and they
shine jUst as brighth upon the dead as upon
the living, upon a coffin-1 d as upon a dial. The
dread white sleed and its grim rider pass
over the earth in their Ceaseless round of de-
struction, pausing here and there, but lvaving
few marks upon the trail, and fewer outward
signs upon those who witness and survive it.
The brightness gone out of a youthful face, an
added line or two on an o‘dcr one, or a few
more silver threads in the changinghviir; these
are nearly ever the only tokens which tell of
wrecked hearts. and ruined hop s, and all the
terrible storms of anguish which so stirred the.
depths, and loft—calm though the surface be
now—the precious i'i'r-ightage, which was our-
rind through life’s voyage, at the bottom for—
ever. v
The new day saw the remains of James Cur-
bury and his mother laid side by side under
the shadows of lho magnolius; und'the hus-
lmnd and father, in his double anguish, be:
lieved at the moment, that they were equally
mourned by him.‘1 ,

Cora s'ill lny unconscious, her fever at its
hight; but 'she no longer called the name of
Charles Adler, in the ravings of her delirium.
This was well, for the colonel would have
found the sound hard to be listened to.

 

 

1.?

 

Tom Stevens, when the funeral was over,
remained to acquaint the colonel of his plans,
and the hopes that ho had of capturing the
assassin. But the old planter, though he heard
it all with tho sumo interest as before, seemed
deprived of a. sudden of the energy and deter-
mination which had been his at the first. He
had no iongei a resolve to lead the chusc. He
expressed no intention of going on the trail.
The subject of offering a large reward, which

the local authorities would undoubtedly do, for:
the capture of Charles Adler, was alluded to '

by the sheriff, and Colonel Curbury caught at
the suggestion, and instructed Stevens to an-
nounce his offer of five thousand dollars for
him, dead or alive Others come, and he was
not without his share of would-be comforters.
The line of successors to the primitive three in
the land of U2 seems likely to slrotch,like
Banquo’s royal dynasty, “ till crack of doom.”
l'io hoard them in silence, and, strange to say,
without even a show of impatience. His old-
time spirit was too much crushed for even
that.

It was different, however, when Phil Mun-I
roe, as the last of the neighboring planters and
ruiicheros were taking their leave, again as-
sorted his belief in the innocence of the ac‘
cused. .

Someone spoke of the fact that no one at
Fair O.lks had seen Charles Adler since an
early hour on the evening of the tragedy, and
that the time and manner of his leaving home
was evidently unknown to the negroes on his
mother‘s plantation. This tallied with all that
was already known and suspected.

“ Thar hain’t no doubt but what the youna
ker hes levanted," said the ranchero; " but fer *
all 0’ that, hyer’s one what '11 b'lieve Charley ’
Adler is a cowardly cut-throat when he hears

him confess ter hit, an’ not before!”

“What will you believe, then, Munroe?"
uskcd the Colonel, with a glimmer of the old
cxcntument of manner returning.

“Jest what I secs with my own eyes, (ur-
n’l. Hit’s dog-gonad queer, I will say tbet
much, but I knows the boy, and I stan’s up fer
bit thet he’s squar‘ nn’ white."

Colonel Carbury’s pale face flushed with en-
ger and disgust as be turned away. Phii
would, upoareutly, make but few converts to
his charitable opinions. It would be well
enough. so everybody thought, to talk of giving
young Adler the benefit of the doubt when any
reasonable doubt should arise. Yet, like Gali-
leo, the one friend of the absconding alleged
murderer held to his belief, own in the face of
persecution. Ho persisted that he knew Char-
ley Adler. and that was enough for him.

That the colonrl should hear this with im-
patience was not to be wondered at; but he
had yet to listen to that which was still more

unwelcome, and from where it was hast ex- ‘

pected.

 

CHAPTER XVI.
rm: not: AMONG rum mowans.

THE cri~is had pn~sed with Cora Curbury,~

and she gradually came back to life, and to a
realization of what that life must henceforth
be.

Although in llf‘l‘ latter deliriori uttcrallces, '

the name. of her lover had ceased to be men-
tioncdby her, the mind of the poor girl still
dwelt upon the horrors of the last scone that
had imprint d itself upon her brain. It seemed
impossible for her, whether slccplugnr waking,
topnt it from her. And every word, cveiy
allusion which shehnd made, went to suetaii
Dr. Muu‘e’s hypothesis of the murder.

“Isaw him—1 did!" Cora wculd ozclain,
from time to time. “I saw his face, um
wicked face, among the bushes, and the jam»:
mine blooms around it. Oh! that evil eye,"
and (he roving girl would shudder. “Tlle
cvil eye, among the sweet blossoms of jGFW
mine!"

Over and over again would she cry 019., in
sccmiug affrigbt, as she lived over in he!
lrenzxcd imuginal ion the dread tableau in
which she burl taken so prominent a part. Bul
still no name was spoken.

“ [In turned and ran,” she would my, “ he
ran like a dog through lhe shrubbery. Ho will
escape l"

" Yes, my poor child _” the old colonel would
say, as he sat bv the bedside of his suil‘rring
child. and held hcr unconscious hand; “he ha!
escaped. but we will have the Cowardly fiend
yet. Your poor ,brother's dastardly muth
wlil be avenged.”

Strength came slowly back to Cora Cap

l

   
   
    
   
  
  
    
  
   
   
  
   
  
  
   
   
  
 
     
   
   
  
   
  
   
    
  
  
    
   
   
   
    
 
   
    
  
 
   
   
  
   
 
       
       
     
    

 

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.’,

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.q- w.

. “W'— F- ...f‘ v.- 1.3.

 

14

The Lone Star Gambler.

 

 

bury, and the day came when she had to be
informed of the additional loss she had sus-
tained. But, though she had loved her mo-
ther fondly, 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-
faring.

“Did he shoot all three?” she asked in a
tone which held more of anxiety than any in
which she had previously spoken.

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

“I mean—you know whom I mean, papal

j. was Charley—was Charley Adler killed!”

Colonel Carbury sprung up in great agita-
tion.

“Killed? No, my poor childl Would that
he had been! But he escaped, as 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—oh, they were terrible, papal but I re-
cognized him though he looked so different, so
fiendish!”

“To be sure, you did, my child; and we
will capture the miscreant yet. Charles Ad-
ler shall atone for it with his life!"

“Charles! Oh, papa, he did not shootl I
know that he did not. I called to him, not to
do so. James, I know, shit at him, but
Charley—no, never! And that horrid face,
those wicked eyes—and Jamie never knew it.
He shot, poor Jamie did, at Charley! but he
was not killed, as Jamie was! Oh, 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. Mauls, coming in at
that moment, thought it best to administer a
soporiflc, fearing a return of the fever.

“ She has been telling you what she saw, has
she not, colonel?” 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."

“ Very likely. But Miss Cora saw and re«
cognized him?"

“ 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
Carbury, “that she saw young Adler, and
called to him not to shoot; and she will have
it that he did not do so. The other, the con-
cealed assassin, she contends was the one who
did the shooting. It is strange ——passing
strange.”

“Not at all, colonel; it is very probable.
Adler’s confederate, as he must have been—,‘L

“You think they were leagued together?”
said the colonel, quickly.

“Not the least doubt of it,” replied Dr.
Maule.

" It must be so indeed,” Colonel Carbury ad-
mitted. “ From the first I was puzzled to make
out how that effeminate villain had been equal
to the deed by himself. But poor old Dan—
who, think you, butchered the hogtler?”

“Young Adler of course,” was the answer.
“The handkerchief, found under the negro’s
body, is proof conclusive on that point.”

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

"There need not, necessarily, have been
any," said the doctor. “Adler may have felt
compelled to silence a probable witness; and,

‘ dark as it was in the stable, he very possibly

did not recognize his old colored friend.”

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

“Can your daughter not identify him?”

“ She said distinctly just now that she knew
film; but she suddenly became so agitatcd~—”

“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 nerves in better condition, will be
Ame enough to find out all that we would

 

 

 

 

know in addition to what is already known be
yond peradventure—”

“ You believe, Dr. Maule, that the mur-
derers escaped in company?"

“ We had but one trail, you know, and that
led to the Adler plantation. Straight to the
stables, where they went at once for their
horses, and then 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 sufficiently up to the ways of
the world, depraved at heart though he seems
to have proved himself, to eflect such an es-
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
to the house, but only to the stables. No, I
don’t imagine that any of the slaves saw them.
Had they done so they could never keep it to
themselves. The distinction of 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 Carbury
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-
tinued 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. 80 Cora was per-
mitted to meditate on the bitter past, and to
build, in her weakne, what air-castles she
might for the future.

As for the colonel, a. sense of failure had the
effect of imbittering 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
amrmation of Charles Adler’s innocence.

At his best estate Colonel Carbury had been
a man of evil temper, whom it was not safe to
thwart, and positively dangerous to arouse.
He had grown meeker since the crushing
weight had fallen upon his heart, and he felt
besides the necessity that there was in the
present case, for self repression. When his
daughter would answer his appeals for more
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 to hear no more.
With a bitter though silent curse upon his lips
he would dart from Cora’s room, stride madly
down the stairs and out into the now neglected
garden, kicking savagely at dog or young
negro that might chance to be in his Way.

The house-servants who might be lingering
about the balls at such times, would scamper
away at the sound of his steps, for they well
knew that his Wrath would fall like a sledge—
hammer on any unlucky creature who might
happen to cross his path.

He would go out and wander bare-headed
through the gardens and the grove of magno-
lias until the dews of night were clinging about
his clothes and his long white hair, and then,
when the fierce tumult within him was some-
what subdued, he would return to the house.
His face, pallid as death, and now seamed with
deeper lines than of old, would frighten, on
such occasions, even old Aunt Huldy, who was
ever ready to anticipate his wants, and was
willing besides to throw her privileged old
body into the breach in order to set a good ex—
ample to her fellow servants.

But the time came when Cora was able to
leave her couch and manifest a more lively
interest in what was passing around her. She
was far from falling into a listless way, as one
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 girlhood:
behind her, and to have become equal at once.
to the sad situation which was hers.

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 all questionings 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, than I will tell you who»
I am certain and positive, is the guilty wretch;
but not until then 1”

“But, Cora,” her father would plead, sup-
pressing at the same time his anger at her ob-
stinacy; “ how are we ever to know for whom
we are to hunt, for your poor brother’s death.
must not remain unai caged!”

“ Go after the man whom you believe to be»-
the assassin,” she would say; “ and bring him
back. I wish you would."

“You forget that there were two,
child?”

“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 affected. The time was
near at hand when he would be confirmed in
this sad bv-lief.

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 great
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 natures again.

 

CHAPTER XVII.
ran cases or nnarn.

Acaoss the wide prairie beyond the Brazos,
astride 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 frontiersman.
They formed the only object that broke the re-
pose of the immense solitude, and were follow-
ing a trail that wound across the prairie, and
disappeared amid a range of hills which steam
in fantastic shapes toward the south-west.

The face of the horseman, all bronzed though
it was from exposure to the sun’s rays, and
with a long silky brown beard completely con-
cealing its lower features, was nevertheless one
to be remembered.

His eyes were a marvel of beauty, his fore-
head was broad 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 admirer
‘ tion even among a gathering of notabilities, ho
‘ was, one would have said at a glance, out of

place in that wild scene on a Texan prairie,
clad in a buckskin suit, wearing a broad black
sombrero, and armed like a desporado.

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

“I don’t know why I should be in such L.

haste," he said to himself, “for the 'day is
young, and I can easily reach the motto where-
[intend to camp by sunset. But somehow I
can’t get the idea of danger out of this shal-
low pate of mine. Pshawl I am growing
superstitious. There isn't an Apache within
fifty miles of me.” .

Though in a land where at that time the
Indian’s war—Whoop was more frequently heard
than the crack of a teamster’s whip, yet the
scout knew thoroughly well whereof he spoke.
No one was better acquainted than he with any
hostile body in their movements from the Bra-
zos to the Rio Grande.

For days past he had been conducting, undo:

   

my~

 a

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

The Lone Star Gambler.

*fimsm ' ‘ am...

 

.  fy‘u-QEW  now:

15

 

r—r

his sole guidance, a considerable r wagon-train,
made up of men with their wives and little
ones and other belongings, slowly marching to
their distant homes far to the south-westward.
They had passed through the land of the red-
skin and the equally dreaded white road-agent;
but their guide knew 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 a week 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 seem to be necessary to this young
man’s exm me, for no pilgrim to a sacred
shrine w- s c‘ter more regular and methodical
in his OlVUliUus than was our friend in his
journeys .n and brief sojourns in every town
of importance in Western Texas. As be
neither gambled nor drank, and had never been
accused of a penchant for either American
beauty or senorita, 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 was a little 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
himself 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 lovely one, even fer Western
Texas. The rays of the semi-tropical sun,
though not obscured, for the sky was cloud-
less In an Italian landscape, were mellowed by
the soft haze through which they fell, and
which seemed to arise, a mystic rather than a
misty exhalation. from the flower-bespangled
prairie. The mild nephyrs from the distant
gulf, swept unresistod 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.

The horseman turned, as he had already
done several times, and slackened the pace of
his steed to a walk as he listened. That a mood
had caught his ear, borne upon the rising
breeze, was evident from the exprtssion which
his face suddenly assumed. An enemy! could
it be, when he knew so well the movements of
every hostile party on the frontiers? Yes, an
enemy of whom he had often heard, but whom
he had never yet encountered. One whoee
ways were past finding out; cruel as a
Comanche, relentless in its pursuit as any
Apache.

In the first real terror that had ever yet
struck the brave heart of this pilot of the
prairies, he named the name of the pursuing
foe:

“The prairie is on fire!”

Scarcely had he spoken, striking his spurs
deep into his steed as he did so, when he saw,
through a narrow opening which divided the
ridge of low hills, which he had left on his
right, a towering column of flame and smoke,
rushing like some huge, fiery Serpent, before
the wind and across the prairie. 011 he dashed
wildly and desperately.

“The breeze is behind me, and it is still
rising and blowing strong! I must ride for it!”

Yes, he must ride for it indeed~for life; for
the little hope of life that remained, the one
last chance that might be his.

The scout was calm amid it all, and kept his

'presence of mind, although the prospect of

escape was slight; for, fast 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, and was rapidly inclosing the vast
plain in its burning embrace.

“On, Selim! On, old fellow!” he cried, but

in a voice which was more affectionate 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,

 

that in the speed of Selim was his only hope,
he gave the noble beast rein, and he sprung
forward as if fresh upon the trail. Encouraged
by the wonderful strength, speed and endur.
ance of his steed, the young man momentarily
forgot his danger, until recalled to it bya
louder roar and fiercer 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 bounded 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
effort, when the horse suddenly halted, and
then turned to the left. This, then, must be
the end.

“ Poor fellow! 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 he
a last look around him. Suddenly his firm,
pale face lighted.

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

Down the steep pathway into the deep ra-
vine scrambled 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 onlya brief spaco. For a little
while they crouched in the manner that has
been 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 up together,
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 changed, as a look of
fondness came into his eyes, as he began pat-
ting his horse, while his statuesque face seemed
transformed into the mobile countenance of a
child.

The noble steed had taxed his strength to the
extreme limit, and now tottered on his feet
when he attempted to pace the length of the
divide. The prospect of reaching the motto,
which had been the objective point of the
scout, was now a doubtful one, for Selim could
not be urged, in his present condition, to con-
tinue on the trial. It would be the refinement
of cruelty, and an act of which his mas'er was
incapable, to think of such a thing. It would
be base flattery to call the man unfeeling who
would exact it.

Leaving the exhausted animal, the scout
started cfi’ along the divide to reconnoiter as
to the best point in the ravine for a bivounc.
The air had a stillness as if it too had been
Worn out in a contest with the devouring ele—
ment; and after the heated furnace which had
now cooled, it seemed the most refreshing in
its every breath that the young man had ever
known. It was a weird picture, 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 charred
branches and snags overhead upon the bunk,
one old and blasted tree, now scorched to
blackness, lying across from one steep side to
the other, with a single jagged bough out-
stretched llkea witch’s wand, the panting white
steed leaning against the side of the declivity,
and his master, in the picturesque costume of
the plains, peering ahead of him in the uncer~
tain Rembrandt light, made up a picture which
many a one would long to paint.

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

As he did so, his glance rested on a com-
panion piece to his own at the opposite end of
the divide. A horse, black as ebony, [stood
trembling, as his own white steed was now
doing; and a man, younger than himself, and
similarly attired, was looking down the length
of the ravine in which he too had taken
shelter.

 

CHAPTER XVIII.
THROUGH man or nan.

Tm: 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 fearful night. in the
library at Fair Oaks, served to confirm the
faith—had any such confirmation been re-
quired—of the maiden in her lover. All these
long, anxious days, poor faithful little Pomp
had treasured the epistle which his young man-
ter had enjoined upon him to deliver secretly.
It had become greatly the worse for wear, but
the little negro’s chances of meeting Aunt
Huldy 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 fidelity wore rewarded.
Though ignorant as to its contents, and never
suspecting from whom it came, for Pomp was
discretion itself, Aunt Huldy did not hesitate
to hear the not very attractive Lillct to her
mistress.

Cora Carbury read it, and her resolve was
fixed. Had Charles written differently, had
his communication been an acknowledgment
of guilt—though that was impossible—tho
young girl would have hesitated about the
course she lad made up her mind to pursue, or
perhaps would have abandoned it altogether.

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

"1 Ali leavin
you forever!
thin of me, and what the memory of me must be
in your heart. But, behave it or not—and I know
you will not believe me though I swore it—I am
nnocent. But I may not ask on to distrust the
evidence of your own senses. ou saw your r
brother and myself in apparently dead! co ct.
Cora, you know poor James and me, an on will
believe this much; I was forced into it. on saw,
and called to me to spare him. It was unnecessary.
lhad made up in mind to die h his hand. Iain
wounded as it s, t ough but sllgh 1; my own pistol
I shot in the air. I saw James 1 l, and you also
and I waited long enou h to see that your wound
was nuts fatal one, an then, hearing the comin
footsteps of those whom the shots had alarmed,
fled knowing how strongly the appearances were
against me. Cora, I am fleeing from you and the
testimony which I know you will give. I cannot
hear the thought of your condemnation. You will
hate me; it cannot be otherwise. I must live under
the thought of it, for I have something still to live
for. I do not an that I know who is our brother's
murderer, but go to find him. hough James
Carbu sougyht my life, he shall be avenged
throug me. on will live, I ray, to see this and
to regret the hasty judgmen wh!ch I must not
blame you for passing urion me. I am not running
away l|k8 a coward, but cannot d!e until in name
and reputation are unstained before the world.

“Farewell, Cora; I will not call you what you
have been and must ever be to me.

" Cruan 0. Anna."

Cora Carbury read this letter, and sat down,
her face unchanged, to meditate upon its con-
tents.

It was a strangely attractive face at all
times, and now, with the new-born light of
some firm resolve stamped upon it, there was
a beauty and an attraction in it which it had
never before worn. Pure, and delicate, and
sweet, and youthful, wonderfully lovcly and
seruphic in its exprcssion; not bright and
vivid, and glowing and enchanting, like those
faces which dazzle and infatuute men. warping
their cooler judgmcnts and winning them over
to all kinds of rushncss. It was one that could
lnot fail to appeal to the higher nature of any
man who had n s; ark of honor and chivalry
in his composition. And now, with the air of.
determination which gave a quoenly grace to
what before was ulmOst childish in its loveli-
ness, she looked as though born to ru'o.

Charley had been right to go as he did.
Very well (lid Cora know that. Even now,
in Spite of her assertions to the contrary, every
one believed him to be the assassin; “1.1.1 llild
he remained, when, as they told her, she kept
calling upon him in h r delirium uml e-vi-
dontly identifying him as her brother’s mnr<
deter, his life would surely have fallen a sacri-
fice, as her father’s anger could have been ap‘
passed in no Way short of this“ Tlicie had
been .clearly nothing else for him but flight.
But the thought that it was her judgment of
him that he had feared: that he hm! pone mray
believing that she could condemn Inn, was the
bitterest thought of all.

“I would have believed in Charley Adler,"
she said, calmly and tenrle<-1y: “I would ban
believed in him, even if I had not seen—” A.

" he wrote: “leavln home' and
ell, too well I know w at you will

was;

on

l
l
l

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

' could no longer endure this.

1

. that haunted her.

'16

 

The Lone Star Gambler.

 

Then she shuddered, as though the last ob-
ject that had fallen upon her glazing eyes as
the fainted in the garden, was ever before
them.

It was almost midnight before the maiden
aroused herself from the state of inaction,
almost of stupor, into which she had fallen
after reading the message from the fugitive.
This could not go on. She must be up and
doing. A new day would dawn presently, and
that day must find her—where? From her
window, as she gazed out, she could see the
twinkling stars reflected in the depths of the
wide Gulf in the distance, could hear the sad lap-
ping of its waves upon the sandy beach,and catch
the glowing phosphorescent flashes which came
from them. There was no moon, but the sky
was brightly blue, and a. few fleecy clouds
hovered here and there. It was strange that
the suffering girl could thus stand and drink in
the calm beauty of the scene; but all her
terror, and misery, and anxiety seemed far
removed from her, or else swallowed‘vup 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.
’I‘hey had behaved as though they thought her
words were still spoken in her delirium. She
It would drive
her mad. 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 short-sighted 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
knewn it only too well—had been wild and
reckless, and see What a fate had overtaken
himl

Retribution, sooner or later, must come upon
the wrong-deer, and if James’s end had been
such a. fearful 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 forgot the face with its evil eyes
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 chivulrous, and noble! Who
had there ever been who could equal him? No
false or mean word had ever stained his lips-
no selfish thought had th r come near to him.

The young 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 hers to linger upon them. It
was all so long ago; so much had happened
since then, that she felt as though she had
grown old. Or, had it been It dream, and was
this the awaking'l ,

She had parted from him that night, and
gone away Willingiy at the last, for she wished
to be alone. She waned to sit down, and try
to realize the great happiness that had now
come to her-to shut her eyes, and hear again
the words and see the glances that made her
music and her sunshine. She had gone, not
into the house, bu: to ascut in the from garden,
near the end of the veranda; the pk sant
moonlit garden, where the roses and jusmines
perfumed the air. Such a solemn and still
night as it wusl The pale stirs gleamed iu the
tropic sky, the moonheams gave a silvery ra-
diance to the water and the troes, the flowers
were sleeping; the roses alone seemed to be
awake, and to greet her as their queen. Far
off, like the sweet faint echo of music in a.
dream, shocould bear the sighing of the sea.
She was alone, though it had been for a brief
minute only—alone with the beauty of the
summer nightgand her “love‘s young dream."

Then the angry altercatious, the vo cs
which she knew so Well, awakened her lroin

   

 

her blis‘ful musinge, and she had gone back— '
gone back to misery, and horror and gricli 1

But not to tins“ entirvly; f: r had mt Char- ,
ley loved 116:? Yes, and the loved him; and l

neither psesent anguish our future llOl‘I‘H‘S‘,
could thr Pfilce that.
Ibo knew, that it was
“ Better to have loved and lost;
Than never to h..ve loved a: all."
Colonel Cal-bury h'xd been in no enviable
have of mind, even after his accumulated

She believed, because

griefs had begun to subside from their first
violence. He had told 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—was 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 Cal-bury? Or 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 regard to the man than she had yet
done, was certain. But Cora had been very
retiring for the past two or three days, and
her father had not thought it expedient to
worry her, for the present, with questionings.

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 the name—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.

 

CHAPTER XIX.
A FELLOW FEELING.

“ M‘! 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.

“ And mine is Clarke,” was the reply, as the
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, was it not?”

“ Not so much for me, I am thankful to say,”
answered the young man who had given his
name as Clarke; “ I chinced, luckin 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 under the circumstances. So
you come 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 which I never would
have seen or thought. The poor animal, how-
ever, is completely done up, and I was just
prospecting with a view of camping here [or
the night. And you, pard?”

“To tn“ the truth, I scarcely know. My
horse, like your own, is pretty well used up. I
must halt whrre Iain, I fancy.” .

“You can‘t do better,” said Leighton. “I
had in view for the night a motto some dis—
tiun e to the wcst of us, and which I could
easily have reached but for this mislnp. No
chance of that now, though, so we may as well
conclude to lnouvae wh~re we are."

“I should be glad of company in any event,”
said Clarke, “ and am more than glad to make
3 our acquaintance, Mr. Leighton.” \

" Oh, sink the mister!” was the retort.
“ Call me Leighion, or Graeme, it' you will. I
am more accustomed to the latter."

“Th-mks!” said the othnr, delighth with the
free-and-r‘usy manner of the scout of whom he
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."

“All right, Charley! It’s ever so much, as
we 31 e doomed to be pairris for the present, un-
der diflicultivs.
go into camp." .

A few minutes more and the two newly-
made acquaintances were quietly discus~ing an
impromptu supper, their horses being near
thorn, and feeding upon the long fresh grass in
the shady ravme, which had escaped the touch
of the filmes.

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

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

Now, suppose we proceed to ,

 

“Westward, ho! eh?” said the other with a
laugh. “ Then you are on no particular trail?”

“ Nothing very definite,” said his companion,
and the sad tone in which it was spoken all at
once seemed to touch the scout.

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

“Oh, cheese that, pardl I know a white
man when I see him; and if you are a little
new to the prairies, I may be able to put you
up to a thing or two.”

“ Which way does your trail lead from
here?”

“ To the Medina,” replied Graeme.‘ “Two
of my pards 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?” .

“I don’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. 1
know what suits Gus and Frank as well as they
do Hiemselves.”

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

“Oh, you were thinking of going there?
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 to go on without inter-
ruplion. '

“.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?7 inquired
Clarke. “ Rancheros, vaqueros, and all that sort
of people, I suppose!”

“ Just so: and gamblers and roughs, 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
in my line With all of them,” was the careless
answer; “ but my specialty happens to be
with the gambling fraternity when I get with-
in the precincts of the Bull’s Head-at least
with one of those gentry.”

“I should take but little interest in that,”
said Clark. “ I never play for money.”

“ Nor I,” said the scout, “ unless, as in the
case under Consideration, there are very special
reasons for it.” ‘

“And the town is a great resort for that
class a little inter, you tell are?”

l
“Oh, it’s the Mecca of the tribe,” replied

Graeme. “They are all bound to fetch up
there some time or other in their lives; so I
never trouble myself about 3 ekiug the trail of
my customer. I visit the places which I know
he cannot veiy Wlll keep away from at cer-
tain seasons, and it I miss him a few times, I
am certain to hit him at last. I take it easy,
as you see, but I am none the less determined.”

“ i think I should like to visit San Antonio,”
said C arke, after a pause.

“ We can make the trip together," was the
response; “ but in the mean lime, you had bet—
tcr 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 will do so, and thank you too.”

“ Good for you! Frank and Gus are rough
diamonds. but they are the real gems for all
that; and if you havechcsen a frontier life, they
can put you up to some tricks in border-craft
that you could only learn in the school of ex-
perience, and be along time in graduating at
that.” .

“I am in for just that sort of life,” said
Clarke, rath-r bittr-rly; “ but I may just as
well say hermthut it is not from choice.”

“ I reckoned not,” swid the other. “Few
youngsters of your out go deliberately into
that sort of thing. I canft say that I did my.

 

 

 

_~.\_

 

' least-it has made the patient, and I needed to

' the half-soliloquy of his companion.

ti, flight of time, and the day for which you wait

-_...l

I

 

 

Theolloneetar Gambler-

 

lelf. I had an object, which I have been long
in accomplishing, but meanwhile the life has
proved a very fascinating one for me, and I
question very much if I ever relinquish it. At

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

“Not in the school of adversity perhaps;
but in the glorious excitement of a life on the
boundless Texan prairies, you feel not the

never seems far distant.”

“ So mote it bel” was the young man’s re-
ply.
“ It will come,” said Graeme; “ I have 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 vengence.”

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

“Yes, I trust so!”

“ 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, indiguautly, “ or you would never
think of calling them so!”

“Softly,” said Leighton; “ I mean that they
are trivial in comprrison. Let me tell you of
injuries which will make your own seem so light
that, perchsnce, you may feel better able to
hear them. A sister, young, beiutiful and
good, lured from a happy and peaceful home
by a handsome and fascinating demon in hu-
man shape under a promise of marriage —n se-
rcret marriage, to which she blindly consented,
but a mock one performed: a few months of a.
fool’s p‘Ll‘wlis“ , and lh:n discarded, when about
to become a mother, with th‘, devilish fact i
thrown in her face that she had never been a i
wife. B.L(l enough, you will say; fiendish
enough in all conscience.

" But listen; I have not finished. There is
worse yet to come. The poor, tl'lhfill'lg‘ 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 mnch regard had she for the
feelings of the vile coward, but waived unlil
late at night and joined him when he was alone
on the hurricane-deck. Here she made her
heart-broken player for mercy, and here she

“ Shake l” was the sole response of the scout;
and in five minutes more both were sleeping
soundly.

 

CHAPTER XX.
THE BOY scon'r.

OVER 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 broad 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, ridingr 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:

“Jeff, head for that stream, and we will
camp there. That motte 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

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
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 comes!” suddenly called out a
young lady of the party, who, with sevgral
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
wende its way.

In a few moments the horseman appeared
over the rise of the plain behind them, and an
exclamation of disappointment arose 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 perceiw, did
he resemble. It was a splendid animal. that
upon which the now-corner was mounted, but
he Showed the effects of hard riding as he
dashed up to the train.

 

met her fate. He murdered her and threw her
body overboard!"

Graeme Leighton rose to his feet as he said
this and paced nervously ‘ackward and for—
ward for some minutes. I‘hen, seating him-
self, he continued:

“There was a witness, though the dastard
had not suspect-ed it, and he was secured. He
contrived, however, to make his escape in the
darkness at the next landing, and slill 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 especially on the trail of the cowaru-~ ,

Hy betrayer and assassin."

The stranger (lofted his sombrero at sight
of the larlu s, and asked quietly to see the can-
taiu. That gentleman at once turned his
lorse, and asked politely tow 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.

.I-Ie 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.

1 He was well mounted upon a small but

wiry animal, that evidently was possessed of
both speed and endurance,'aud sat his saddle
with an «use that showed he Was perfectly at
' home there.

Mgr—reuse... 7!,“ «  w

dropped back once more, this time addressing.

  
     
 
  
  
  
   
 
   
  
  
  
   
    
    
   
   
   
  
  
 
  
   
     
  
 
 
    
    
  
  
  
  
   
  

 

 

His attire was of buckskin, with the riches»
possible trappings, and a light broadbrimmed
sombrero shaded his her. He we! 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 ;answcr to the captain’s question, he re-
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 f
new to the prairies, and this is not the safest ‘
part of the world to attempt traveling in‘
alone.” L

“Yell are more than welcome,” was the
courteous response of the captain. who could i
not help being pleased with tho frank and open .
far-e 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 i
life: but, as I said, I am rather a novice as]
yet " .

“Well, Carter, my boy,” said the captain,
“it seems hardly the life for one of your age ;
and appearance.” 1.

“ it must suit me, whether or not,” was the _
somewhat sad rejoinder. “I have no one to ;

deeply when death overtakes me.”

There was such a tinge of bitterness in the
youth‘s tone, that the captain was glad of the f
opportunity of changing the subject by calling '-
out to the driver of the ambulance: -

“ I say, Jeff; here is our calnping‘groundd
along the banks of this little stream.” !

So saying, he turned and ordered the team-f
sters into position for the night.

They had hardly more than gotten intol
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 observed the addition their company had
met with in his absence, and he was not dif-

ance with the stranger. ,

The latter, having frankly given his name ‘.
and the circumstances of his joining the wagon 3
train, met with a. most cordial Welcome from i
this invaluable adjunct to the party. i

 

“Put it thar, pardl" he said, as rising from I
his recumbent position, he held out a broad".

l palm, which soon clasped in a tight grips the‘.

, slender one of the youth. “But, look a hyer, i
, pard, ef hit’s a fa‘r question, what mought yer
i be u doin‘ out ihis-a—ways!" .‘
“ I have been on a lone scout," wasthe re- ‘

, ply of Celt Carter, “and I joined the train for
‘ my own better protection and safety.”

“Jes’ so, I’m in ther scoutiu’ biz myself,
an” when I gits this hyer lay-out tor ther des-
‘ ternation, I is gwine in fer u rcg’lur jinx-jum-
'boree. Not thet l sprees er goes in fer kenrds
more’n common, but when l strikes San An-
tone, I giner'ly ’lows ter enj‘y myself. Dead
loads of old purds o’ mine surlin’ fer fetch up
in thet ranch ’i'ore shortly, au’ yer kin jest bet
I’m on hand every time.”

“ You will go to San Antonio then, after

inquired Carter.

ther Allymo," was lhe reply. “Et' yer would
like ler jinc in, hit would jest be in my line,
fer I mas” ullers an’ oftener bet a paid in tow.”

“ 1 should like it very much, I think," said
the youth. “I have been kindly invxtcd to
Continue Willi the train, which just.suits me
for the present. Afler that—”

‘ Arter thet, yer chips in wi’ me.
the long an’ short 0‘ ther discuSsion.
ter Sen Antone ary time?" .

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

" How long, ’bout, hes yer Ha a man?”
asked the scout. “ No ’fense, par-d, but yer
don’t look so aged es ter be vener'nle."

'l‘het air
Even bin

youth answered, pleasantly.
I feel old enough.”

" Dog-goued queer that,” said the other; “ I
look, I reckon, nigh ’bout es old es ther perm-
rers, an’ not more’n half es fresh. but I feels
es young es when l hed'my fast pa‘r 0’ butes."

Thus far into the night the two men, so dif-
ferent in appearance, in manners and in speech,
convened together.

The scout was naturally of a buoyant dispo-

“At all events,

 

care what kind of life I lead, or to lament very ;

fident in beginning at once to scrape acquaint- 

yon have guided this train to its destination?” ~

“ Soon as l strikes ther locale, Iskutes fer ;

“I may be older than you take me for," the I

   
    
  
 
   
   
  
  
      
      
     
     
      
      
     
       
       
      
       
      
       
       
        
            
         
     
       
       
       
       
     

 

 

18

The Lone Star Gambler.

 

 

Iitien—most men of his calling are so—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 of a
good time in the Alamo City could much ex-
ceed it when they were realiz:d.

Gradually Colt Carter’s gloom began to dis-
perse before the genial fire of the other’s
warmth and wit; and when he, at lengthgfell
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
without 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 soft, cool grass, and sleep forever.

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

 

CHAPTER XXI.
'rns: 'rwo HOMES.

Lararn'rrn Cannuar, alone in his princely
home at Magnolia Plantation; Adelaide Adler,
alone in bars 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.

Hrs. 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 Core, 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 perswence in fixing the crime upon the
mysterious concealed assassin, whom neverthe-
less 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 was being made for her. But the
old planter was far from concurring in this
general view of it, and if he seemed to
passively 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
Cora Carbury.

This was the absence of Electra, the flcetest
horse in the colonel’s stable, and which his
daughter had been in the frequent habit of
riding, 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 desulto'y
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 unwelcome one.
Because he would a thousand times more will-
ingly have held the popular theory of the sad
affair than 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 asmssin of her brother.

Aunt Huldy, when the flight of her young
mistress was discovered, had hastened to in-
form 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
homeI 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 loss 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
grave, 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 a convicted felon, or fleeing from the
outraged justice and majesty of the law.

A forgerl James Car-bury, 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 off,” it would have
been' no morethan 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
him.

For 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 bills which his un-
happy son had drawn, although it promised to
leave his broad estates in a condition little
short of beingas crippled as those of his old
enemy, Kenton Adler.

After this, the wretched old man 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, its best
he might. the reputation of the lost Cora, the
“ sale ddughter 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, hurl 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 mournful 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 anl 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 aflection was a
selfish one, had gone from her game, she be
lieved forever. She bad 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 fatal
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 questions] 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 home. There was no actual dieng in
the calamity that had fallen upon her house.
Possibly, in her wonderful pride and self—xe-
pression, she could have 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
bad frequently suggested. Doubtless, and she
knew it, an entire change of scene—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 aflorded cecasion 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 Cora Caro
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-
neath the friendly shelter of a few scattering
prairie trees, we left the wagon-train to which
Colt Carter had attached himself, enaamped.

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 inclosed 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 these daring pioneers we
must introduce, although they have in them-
selves little to do with our narrative.

It consisted of five persons—Major Clay
Kingsley, his wife, son and two daughters.
The major himself was a hale, hearty gentle-
man of fifty-five, with a decidedly military

caring; his wife was a mild, delicate-looking
matron, perhaps ten years his junior; the son,

 

 

 

 

The Lone Star Gambler.

12

 

fi

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
tc that lady’s daughters.

the had come from Louisiana, her native
a‘tata, 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 patriciau beauty,
struck a chord at once in the chivalrous breast
of Major Kingsley, and he would probably have
engaged the services of the child-widow unhesi-
tatingly, even though she had been found un-
fltted for the position.

But Mrs. Houston proved herself in every
way qualified, and her home with the Kings-
leys had been a p‘easant and delightful one.
She had been paid a liberal salary for her
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 beautiful 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 on 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 g0verness 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—
cepling that lady herself. That it met with
universal approval was just as apparent, but
here the lady herself formed the exoeption.

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 its object.

What consoled him now at the thought that
his first and only love was no longer- 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 Piuclde 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 suffer-
ing, and self-control that made her beauty
seem fresh from a refiner's fire.

But a new day came to the pioneers, and saw
them wending their way still further to tho
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-
tent to leave them to themselves, for even as
it was he was a. little nervous and restive at
the pleased!) way in which Carter and the
beautiful widow seemed to drop into social
converse. It was nothing new, and be well
knew it; for Placide Houston, in however
kindly a way she might regard Ralph Kingsley,
was the furthest possible removed from any
love-sick sentiment. For that he might look

 

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?”

“ 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 full“ 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?”

“i 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 mysslf—to San Antonio.”'

“ Indeed! You have friends there, then?”

“ No! Yep—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
anticipations.” Then, in a lower tone, and as
if speaking to herself, she said: “If I could
but hope to meet an enemy !”

Low as the words 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 hopes, pard, yer isn’t gittin’ so ’tached
ter this hyer lay-out thet yer won’t feel like
leavin’ hit when we gits tor 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
es tired 0’ this kind 0’ pcrigernatin’ es :1 pil-
grim o’ my years an' ’sperience.”

“Oh, I’m with you, pard," said the other,
with a laugh. "You can depend on me.”

The scout turned away to join the captain
of the train, and Mrs. Houston remarkcd:

“And I am with him too.”

“ You, madam!” exclaimed Colt.

“ Certainly," said the lady. “You both go
to San Antonio: so you have told me.”

“ Such is our intention,” was the reply.

“And you will not refuse, I am sure, to give
me. your protection on the way?" ‘

“Can you ask such a question? Iam 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 inten-
tion of accompanying them, that excellent citi-
zen expressed his gratified feelings by saying:

“Dog’d ef I ever could make out what thar
was inter my make-up what tuck so strong
with the weemeu folksl Hit’s allers ther same
,whar caliker air consarned. Hooray fer our
side, I see. Ther purty widder air a trump
keardl”

Not equally elated was Ralph Kingsley, when
he at length discovered the objective point of
his inamorata on leaving them.

But incipient jealousy of the beardless youth,

1

 

who seemed to have become fascinated by her,
soon gave place to the resolve he had formed
when he heard that whisper of hers 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.
TRACING A LIKENESS

Tim rendezvous of Gallant Graeme and his;
pards, on the Rio Medina, had been reached,
and the hunt to which the former had looked
forward to with such pleasant anticipations had
been enjoyed to the full both by him and hit
new-made friend, Charley Clarke.

Like all other terrestrial things, however, 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 was yet some distance above the
western horiz<m, when the two young men ar-
rived at a matte, situated near the bank of a
small stream—a spot well known on the fron-
tier, for there. years before; a small outpost
had been established, but which, like many an-
other, met with asad and speedy fate, for its
occupants had been doomed to fall beneath the
rifle and scalping knife ef the Apache.

Cautiously the scout advanced into the tim-
ber, his eyes closely searching every nook and
corner, and his nerves strung for action, should
there be an enemy ambushed within. He soon
satisfied himself on this point; he was prepar-
ing to stake his white steed that he might feedl
upon the luxuriant grass, his comrade being
similarly occupied, and had removed the sad-
dle, the better to rest the noble animal, when
there came a sound of something crashing
through the underwood. Uncertain whether
to prepare for a deer, a buffalo, or an enemy,
Graeme turned rapidly, and was about to re-
place his saddle, when a home and rider dashed
suddenly upon the scene.

0n the instant, the eyes of the scout and the
stranger met, and seemed to hold each other,
as by some strange fascination; in the former,
it was a gaze of startled and mystified sur-
prise, in the latter there was a look that spoke
an unmistakable fear.

At the first alarm, Gallant Graeme had
seized his rifle, and stood ready on the defense,
but he quickly lowered it when he perceivsdl
what was before him. It was a clean-limbed‘
and thoroughbred-looking chestnut pony, and
mounted upon it-—a young girl. 80, at least,
she appeared to the scout, though her pale,
clear-cut face, and the haughty carriage of a
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 down her
back. Her eyes were of the sleepy, Oriental
type, with long drooping lashes, and her face
purely Grecian ln every outline. Her com-
plexion was that of a brilliant brunette, rich.
and glowing in its dusky warmth, now bronsed
to a deeper shade by the sun and wind.

Her closely-fitting riding habit was fashion-
able in its cut, sea—green in color, and orna-
mented with gilt buttons; cn her hands she
had gauntlet gloves of buckskin, while a slouch-
hat of black felt encircled by a gold cord, and
shaded by a heavy black ostrich feather, was
uprn her head. _ Her chestnut steed was
equipped with a side-saddle covered with
buckskin and richly ornamented, a bridle of
horse 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»mountod 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 him
as she swept by. .

“ Good heavens! I say, Charley!” called
out Gallant Graeme to his companion; “did.
you see her? Of 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 car. she be!
That is the question.”

“ Well, Graeme, that is something which
you and I are not likely to discover, for tbb

. (2. n. "

v. “A

 

-,;4_..1. a... "
fi'y‘hy‘. ,

.“‘,1"

5...; . .,..,‘ L..-,,_..- -,..

r 7*;«7. “‘3‘.

   
 

20

evening at least.
like mad across the prairie.
ahe 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 chasel”

Bounding into their saddles, the two pards
were soon flying in full pursuit across the
prairie, buta few hundred yards behind the
swift—paced steed of the flying fair one.

“ Come, Selim!” urged the scout;

Yonder she goes, riding
Do you suppose

“ that

.llmbci‘deggcd mustang shows you the track. I v

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
7from you. But, try, try again!”

With a look of disappointment at the now
fast sinking sun, which seemed threatening the
nextiiiguishmeiit of his hopes, Graeme applied
the spurs once more to the noble beast, that,
smarring with pain and rage at such unusual

'trentment 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-
uden 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
companion, and wheeling Selim to the right-
mbont, once more headed for the deserted
anode, 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 scouts
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
home claw that might guide him in clearing up
‘the mystery. He was obliged, however, 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—
onc 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
which he had seen in the past. It came before
him suddenly, [IS 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-
ness was 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
lcnrfldent. 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 will, 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, ab0ve all things, 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 tms 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
penetratsil even the dense shades of the motto.

What connection could one, so certainly
fresh from scenes of civilization and refine-
ment—and among which Graeme Leighton must
have knovm her, if he had known her at all——
have with the wild scenes in which she had just
formed so cor.5picuous a figure? What could

 

0. ,,. .a‘,

the coyote, the crack of the rifle, or the war—
whoop of the red~nian broke the silence?

Over the past the memory of the puzzled
young man roamed, through far different
scenes in youth’s bright morning where he
felt he must have known this woman who so
obviously shrunk from meeting hiui. His
thoughts ran back to a land somewhat nearer
the rising sun; 3. cultivated clime, amid flower-
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 balls where he fancied her
voice must have rung, and her light foot trip-
ped in the inazy dance. All in vain. No-
where did she flud 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:

‘p‘ 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? Ini—‘ver hadn.
single square look at her, I remember, all the
time that 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; Plucide Houston—no; I must be
mistaken. I never could have known her be-
fore."

 

CHAPTER XXIV.
AN UNKNOWN TERROR.

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-
attende-l from the camping-ground where they
had halted at an unusually curly hour, of the
adventure that was in store 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
imprudendy—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 npproachal the timber, she was
about to dismount and pluck some of the gor-
geous hued wildflowers which grew in great
abundance near the edge of the motte.

Startled at first glance by the sight of a.
horseman who seemed to have just dismount-
id, she was quickly reassured when she (lis<
covered from his dress and appearance that.
there was nothing alarming in his probable
character. She had instinctively drawn a pis-
tol 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
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 vies some one whom he had

known. and who might have snme good reason,

for wishing to preserve an incognito. lVe
have seen that his long and weary cogitntions
ended in his fixing her as the companion of the

she be doing here, in the solitude of majestic  Kingsleys, for whom he had a little time
mature. where rarely a sound, save the bark of previous been acting as guide, and‘who then,

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 partook of the really tempting supper
which the scout had preparld in her absence,
and which had for some time been awaiting
her, the two men being much too polite to set
nbout satisfying their hunger until she returned.
Soon, however, all was quiet, and, having kept
silent regarding her adventure in the 'niotte,
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 frcm each other, and in some
mysterious way related to each other, lay
awake with their wonderings and their fears.

But there was this difference: 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 i” 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 ciill me by name! Why
should 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, Inlph Kings-
ley, and rejoice 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 lie—Ralph, 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
jouincy to San Antonio, tearing myself away
from those who love and trust me! I cannot
tell—51 know not what fate it is that impel:
me, or what may be in store for me when I
reach there. v

“ Can Clayton be on his way thither also?
Oli. surely I am not to be called upon to en«
counter thatl Ought ] 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 1”

This wild and maddening train of thought
was Placide tursning, 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
Fl‘lO would be simply impossible.

Since their wanderings had begun, from the
very day that with the Kingsleys she left the
grow waters of Matagorda to the east, Placide
had lovpd 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 hazybfi'opical splendor, sleepless as she had
been through the night that was past, she felt
no desire, for the first time, to enter with mat
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? ,

“Yer don’t seem ter feel es peart es yer

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The

 

,_n-.V  I ...,.- ... ,, n..,, 7*, , ,,,,...

gin’rally does,” was the remark of Bristnw,
when the trio were Well started on the trail.
"I reckon, Mis’ Hohston, yer tuck a leetle too
long a center when yer started from camp
yest’day. Hit hain’t well mos’ly 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—
aomething 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
fer 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 for 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, fllled 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 fears for the
future.

Had the brave spirit of this woman, who
had so long suffered in silence, given way?
Surely, if these terrors were becoming unen-
durable 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 day 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
hastcd, and for which Placido 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 notanswer:

“Why, oh, why have I come?”

 

CHAPTER XXV.
ran nouns: murmur. ,

[N a private room of the Monger House in
San Antonio, set two men, engaged apparently
in discussing plans of a somewhat serious na-
ture.

The older of the two, now considerably past
forty, was one who, notwithstanding 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
country. He was an ex-army officer, whose
wild life had been continually running him in
debt, until after several decidedly reprehensi-
bb efforts “ to raise the wind ”—some of which
remained undiscovered, and the others were

 

..,..a—.~.-- u

.,‘......‘~. - _

lightly passed over—he, one night, in despera-
tion, and probably crazed with whisky, dlS<
carded his uniform, joined some kindred
spirits, and attacked and robbed the relief
train of the paymaster’s funds for paying off
the troops.

Although the crime was not conclusively
proven against him, there were numerous
other charges in the indictment, and sufficient
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 of 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
disguise, 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 strategy, and such Mad Morrow
believed h a had 0 llld in the rather elegant and
distinguevlooking individual with whom he
was now negotiating.

In spite of a decidedly dissipated look, Steve
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 appearance,
caused by a dyed mustache and eyebrows that
were evidently corked, gave one the impretsion
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, he 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 month
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 discussing.

“ 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 diflerent parts of the
State.”

“Honest, now, pard, what special piece of
deviltry did you commit before leaving the
land of polioans and orange blossoms?"

“Nothing, of course,” said Harrington, but
with some show of hesitaucy. “I wanted to
see life; tired, you know, of being coopod up—”

“I see. Not room enough for a sprightly
youth like you in New Orleans?” '

“ 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 brightl"

“ Well, if you must know it, it was a girl—”

“ Of course. And you didn’t marry heri"

“You are off 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
resurrecting its do .”

“A cool hand you must have been, for a

amateur. Was there no other way?” ,,

Lone. Star. 931????-

 

l

   

N “,5; ‘__‘ __‘ fl  ,_ - ’fl‘o.F-.' "fit.

21

 

“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 I do?"

“As to that," remarked Mad Morrow, with
a sardonic grin, “ you don't seem to have
made much else 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 road.
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!"

“Tolerably so,” was the reply. “I gener-
ally contrived to hold my own."

“ But, like your days of early piety in the'
Crescent City, you didn’t find the life sufllcieut-
ly exciting, ehi’

“ A little too much so toward the last," sold:
Harrington; “ that is why I thought of a newr
deal."

“ So you got in a tight place, did you?"

“ Yes; or rather I got out of one.”

“As you did before. I suppose?
Gordian Knot with a lowjo-Itnifei”

“Something of the sort," said the other,
carelessly.

“Where was this?” inquired the mad road--
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 sumciency
to enable me to seek a foreign land, and there
live in peace and comfort?"

" You are crazier than the fools about how
any that I am, if you dream of such a thing,”
was the contemptuous reply. “I never went
to that depth in ‘ damphoolism ’ yet. In com.
fort, you might; but in peace—never! Peace,
indeed!
yours and mine, rising grimly before us 1”

“ Don’t you believe that a man can bury his
past in the grave of forgetfulnessi”

“ Never i” cried Morrow, in a tone that al-
most startled his questioner. “ There are
memories and faces that will never remain
buried. N o 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 the balcony invol-
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 hur-
riedly, and without noticing any one in particu-1
lar within the room, before the easement of
which she had halted for a second. But it
was sufficiently long to photograph her face—-
a pale, but royally beautiful one—upon the
vision of one of the occupants of the apart.
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 Walker 1” 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 at
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 night more as if you
wished you did not. Own up, wasn’t it Iomo
one of that Brazos crowd, that you any you
lit out from only the other day!”

“ Not a hit of her,” was the reply. “811.
reminds me of some one also; but I was mil-
taken.”

“Dog’d if I believe you were!" said Hor-
row.

“For Heaven’s sake, what do you mean!"

Cut the ‘

With the specters of evil deeds, likek

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22

The Lone Star Gambler.

 

was the exclamation of Steve, now thoroughly

alarmed.

“ You know dog-gonad well who that femi-
lnine is. That’s what I mean.”

“ I don’t—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.”

“The Red River one?” queried Mad Mor-
row.

“ No!” 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 road—agent. “The sooner I get
you out of this, the better. 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 do-
«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 Ie 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-
tiou of going and interviewing a recruit or two
for his band, in another quarter of the town,
and Harrington, first help'ug himself to
another glass of his favorite Cognac, followed
him down the tairway.

He halted in the office, however, and going
up to the desk, glanced at the more recent
entries on the ledger. Running over 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.”

7 “I am a fool!” muttered the gambler to him-
self as he turned awav. Lighting a cigar, he
posed out, and crossing the plaza, was soon
seated in the Bull’s Head. -

CHAPTER XXVI.
'ro WAIT FOR FATE.

RESTING at lastl

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 I—
and strong in body, and it seemed a long time
to look forward to, the time when she could
leave her weary life behind her.

After long days, and weeks of monotonous
and fatiguing travel by day, and camping 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-
ing.

“ 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
1 J

. me; but I loved him, and Ichose to take the
chances. I refused to be'led or advised, and
so far the fault was mine, and bitterly have I
atoned for it. I dreamed not of weariness,
loathing, and desertion; I trusted to what
every one called my beauty to retain his affec-
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 eave 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.”

be 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 knew that the deepest sympathy with
an injured woman, the strongest indignation
against the unprincipled wretch who had sacri-
ficed her to his caprices, with sorrow that she
should so have wrecked her bright and promising
life, would have been hers. 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 sadly l—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 tinsel.
fish, that is the only love on which it is ever
safe for a, woman to build her enchanted castles
of future happiness.

As Plucide Houston, given up to her boding
thoughts, looked listlessly over toward the
plaza where crowds of idlers were sitting, and
eihers pacing up and down the streets in the
clear moonlight, the thought came into her
mind that she could not he one of them; that
she no longer had any in'erest 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 unswcrvingly 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 selfcontrolled as she had schooled
hersolf to become, all that had forsaken her
now. v Her large dark eyes were strangely
dilated, and her pure, calm face seemed
gradually growing whiter. Terror and avar-
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
had known since she had left theashelter 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 I the Menger House the night before,
were those of Charles Clarke and Graeme
Ieighton, the scout.

CHAPTER XXVII.
THE BOY PARD.

BRISTOW, the scout to whom the youth Colt
Carter had attached himself, and who had
taken imder his protection, as far as San An-
tonio, the lady who had so mysteriome claimed

 

 

 

3

it when she decided on abandoning the eni-
grant train and her friends, found himself in
demand when he reached the Alamo City. His
fame as a. guide had preceded him, and several
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.
initiation, as it exactly coincideu'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 froqueuiy in conversxtion
with the scout in regard to their projected buf-
falo hunt.

“By J ovel 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.

<—»..at-

‘.

“I hesu‘t seen nuthin’ like him in a coon‘s age ,

myself, I don't reckon,” said the scout. “ As ;
(er pickin’ him up, hit war this-a-ways. Ther
bute air kinder on the other leg, pard. Ther

younker picked me up; thet war ’hout ther
way 0’ things.”

“Picked you upl What do you mean?”

“ ’Bout what I ses—I gin’rally does—tuck a
kinder sneakiu’ fancy ter ther cut 0’ my jih, I
reckons. Folkses am mi's'ly tillers doin’ hit,
’speshly ther weemin folkses.
piece 0’ caliker es yer ever sce’d tuck me up
same fashion on this hyer last trail.
out ter ther Menger till yit.”

“ Really? And that was the way this young-
ster came to join you. eh?"

“ Leastways ef hit warn’t, I hesn’t no way 0’
’countin’ fer hit. Yey mcughtn’t think mehbe
hit air a. nat’i‘al state 0’ ’fairs, but es 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 uncommon] y
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,
Bristow? 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, nether,” said the scout. “Only
jest this much, at ther younker air sot onter
goin’ I doesn’t lay out ter hender 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 ter
gradooate in this hyer skule o’ mine on ther
perrarers, an’ I ’lows I orter gi’u him a fn’r
show.”

“ Good for you, old man!” 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 lass in your way, I should
think)? a

“Don’t be too certain in your own mind
about all that disinterestedness,” said the man
who had first spoken. “lt isn’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’th a.
cent,” said’ the imperturbable scout. “Nary
one 0’ ther shemale sect ever got a bolt 0’ thet
kine enter me. Hit air a mighty soft sort 0’
biz when hit strikes a. man in his vealy days,
nu’ hit air wuss still, in my ’pinion, when hit
gits him nrter he air more seasoned. ’Bout
that time yer nat’rally ’spects more sense from
a man, of he hes managed ter keep ther wits
what he was burned with. No, pard; yer

 

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The Lone Star Gambler. 23

 

 

   
   
 
 
 
 
 
   
    

1

 

 

can‘t come that outer me. The younker don’t
memento no of ary soul, male or shemale,
what I ever knowed, an’ I hes a powerful habit
o’ recomnumberin’ every pilgrim what I has
fell in with. He stan’s plum alone l"

“Hui 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 IBexar county.”

Every word of this edifying conversation
fell 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 taming 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 he felt 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 handsome 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 were
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.

He had avowed an almost complete igno-
rance of the plains, when he had begged to be
allowed to accompany Bristow. 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 presented 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 lierhle 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 squar’ show fer ’quirin’ his perfessiou.” n

It must he confessed that some few misgiv-
ings seemed 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-
eion."

“ How yer reckons, boy, I knows anythin’
’bout hit myself i"

“But you have some idea. There may be,
may there not?"

“Now, look-a-hyer, Colt,” said the scout,
laying his wiry, supple hand upon the lad’a
shoulder; “yer hain’t skeered, that I knows,
so Idoesn’t mind telliu' yer what mought be.
.As ter ther danger, when we gits out thar,"
pointing out toward the south-western horizon,
“hit air es lierble es not ter be putty thick.
Course, hit air some way ’head of us, an’ we
hain‘t a startin’ for some days, but hit
moughtn‘t be so fur away when we docs git
outer ther trail es mebbe we thinks. Ther
tracks 0’ them pesky reds is as thick ’bout fo’
days’ ride beyant, es ther huts o’ ther perarer
dogs. They is over thar, somewhnr,” 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 luyin’ fer us, just es like cs not.
They knows, drot their or’nary pictur'sl that
right smart o' pilgrims is de’d sartin ter be out
on ther hunt this moon an' ther nex’. Ireckon
I’d orter tell these hyer gay roosters, an’ gi’n
’em thar choice ’twixt losin’ ther fun, and run-
nin’ a putty fa’r show fer losin’ thur 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
and come to San Antonio on a business that
was 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
craved the opportunity for that—would he to
accompany his kind though uncouth friend, on
what, he did not disguise from him, might be a
perilous trail.

He could not say that he wanted to die—he
felt that he had something, a great deal to
live tor——but, even if he did it would not be a.
pleasant death to be scalped or tortured 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 Coit 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, asit to avoid being seen and recognized,
and when be next looked up, they were some
distance from the bench on which he was
seated.

A cry escaped the young man, and he sprung
from the seat, as if to follow them. Then, he
stood in his tracks, with the air of one trans-
fixed, 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 equally 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 Manger
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
adream, in the direction that his friend the
scout had taken an hour before.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
ran snsoows 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 addressed 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 toa 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
off 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 miscreuut who
has blighted my life that 1 run no little 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 preparcl .”

“ And I," said his companion. “ For the
last four years I have sought this t0wn 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 differently timed,
and on every occasion he has escaped me. Six
months ago, he was here—so I have ascertained
—and there does seem 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 yours is a presentimcnt, and connect it with
this scoundrel! By the way,” a sudden thought
seeming to strike Clarke, “I have never asked
you the wretch’s name.”

 

 

 

“ Cyrus Keene," was the reply. Then, as
he fancied he saw a look of disappointment on
Clarke’s face, he asked:

“ Why? Did you suppose he might be the
same villain of whom you are in search!”

“ That idea did occur to me," he replied.

“ It is strange," Graeme went on, “ the
nearer we draw 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 shad-
ows before.’ "

“Are you certain that you would know this
Keene were you to meet him? He may 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 bor-
der, as a man whose nature was utterly fear-
less, with a self-reliance that was most remark-
able, and a carelessness of consequences that
went almost the length of recklessness. Here,
in San Antonio, he seemed to have changed
completely. He had grown apparently fear-
ful of some new evil which he was unable to
ward off, and he appeared to have no confi-
dence in his being equal to any emergency
that might offer. Was it hope deferred—the
fearful 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 unper-
formedl I cannot die and leave it so. I could
not rest in my gravel"

“ Let us hope there is no danger of anything
of the kind,” said his comrade. “You must
shake ofl these gloomy forebodings, and rise
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, there is
no justice in Heaven or on earth if such a
wretch meets his fate at the hands of anotherl”

“Such is my own feeling in regard to the
dastardly murderer whose trail I am in search
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 bel"

Charley Clarke, young, ardent and conflding,
had become attached to the man whose acquain-
tance he had made so informally, and that in
the darkest hours of his life.

It would be impossible to desoribe the new
life which the presence and the companionship
of Graeme Leighton had brought to his grateful
friend and admirer. He was indeed one of those
happily-constituted mortals who, able to keep
their own troubles and anxieties to themselves,
brighten every scene of which they form a
part. There was a magnetism in his more
step which brought change, variety, relief from
monotony, forgetfulnem of self and unpleasant
surroundings, to which but few could have
remained insensible.

The river of Charles Clarke’s young life had
flu“ ed but slowly of late, it was becoming
frost-hound by hideous chills, but when this
torrent of healthful existence, warm and
strong, met his own, the stream gradually
became 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 yuuhful
shyness than from want of faith in his friend.

They had known each other so short a time.
he argued; Graeme might think it not only
Weak, but pre-uming in him to thrust his cen-
fidcnces where they Were not sought.

But a change had come now, for a change
had come over Graeme Leighton.

Young Clarke had time for rad meditations
that evening, for his puui, having announced
his intention of trying the efficacy of another
visit to the Bull’s Head in dispelling the gloom
that had taken possession 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 exchange a word with raised for the moment
another cloud 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

 

 

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' against young Car-bury,

“gun——

my very valuable advice. In circumstances
such as his, there could be very little advice that
would be practicable. But Graeme would have
understood him more thoroughly, and that of
itself is a great matter.

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
of his life, would have gone far toward quiet-
ing him in the nervous dread which had taken
possession of him, as well as of his friend.

It had grown 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-
tlo consciousness, with which the atmosphere
seems sometimes 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
Graeme Ieighton.

“ Is your name Adler?"

“My God 1” 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 Adler?" his friend repeated,
in the same tone as before.

“Charles Clarke Adler,” he said. “ Tell me,
are they in search of me?"

“Theyl Whom do you mean?”

“ I will tell you everything, Graeme.”

“ You need not. I know everything,” was
the reply of the scout.

“ Then the bloodhounds are upon my trail!”
and the young man darted toward the door, as
if to fly from the house.

“ Come ‘ back, Charleyl 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.
meat still as 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
whom he had
previously well-nigh ruined, was concealed
near at hand when the moonlight meeting took
place. Seeing his opportunity, for he con-
sidered you a. rival, and wished to get you as
well as young Carbury out of his way, the
moment that you shot your pistol above your
head be aimed 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 far!”

“It does. But she—Cora Carbury was not
killed."

"That, at least, was well. But there is
more. In making his escape, it seems it
become necessary for this precious scoundrel to
make way with a negro man, the hostler at
the Oarbury plantation—”

“Poor old Uncle Ben!” exclaimed Charles.

“He killed him; and, having found a hand-
kerchief of yours near the spot where he had
lain 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
soon be on your trail, the assassin went from
the Carbury 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 OR
the scent, and leaving it beyond tho 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
Oh! h it known that I am here!"

 

.m

The Lone Star Gambler.

“ 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 then?”

“ He is here, and his name is Harrington—
Steve Harrington.”

“ No, you mistake. It is Hank Robertsl"

“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 EARS.

THE 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.

After 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 indulgence in the vilest passions.

He had attired himself for the evening in a
well—fitting suit of blue cloth, stylishly made,
and 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—ho had the same right to
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 afforded, 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 n ar the main
plaza, and there discussed their p, us plans.

Graeme Leighton, on leaving his apartment,
had proceeded direct to the Bull’s Head, but
finding nothing there sufficiently 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 seated
himself on a bench, and finally stretched 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 past. A story told by
Hank’s companion of the crime which had led
to his fleeing from civilizatiml, 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 villainy.

“Was the young tondenfoot nabbed?” in-
quired Hank’s pard.

“ Seems not, ” was the reply of that worthy;
“and it’s devilish queer how the danced
spoony ever managed to escape. But, escape
he did, as I saw by along account of it in the
papers after I came here. That ain’t all of it,
though, for they’ve got an idea, from the lay
of things, that there must have been two on-
gaged in the shooting."

“ They don’t suspeot-” began the other.

“Mo,” said Hank. “I reckon not. Don’t
see how they could. The old darky was the
only human who know of my being on the
plantation, and I settled his hash.”

a.-. W's. 7410-».- ~~+, ... ~ .-

 

 

“You run a d»—1 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 I’ve managed to run the
gantlet, that is the part of the biz that isn’t
exactly to my taste- This high—toned civiliza-
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. The cards
have gone against me like the deuce 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.”

«4w «warm-v «7-: ‘M'maw. .. ,

,

“My mind’s made up on that question the:,

same way," responded his pard.

“Oh, you?" There was just a little con- i

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 excitin’ life.”

“ Too deucedly 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 danger in layin’
round loose in this way.”

“ That there is!” muttered Graeme under his
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 off some day, but;
’tain’t likely ’twill be in your day or mine. ”

“All I’m sorry for now is,” said Hank,
“that Ididn’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. IfI had gone on the road four
years ago, when I left Louisiana, I wouldn’t
call the President my uncle to-day.”

“You’d be about thinking of _retiring from
the business, I reckon?”

“You bet I would! You’d have seen me
about this, if you had happened to have gono
East, a full-blown bloated aristocra .”

“ 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 rifllo yet, you can
just bet your boots.”

“I think myself it’s about the shortest road.
to a fortun’, without it may be marrying aricll
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 fool enough to tie myself to a piece of
calico ouce—”

“ The dickens, you sayl I didn’t never know
about that. How long ago was it?”

“Never mind that. Who said you know
anything aboutit? I got a diver!» from the
beauty in a way of my own, short motor, I
can tell you that.”

“But the idea of your ever bein’ married,
Harrington—that’s what gits msl"

Graeme had listened intently throughout
that he mightflnd out, if possible, the name of
the man whom he now believed to be the one
for whom his friend Clarke was searching.
He had now made the discovery for which he
had waited. The companion of the self-cou-
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 he mani-
festly unsafe to let them know of his proxi—
mity, and besides it might cause the scout:-
drels to levant, and thus interfere with the
carrying out of the one great wish of his
friend. So Graeme had still to possess his soul
in patience.

Presently. however, a proposal whs made
to return to the Bull’s Head, to which the other
acceded, with the mark that he could not

You see it’s:

to." i...-
b \

 

 

«{I

 

 

 

 

 

 

m,  ..,..'.,..—,i,~—o.|,. ...-.._..- , V .,.¢-.._ , ._ _....

 

“remain long as he wished to return early to
the Monger House. and retire. They then
arose and strolled 03 together.

Graeme Leighton had heard sufficient. He
sprung from the bench, and darted off for his
hotel, stopping in the office when he reached
it only long enough to in~pect 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 hadleft
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.
THE PATHS CONVERGE.

W]: 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
.electrify him.

He was not successful, however, in finding
his friend; for Bristow, on leaving Colt, had

gone off 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 listlessly about the outskirts of the
town until the sun had sunk beneath the hori-
zon 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 had so disconcerted
him.

Equally unsuccessful in coming up with the
man whom they had identified as IgIank
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 immediately to the Menger
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
until long past midnight. It would be a tedi-
ous vigil for Charles Adler, it it must be so;

,and the patience, which for weeks past he had

been seeking to acquire, was fast oozing out.

There were more nervous and excited
watchers in that noted hostelry of the Alamo
*City on that eventful night. '

Colt Carter, in a state of mind akin to
frenzy, roamed the halls and pasaages, peering
from time to time out into the darkness, for
“the counsel and sucoor in his mysturious trou-
ble which could now only come with the advent
~01 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 rustlingr
after her as she moved, like the sound of the
ebbing waves upon the beach. 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-
ibrows, and her perfect mouth with its setting
of pearly teeth.

We have seen her before, with the Kingsleys
in the emigrant train, and we haVe witnesan
her flight in terror from the presence of Ga!-
lant Graeme in the timber matte. We know
too, the horror, nameless though it was, which
of late had possessed her, and her conviction
that fate was leading, or rather driving her
«on, in this visit of hers to San Antonio.

Now, as she moves up and dan the floor of
her apartment with graceful tread, her brows
are drawn together 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! on, Clayton, Clayton! Ever kind and
good! Has it come to this that the one terror
of my sad ,life is in meeting with you? I feel
that I ought to act in seine way, but 81110." I
have been here something seems to be restrain-

ing me. I am helh' chained in this very room!
The thought of my sudden helplessness, and
the dread of the danger that seems to threaten
me, are driving me mad. And yet, why should
I? He would probably only despise me—mo,
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 stub
was sharper than Clayton’s could make it.
Can it be that he—l But no, no! My God!
No; anything, anything, in thy awful and
mysterious dealings with me, but that!”

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
conditions 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 shadowy cor-
ner of the rotunda. Graeme knew that in this
way alone, could he stem the ebbing tide of his
pard‘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 he will return to the hotel. I
have ascertained that his effects are here, and
what money and jewelry he had left a couple
of days ago, he placed on deposit with the
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 but so much the life of the miserable
assassin—though that he has forfeited—that I
thirst for. It is the proof of his guilt in the
affair at Magnolia Plantation, and the testi~
mony i must bring from him in attestation of
my innocence. ”

“You forgot, Alder, that I have all in my
possession already. I heard the villain confess
the whole nth r, evrn 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.
Graeme; I can be more patient now.
worst, all will be 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 scout spoke 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-
gan to reign in the corridors of the Merger,

Thanks,
At the

walls. Our two friends had drifted strangely
upon a subject foreign to the one so important
to them, and it was not until a new arrival
had roused the drowsy clerk at the desk, that
they were bxought back to the present and its
probable issues.

The 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 desperadm and
the name which he inscribed upon the register,
in a bold, unauly hand, was Ralph Kingsloy.

 

The Lone Star Gambler. r

and sleep had fallen upon nearly all within its ‘

 

25

CHAPTER XXXI.
ALL Dnnrs BETTLED. -

WITH the consciousness which came to young
Adlcr 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 believed himself capable. He
could bear all else. He could return and look
all the world—ay, even Cora Carbury—dn the
face. James Carbury’s death and that of poor ~
old Uncle Ben might yet be destined to go un- Y
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- i
dition ever since that fearnt moment when he
stood by the bleeding corpse of his assailant ,
under the fair moonlight, came back into his .
soul that curious lull of enchantment which ,
had been his but a few minutes before that
total one. .

The night breeze, which blew in through that
open window near which he was seated, grew}
balmy and caressing, and every indivnduali
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. g

As for the scout. Gallant Graeme, he tippedt
his chair back against the wall and relapsedr

 

»
»

inro gloomy silence. His thoughts went back
to the adventure on the prairie of a to w days
previous—t0 the beautiful horsewoman who
had fled from him, and whom he had in vain
attempttd to come up with. A

“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, “that she should have so persistently ,
avoided me while with the wagon train. Therel
is a reason for it; of that I am posilive. Eitheri,
I am some one whom she knows, and whoml
for some reason she dreads meeting, or I re-
semble some 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 v:

the grave to which she was untimely sent beg. I

heath the muddy waters. Houston—yes. Mrs. .
Houston they called her—but the name proves
nothing one way or the other. i feel, how-;
ever, that 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 could she have been going?
Where, if not to San Antonio? 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. EV

In the case of the latter, it was perhaps fortu- 3
nuts that it was so. Having, at the moment'
when the full horror of his position was forcvd
upon him, been enabled to fix his purpose, and
to set out at once on the task of accomplishing,
the effort and the concentration of his whole
mental powers had probably saved him from
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 imagination,
there was always sufficient hope in the labor he'
had undertaken to enable him to live. ,

It was not so, however, With Graeme. W'hiie
the one great object to which he had devoted
his life, namely, vengeance upon the betrayer
and murderer of his sister, was never lest. sight
of, he had nevertheless the will and the strength
to keep it in the back-ground; occupying him-
self. in the mean time, with his every-day
duties on plain and prairie, and never betray-
ing to the casual ob=erver that he had “that
within which pusseth show.”

Of late, however, the evil spirit which he
had, up to this time, been chin to keep under
control, seemed to be acquirimr the ascend-mo“,
sad but for the somewhat patronizing prvw-

     

\‘

 4‘11  'I

 

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26 The Lone Star Gambler.

.

 

are now his widow 1”

tion which he had assumed over his less-ex-
perienced friend, his state of mind would just
now 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 of the
staircase the partly opened door of a room
where the lights were still burning. As he did
so, a half-suppressed 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 the sound of voices below were
heard almost instantly, and she darted down
the stairway and into the office.

Charles Adler had remained seated after
Graeme had left him, his meditations of a more
pleasant cast than they had been for some
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 pistol before the
young man had more than drawn his from his
belt.

“ My deal, Cyrus Keene l”

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 ealm 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?"

“My God!” was the exelematien of Hank,
who had not attempted to rise. Then, after a
pause. “ But I am dying; so, what matter!”

“Yes, you are dying," said the scout, “ and
Annette Graeme is avanged at last."

“Yes,” said the wretch, feebly, “ but she
was really my wife, Clayton. I had married
her!”

“You hadi Do you peak the truth?”

“ For the last time, and almost the first,”
was the reply. Then, turning his eyes to
Charles Adler, he said: “ And I murdered Jim
Carbury and old Deni"

As he said the. words his eyes rested upon
the face of one who had new come forward,
with others, on hearing the semantics in the
office. It was Colt Carter. It was but one
look, and they recognized each other.

“ It is he! 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-
nition of him by Colt Carter.

“ He is dead l" he said, quietly.

At this moment Placide Houston came rush-
ing into the office.

“ He is dead!” she echoed, in a hollow voice.
I‘Deadl And I once called him husband l”

“ And he was in truth your husband,” said
Graeme, catching her in his arms as he spoke.
“Annette Keene, thank God, you were his
wife! Thank God, ten thousand times, you

 

CHAPTER XXXII.
THROUGH NIGHT TO LIGHT.

CHARLES Arman 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, not mly her unjustly accused lover,
but the real asassin of her brother, the man
whom she had seen and recognized as he lay
crouched in the shrubbery—when the scout,
Bristow, came in on the search for his young

rd.

“Thet settles ther hunt, es fur es ther
younker air consumed,” was his remark,
when the states of affairs was made known to
hm; “I reckon hit air ther Orly time what
Bil. Bristow got fooled that-a—way. But I don’t
give s darn wnhout them high-toned New York
gerloots gits a grip outer their romance 0’ hit»

 

 

Ef it comes for that, I mought as well leave
ther plains ter onc’t. I’d be dead sure never
ter hear the send 0’ hit."

Ralph Kingsley was no less astonished, on
finding that Placide Houston whom, with a true
spirit of knight errantry, 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-defined terror of her life.

It was mutually agreed that Annette Keene
should rejoin her friends on the Frio. for the
present, until her brother, having resolved to
relinquish the life of a scout, should fix upon
their future home; and, consequently she
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 he believed, and her brother
found the location so attractive that he decided
at once on making hi future home in that
neighborhood. The wish may have been father
to the thought, but Annette shrewdly aus-
pected that the lovely and amiable Blondine
Kingsley was the chief attraction.

The San Antonio papers which, at one time,
had displayed such enterprise in writing up
the Bra-es tragedy, were not slow in giving to
their readers, a M account of the discovery
and death of the assassin, and of his confusion.
In this way the news reached Magnolia
Plantation and Fair Oaks some time in advance
of the returned fugitives.

Cora Carbury, under the protection of 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 hishte 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-
strative 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 had enjoined upon
him.

“I done gab de letter ter Aunt Huldy,
Marse 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 Fair
Oaks.

Honest Phil Munroe, true to his young
friend, through good and evil report, was the
first to bear the tidings to Magnolia Plantation.
It must he confessed that there was let 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 sees him, I reckon; and
when I does, I freezes ter 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 Ad‘er 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 hes with some little show of alfection;
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 had 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 vindictive, unforgiving nature gradually
softening toward the last.

 

CHAPTER XXXIIL
“A KIr-‘D GOOD NIGHT TO ALL.”
THE three fairest and happiest homes on the
' Rio Frio are occupied respectively by Major

 

1' , s . . '.
 ‘ 

. “no. 1-1»

 

:2

Kingsley, his wife and daughter; Clayton-
Graeme and wife, 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 his
former wild life on the plains, comes up to-
darken his domestic peace and contentment.

While with Annette, happy in her new love,
and feeling secure in that of the fondest and.
most faithful of husbands, the sadness which
clouded her earlier days has completer van-
ished, and the memory of Cyrus Keene I but
as that of a nightmare which can never re-1
turn to disturb the repose which is here to-day.

When Charles Adler once more approached.
his mother with the suggestion that’ they dis-
pose of the plantation, that lady no longer
offered the slightest objection. Her pride
would not have permitted her to give the
Carburys the satisfaction of seeing her com-
pelled to give up her home—for in that light-
alone did she regard it—but, now that the.
colonel and his son were no more, her feelings.
in regard to them were allowed to slee Int
their tomb. Besides, there were now
associations connected with the neighherheed
of Fair Oaks, which made her not unwilling to
leave it. ‘

Neither did Mrs. Adler, stranger still to say,«
interpose any obstacles to the marriage of her
son and Core. Carbury.

Whether it was only because she deemed it
wisest to submit to the inevitable, or that hr
bitter feelings had died with her old enemy, a-
possibly that the knowledge that Cora had in-
herited all that remained of the Csrbury estate-
-—no inconsiderable fortune, even in the con--
dition in which James Carbury’s prodiplity
had placed it—it is certain that Charles found
his mother, to his great delight, even p eased.
with the prospect of thus finally, and for all
time, burying the hatchet.

Nor did Adelaide Adler so much as suggest
to her son, any looation, or even part of the:
universe, which she would prefer. The old!
spirit of sovereignty and dictation had vanhhed,
and she left the entire matter with him un-
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 un-
W wish of his mother's heart.

In one of the brightest and bonnlest at
homes, in that paradise of the true Kentuch,
the “Blue Grass Region ”-——one which for gen-
erations, had been owned and occupied by the
Clarkes, to which family Mrs. Adler so prided
bend! on belonging—Charles Adler brought,
his W ad handsome mother, and his:
pretty and wbe-e wife.

With them too, went the servants of the.
Pet Oaks Plantation, and such of those from
the Magnolae as bl once belonged to it also;
not forgdtllg the favorite attendants of Cora
who. fie whhed te have accompany her, in—
clad-g, ef eearse, old Aunt Huldy.

The letter, although her attachment to the:
place where she was born, and in which she
had passed so many years, was, as one might.
expect, “cat-like,” nevertheless 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-
main behind thsm, firmly and fondly clung to
her.

There, in the old Kentucky home, we leave
them, the bright sun of heaven shilling lovingly
upon their path, and the soft, southern breezes
from the Gulf bringing with them no sounds
but those of peace. 1

 

 

THE END. 

,,

T H E k

I

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1 Lam Room. By ThomasMoore....  we
2 Don JUAN By Lord Byron . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20c
3 PARADISE Los'r. By John Milton . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 1°C
4 Tim LADY on THE LAKE. By Sir Walter Scott. . 10::
5 LUCILE. By Owen Meredith . . . . . . . . . . ..' , . . . . .. 10c

6 UNDIN’E; or, run WATER-SPIRIT. From the
German of Friedcrich De La Motte Fouque.. 10c
For sale by all newsdcalers, or sent, postage paid
on receipt of twelve cents for single numbers, double
numbers twenty-four cents. ADAMS,VICTOR& 00.,
Publishers, 98 William: street, N. Y.

 

 

 

 

o/

BEADLE’S*DIME*EBRARY.

Wished Every Wednesday. Each Ismw Complete and Sold at the Uniform Price of Ten Cents. No Double Numbers.

 

 

 

BUFFALO BILL NOVELS.
By Colonel Prentiss Inn-sham.

994 Buflaio Bill‘s Lone Hand.
W Bnflnlo Bill‘s MI rked Bullet. .
984 Buffalo Bill‘s Life Radio.
979 Buifalo Bill's Relentless Trail.
964 Bufla'o Bill‘s Invincibies.
W60 Buffalo Bill's illue Belt Bri ado.
956 B if!th Bill's Volunteer Vigfiantes.
950 Buffalo Bill at Rev.
943 Buffalo Bill‘s Block Game.
936 Buffalo Bill a Black Pan].
927 Buffalo Bill’s Bluff; or. Dus
921 Bnflalo Bill‘s uandary: or. elvet Bill’s Vow.
15 Bnflnlo Biila the Surgeon-Scout.
Buffalo Bill’s League; or. Red Butterfly.
Bufiuio Bill's Tangled Trail.
Buffalo Bill's Rough Riders.
895 Buffalo Bill‘s Secret Ally.
890 Buffalo Bill‘s Lire-Stake.
889 The Three Bills: Buffalo Bill Wild Bill and Band-
hox Bill; or. The Bravo in Broadcloth.
874 Buffalo ~-ill‘s Buckskin Braves.
‘869 Buffalo Bill’s Road-Agent Round-up.
863 Buffalo Bill’s Death Charm.
857 Buflalo Bill's Royal Flush.
851 Buffalo Bill‘s Double Dilemma.
845 Buffalo Bill‘s Redskin Ruse.
(BO Buffalo Bill‘s Bovsin Blue.
896 Buffalo Bill‘s Burg-(Shooters.
822 Buffalo Bill‘s Best wet.
816 Buffalo Bi'l‘s Bed Trail.
812 Buflalo Bill‘s Death-Knoll.
794 Bulfalo Bill‘s Winning Band
787 Buffalo Bill's Dead Shot.
781 But!an Bill's Brand.
777 Buffalo Bill's S y Shadower.
769 Buffalo Bill's weepstake.
765 B iffaio Bill's Dozen; or. Silk Ribbon Sam.
761 Buffalo Bill’s Mascot.
757 Buffalo Bill‘s Double.
750 Buffalo Bill‘s Big Four;or. Custer‘s Shadow.
748 Buifaio Bill‘s Flush Hand.
739 Buflalo Bill‘s Blind: or, The Masked Driver.
,735 Buflalo Bill and His Merry Men.
781 Buffalo Bill‘s Beagles: or Silk LassoSiun.
727 Buffalo Bill‘s Body Guai .
792 Buffalo Bill on the Wur— ath.
716 Buifalo Bill's Scout Sha owers.
‘710 Buifaio Bill Bodied: or. The DeserterDesperado.
,697 Buffalo liill's Buckskin Brotherhood.

.091 Hui'faio Bill's illind Trail- or. Mustang Mafife.
567 Buflalo Bill‘s Swoop;or. The King of the ass.
The Cowboy Clan; or. The Tifiress of exas.
Lasso King's Le e;or.Buc Taylor in Texas.
Buffalo Bill's Chie of Cowbois; or. Buck Taylor
4 Buffalo Bill’s Bonanza; or. 8 var Circle Knights.

369 Buffalo Bill's (21:13:; or. Oath Bound to Custer.
. uffalo Bill‘s Pl ge: or. The League of Three.
189 Wild Bill's Gold Trail; or. The Desperate Dozen.
75 ndian Heirs-a

Dick the Snort.

 

Wild Bill‘s Trump Card: or. The l
168 Wild Bill. the Pistol Dead Shot.

By [in fl'nlo Bill.

The Dread Shot Four,
Texas Jack. the Lasso
% The Ranch King Dead-Shot.
White Beaver 's Still Hunt.
180? Wild Bill. the Wild West Duelist.
,‘800 Wild Bill. the Dead‘Cenur Shot.
Buffalo Bill's Gold King.
.599 The Dead Sh 0t Nine: or. My Pards of the Plains.
,414 Red Renard. the Indian Detective.
401 One-Armed Para; or. Borderland Retribution.
.897 The Wizard Brothers: or. White Beaver's Trail.
894 White Beaver. the Exile of the Platte.
19 Wild Bill. the Whirlwind of the West.
804 Texas Jack. the Prairie Rattler.
943 The Pilgrim Sharp: or. The Soldier's Sweetheart.
Si Gold Bullet Snorr; or, Knights of the Overland.
l 52 Death-Trailer. the Chief of Scouts.

By Leon Lewis, Ned Buntllnc, etc.
773 Buffalo 13 11‘s Ban; or. Cody to the Rescue.
(682 Buffalo Bill’s Seen-t Service Tran. ‘
629 Buffalo Bill‘s Darin Role; or. Daredeath Dick.
“517 Buffalo Bl'l’s First ‘rsii; or. The Express Rider.
‘158 Buffalo Bill, Chief of Scouts
.117 Buffalo Bill 5 Strange Ford: or, Dashing Dandy.

. " "2 Bufialo Bill. the Buckskin King.

BY HAROLD PAYNE.
I583 The Man from Mexico in New York.
.872 The King-Pin Shark: or, Thad Burr’s Ten Strike.
661 The Tenderloin Big Four
853 The Quaker City Crook.
844 Tracked to Chicago. .
836 The Policy Broker‘s Blind.
829 The Frisco Sharper‘s Cool Hand.
821 The Tramp Shadower‘s Backer.
813 The Sham Spotters shrewd Scheme.
806 The Grand Street Gold-Dust Sharpers.
798 Detective Bun-’8 Luna ic Witness
792 The Wall Street Slinrper's Snap.
784 Thad Bul'r’s Death Drop.
742 Detective Burr Among the New York Thugs.
734 Detective Burr‘s Foil; or. A Woman‘s Strategy.
728 Detective Burr. the Headquarters Special.
713 Detective Burr‘s Spirit Chase.
706 Detective Butr’s Seven Clues.
698 Thad llurr. the Invincible: or, The “L” Clue.
690 The Matchless Detective.
680 XX. the Fatal Ciew: or, Burr‘s Master Case.

’ BY 00L. THOMAS H. MONSTERY.
995 The Czar’s Suy.‘
986 Iron Wrist. the Swordmaster.
Champion Sam: or. The Monarchs of the Show.
El Rubio Bravo. King of the Swordsman.

BY J W. OSBON.

787 Shadrach. the Sport Detective.

922 Gilbert Goidspur. the Dandy Sport.

905 Shasta Sam, the Spurkler.

877 Cool Creede. the DeadAShot. ‘
759 The aSJport from St. Louis.

518 Roy Richard. the Thoroughbred.

 

BY CAPTAIN HOWARD HOLMES.

929 Gentleman George. the Showman Sport.
912 (lentoel Joe's Lone Hand.

903 The Train Detective.

896 Kent Keen. the Crook-Crusher.

888 Ni htshade in New York.

879 Fa con Flynn. the Flash Detective.

871 The Croo Cashier.

859 Claw-Hawk Keene‘s Right Bower.

847 Hiram Hawk, the Harlem Detective.

840 Major Bullion. Boss of the Tigers.

831 Shadowing the London Detective.

817 Plush Velvet. the Prince of Spotters.

808 The Rogue Broker‘s Right Bower.

788 The Ni hull Iwk Detective.

779 Silk R‘blmu‘: (lush-out.

766 Deteciix" ZIP-i1. the Broadway Spotter.
751 The Dark l.‘ lli’i‘l’fl Detective.

736 The Never-Fa l thectivo.

724 (.‘aptniu Hercules. the Strong Arm Detective.
711 Dan Damon. the Gilt-Edge Detective.

701 Silver Stew. the Branded Sport.

694 Gideon Grip, the Seciet Shadower.

084 Velvet Van the Mystery Shadowor.

678 The Dude esperndn

671 Jason Claw the Silk-Handed Ferret.

664 Monk More . the Man-Hunter.

654 Sol S hinx. the Ferret Detective.

612 Red ard and Yellow,

608 Silent Sam the Shadow Sphinx.

592 Cagtain Si . the Shasta Ferret.

579 CI Cormorant. the Bowery Shadow.

569 Captain Cobra, the flooded Mystery.

559 Danton. the Shadow Sharp.

550 Silk Hand. the Mohave Ferret.

543 The Magnate Detective.

532 Jack Javert. the Independent Detective.
523 Reynard of Red Jack: or. The Lost Detective
512 Captain Velvet's Big Stake.

505 Phil Fox. the Genteel Spotter.

496 Richard Redtlre. the Two Worlds’ Detective.
487 SDnshine Sam. a Chip of the 01d Block.

480 Hawkspear. the Man with a Secret.

468 Coidgrlp in Deadwood.

460 Captain Coldgrip. the Detective.

4535 Captain Uoldfiif‘a Long Trail.

447 Volcano. the see Spy.

441 The California Sharp. '

484 Lucifer Lynx. the V\ onaer Detective.

421 Father Ferret. the Frisco Shadow.

413 Captain Coidgrip in New York.

40! Captain Coldgrlp's Nerve; or. In nn Nick.
400 Captain Coldgrip: or. The New ork Spotter.
892 The Lost Bonanza: or. The Boot of Silent Hound.
382 The Bonanza Band: or, Dread Don of Cool Clan.
874 Major Blister. the S on of Two Cities. ‘
365 Keen Kennard. the hosts Shadow.

852 The Des rate Dozen.

347 Denver uke. the Man with “ Sand.“

840 Cool Conrad. the Dakota Detective.

595 Flash Dan. the Nabob. or. Blades of Bowls Bar.
821 California Claude. the Lone Bandit.

294 Broadcloth Burt. the Denver Dandy.

941 The Shadow Sport from Frisco.

BY WILLIAM II. MANNING.

948 The Red-Gloved Detective.

981 Frisco Frank: at 610 Gulch.

920 The Montana Miner n New York.
9% The Doomsday-Den Detective.

890 The Double-Quick Detective.

893 Yellow Gid. of Dark Divide.

885 The Expert Dctectivc‘s Shake-up.
875 Trap ing the Race-Track Judge.
864 The olice Special's Dilemma.

849 The Genteel Sharper‘s Combine
641 Graydon‘s Double Deal.
838 The Sport Detective’s Grig:
8‘33 The athlete Sport Aboul own.
808 TheCrook-lietvccive's Pull.
790 Plan 1‘ Pete, the Race Track Detective.

782 Roy Rock. the Round-up Detective.

774 Steve Starr. the Dock Detective.

764 The New York Sh ’a Shadower.

738 Detective Claxtou. t e Record Breaker.

714 Gabe Gall. the Gnmboller from Great Hump.
703 Spokane Saul. the Samaritan Sus ct
692 Dead Shot Paul. the Deep-Range

655 Strawberry Sam. the Man with the
646 Dark John, the Grim Guard.

63% Murdock. the Dread Detective.

623 Dangerous Dave. the Never-Beaten Detective.
611 Alkali Mm the (lame Chicken from Texas.

596 Rustler Ruhe: the Round-Up Detective.

565 Dan Dixon‘s Double.

570 Steady Iiami. the Napoleon of Detectives
503 Wyoming Zeke, ti 9 Hotspur of Honeysuckle.
551 Garry Kean the Man with Backbone.

539 Old Doublodark. illc Wily Detective.

531 Saddle-Chief Kil. the Przurie Centaur.

5921 Paradise Sam. the Now-West Pilot.

513 Texas Tartar. the. Man With Nine Lives.

506 Uncle Honest. the Peacemaker of Hornets’ Nest.
498 Central Pacific Paul. the Mail Train Spy.

49:3 Border Bullet. the Prairie sharpshooter.

486 Kansas Kitten. the Northwest Detective.

479 Gladiator (lobe, tch Samson of Sassajack.

470 The Duklx of Dakota.

463 Gold Gauntlet. the Gulch Gladiator.

455 Yank Yellowbird. lllt‘ Tall Hustler of the Hills.
449 Blufl’ Burke. King of the Rockies.

442 Wild West Walt. the Mountain Veteran

437 Deep Duke: or. The Man of Two Lives.

427 The Rivals of Montana Mill.

415 Hot Heart, the Detm-tive SEW.

405 Old Baldy the Brigndinr 0 Buck Basin.

297 Colorado Rube. the Strong Arm of Hots 111-.

279 The Gold Dragoon. or, California 3100 hound.

BY NED BUNTLINB.
657 Long Tom. the Privateer.
633 The Sea S y‘
621 The Red rivateer; or, The Midshipman Rover.
584 Fire Feather. the Buccaneer King.
517 Buffalo Bill’s First Trail.
861 Tombstone Dick. the Train Pilot.
129 Soul Sabberdav. the Idiot Shy. ’
111 The Smlizglcr Captain: or. T is Skipper's Crime.
18 The Sea Bo-‘i'i't; nr. The Queen of the Isle.

lorer.
irthmark.

16‘The White Wizard: M- The Seminole Prophet.

ALBERT W. AIKEN'S NOVELS.

Dick Talbot Series.

991 Dick Talbot at the Mines: or. KentuCL the Spark
988 Rocky Mountain Rub.

976 Overland Kit: or, The ldyl of White Pine.

741 Dick l'uillot's Close Call.

787 Dick Talbot in A ache Land.

733 Dick Talbot. the tench King.

729 Dick Talbot‘s Clean-Out.

725 Dick Talbot in No Man‘s Cam .

354 Dick Talbot; 0:, The Brand 0 Crimson Cross
36 Dick Talbot; or. The Death-Shot of Shasta.

Alken’s Fresh of Frisco Series.

825 Fresh. the Race-Track Sport.

660 The Fresh in Montana; or. Blake‘s Full Hand.

652 The Fresh's Rustic at Painted City.

647 The Fresh at Santa Fe; or. The Stranger Sham‘L
556 Fresh. the Sport: or. The Big Racket at Slide Out.
537 Fresh Against the Field: or. Blake. the Lion.
49? The Fresh in Texas; or. The Escobedo Millions.
461 The Fresh 01' Frisco on the Rio Grande.

9? The Fresh in Big Walnut Camp; or. Bronze Jacki.

Alken’s Joe Phenix Series.

965 Joe Phenix‘s Mascot.

959 Joe Pheuix‘s Double Deal.

954 Joe Phenix in Chicago.

949 The Doctor from Texas; or, Joe Phenix's Clue.

944 Joe Phenix's Ri ht Bower.

865 The Female Bur r Dewctivn; or. Joe Phenix in
Silver City.

799 Joe Phen x‘s Great Blue Diamond Case; or. The
New York Sport at Long Branch.

798 Joe Phenix‘s Deco : or The Man of Three.

760 Joe Pheuix's Lone 

749 Joe Phenix's Big Bulge.

745 Joe Phenix‘s Mad Case.

708 Joe Phenix‘s Siren; or. The Woman Hawkshaw .

700 Joe Phenix‘s Unknown; or. Crushing the Crooks

681 Joe Phenix's 8 hair or. The Actress Detective

637 Joe Phenix in 'razy Camp.

632 Joe Phenlx's Master Search.

628 Joe Phenlx‘s (‘ombin :or,the Dandy Conspirator

620 Joe Phenix‘s Silent Six.

601 Joe Phenlx‘s Shadow;or.the Detective‘s Monitor . .

419 Joe Phenix., the King of Detectives. :

161 Joe Phenlx‘s Great Man Hunt. ‘-

112 Joe Phenix, Private Detective; or. The league.

79 Joe Phenix. the Police Spy.

Aiken’s illlsc cilaneous Novels.

980 The All-Around Athlete.
940 Captain Jack. the Scalper
995 The hawks and Wolves of New York ‘
932 Detective Gordon‘s Grip. y
9% Old Sunflower. the Silent Smiter.
92‘} Old Sunflower. the Hayseed Detectiye.
N1 The Hotel Swell—Sharp; or. The Siren Shad“)
892 The Countryman Detective.
876 Gold Button 8 rt; or The MinerShsrpa,
842 Teton Tom. t e Ralf-Blood.
885 The King-Pin Detective.
814 The New Yorker Among Texas Sports.
775 King Dandy. the Silver Sport.
758 Gideon's Grigtat Babylon l'sr.
717 Captain Pat cGowen. the Greencoat Detective.
i774 Uncle Sun Up. the Born Detective.
M0 The L htw eight Detective. ,
065 The F soo Detective; or. The Golden Gate Find”
613 Keen Bill . the Sport.
607 Old Ben no the “ Hard Case " Detective.
594 Fire Face. the Silver King‘s Foe.
566 The Silver Sh up Detective.
577 Tom. of Calif arms; or. Detective‘s Shadow ' .
570 The Actress Detective: or. The Invisible Han
562 Lone Hand. the Shadow.
520 The Lone Hand on the Caddo.
490 The Lone Hand in Texas.
475 Chin Chin. the Chinese Detective.
465 The Actor Detective.
440 The High Home of the Pacific.
425 The Lone Band; or. The Red River Remnants.
408 Doc Grin. the Vendetta of Death.
381 The Gy y Gen tieman: or. hick Fox. Detective
876 Black cards: ox. The Rio Grande Biah Horse.
1370 The Dusky Detective: or. Pursued to the End. '
868 Crowningshield. the Detective
320 The Genteel Sno tier: or The N. Y. Night Hawk.
25‘! The Wall Street Wood; or. The Telegra 11 Girl.
2m The Double Detective: or.'r he Mid night ystery..'
196 La Marmoset. the Letective Queen.
101 The Man from New York.
91 The Winning Oar: or. The lnnkeerer‘s Daughter.
84 Hunted Down: or. The Leagueo Three.
81 The Human Tiger: or. A Heart. of Fire.
75 Gentleman George: or. Parlor. Prison and Street”
7:! The Phantom Hand: or. The 5th Avenue Bureau.
56 The Indian Mazepps: 0r. Madman of the Plains.
49 The Wolf Demon: or. The Knnawha Queen.
42 The California Detective: or. The “ itches of N.Y..
31 The New York Shar ; or. The Flash of Lightning.
27 The Spotter Detect ve: or. Girls of New York. I

NEW ISSUES.

1000 Buffalo Bill's Grim Guard. By Col. 1ngraham,L . .
1001 The Brand-Burners of Cimarron. By John W.
Osbou. .
1002 Silver Cit Sam. By .105. E. Badger.
1003 Gold Dun}: or. Dick Talbot in Utah. By Albert
W Aik

. 91].
1001 Buffalo Bill‘s Death Dani. By Col. Ingraham.
100$ Foot-Hills Frank. By .105. E. Badger.
1006 The Sea Cadet. By Col. P. Ingraham.

JUST ISSUED.

996 Tnjun Dick. the Shasta Dead Shot. By Aiken.

997 Hotspur Hal. the Sport from Hard Luck. By
Joe. E. Badge r. Jr. '

998 Captain Seawaif. Privateer. By Ned Buntline.

999 The Velvet Hand: or. The Iron Grip of Injun. .
Dick. By Albert W. Aiken. .-

A new issue every Wednesday.

i

#24.

 

THE DIME LIBRARY is for sale by In
, Newsdealers. tor “ants ne‘ cam: cream by mail on
i receipt of price. a» _ v~ ‘ M’YH
v *«u w t - wt».

 

 

.‘bl

. no»; ..-'.. .nza;..‘. r..-

. .‘a-n ~~t.-....f:3—\...§—.

     
 
 

.:  -.L. 1.:

 

 

 

,“E..==t‘fitmlntntm‘stftni11MlfiH‘iulntntAlmi

 

 

 

ill A Hn rd Crowd ; or, Gentleman Sam‘s Sister.
B Philip S. \Vnrnc.
2 'IYho Darn-Devil ; or, The Winged Witch of
the that. By (fol. P.1ngrahum.
8 Kit Carson, Jr. the Crack Shot of the
West. By Buckskin Sam.
4 The Kidnupficr ; or, The Great Shanghai 01'
l the Northwest. y Philip S. Warne.
5 The Flre-Flcndn; or, Hercules, the Hunch-
back. By A. P. Morris.
8 \Vildcut Bob, the Boss Bruiser By Ed-
wnrd L. Wheeler.
7 Death-Notch, theDestroycr. By 011 Coomes.
8 The "endless llorselnan. Bv C'mtain
Mayne Reid.
9 Handy A ndy. By Samuel Lover.
10 Vldocq, the French Pol‘:e Sp" Written by
Himself. I
11 Midshipman Easy.
12 The Death-Shot; or.
By Captain Mayne Reid.
13 l’dtlmway; or. Nick \Vhifiles the old Trap-
. per of the Nut"\vest. By Dr. J. . Robinson.
‘14 Thaycndunegen, t ie Scourge; or, The War
Eagle ot' the iiohuwks. By Ned Buntline.
(15 The Tiger-Slayer; or, Eagle-Head if, the
Rescue, By Gustave Aimard.
116 The “finite \Vizn rd' or,The Greati’rophet
of the Seminoles. By Neil Buntline.
£1 1 Nigh luh mic. the Robber Prince of Bounslow
3 Iiuath. By Dr. J. ll. Robinson. ‘ ,
' 18 The Sea Bandit. By Ned Buntline. 5.
£19 Red Cedar. ‘- oPrairie Outlaw. By Gllsnave

by Captain Mnrryat.
Tracked To Death.

‘ AimurJ. . t
r ¢20 The Bandit 2-. Buy; or The Pirates of the
l

‘ Prairics. 13y Gustave Aimart .
is: The Trap )er’s Daughter; or, The Out-
t law's Fate. v Gustavo Aimard.
22 wultolaw; or, Nettie of the Lake Shore.
t By Dr. J. ii. Robinson. '
23 The Red “’urrlor; or, Stella. Delorme‘:
4 Comanche Lover. By Ned Burtline. I
-24 Prairie Flower. By G. Aimard.
25 The Gold Guide ; or, Steel Arm. the Regu-
' lator. By Francis Johnson.
20 The Death-Track ' or. The Outlaws of the
Mountain. By Francis Johnson.
27 The Spotter Detective. By A. W. Aiken.
28 'l‘hrec-I'lnzered .1 fuck, the Road-Agent of
the Rockies. By J seph E. Badger. Jr.
29 Tiger Dick, the Fire King; or,The Cashier’s
. Crime. By Philip S. Warne.
‘30 Gospel George ; or. Fiery Fred. the Outlaw.
Bv Joseph E. Badger, Jr.
. Tue New York shar ; or,The Flash of
\ Lightning. Bv AllwrtW. A 1:11.
2 B ho s of Yale : or. The Scmpes of a. Hard
\ Set of ‘ollefinns. By John D. Vose.
B3 Over-lulu Kit; or, The Itlyl of White Pine.
‘ By Albert W. Aiken.
184 l ocky Mountain Bob the California
‘-‘ Outlaw. By Albert W. Aiken.
5 Kennuzk. the Sport, or, Dick Ta‘hot at
the Mines. 13 Albert “7. Aiken.
6 Injun Die r or, The Death Shot of Shasta.
I By Albert w. Aiken. .
'37 lllrl, the Hunchback; or. The Sword-
muker of t e Santec. B Dr. J. H. Robinson.
88 Velvet Hund' or.']‘ e Iron Grip of Injun
,, Dick. By Albert’s ...\ttz-<
39 The Russian S in... r'hoBrothers ot' the
. Starry Cross. By ztofain Fred Whittaker.
40 The Long Haired “ Pardsfl’ or, The
Tuners of the Plains. By Jos. E. Budmr, Jr.
#1 Gold Dun ; or The White Savage of theGreat
Salt Lake. , By Albert W. Aiken.
112 The California Detectivc' or, The Witches
of New York. By Albnrt W. Ai en.
48 Dakota Du n the Recklcss Runner: or, The
t Bee-Hunt rs' Excursion. B 01] Coomes.
«'44 Old Dan llacklmck.t w Great. Extermina-
 tor; or, The Triauirlc‘s Last Trail. 011 Coomes.
:45 Old Bull‘s Eric the Lightning Shot of the
\ Plains. By Jos. <. Badger. Jr.
‘ 6 Bowie-Knife lzcn, tthittl': Banter of the
Non-West. By Oil Coomes. B
y

7 Pacific Pete, iii-1’11" ‘60
Jose h E. Badger. Jr.
48 Ma Io Tom, the Young Outlaw ofSilverland;
or. the Hunters of the \\ ild Wurst. By 011 Coomes.
“49 The \Voll‘ Demon. By Albert W Aiken.
lSO Jack Rabbit. the Prairie Sport By Jos.
I E. Badger, Ji. ‘
’51 Red Bob. the no Beau-Agent By 0]]
l Gnomes. ( ‘ l. \
’52 Death Truanr. the Chief it Scouts; or. Life
, and Love in a Frontier Fort. By Bufiialo Bill.
53 Silver Salu' or, The Mystery 0! Deadwood
‘ Cit . By Col. DEUe Sara.
$4 A \vnyn 0n “and. By Philip S. Wurne.
$5 The Scalp ll untcrs. By Capt. Mayne Reid.
‘5

'3 Revolver.

6 The Indian Mazevppag or, The Madman
of the Plains. By A. 1 .. iken.
l The ~i|cnt "winter" or. Th; Scowl Hall
Mystery. By Percy B. S . John.
~ 8 S lver Knife ; or. \‘.'icklifle. The Rocky
Mountain Ranger. By Dr. J. H. Robinson.
9 The Man From Texas; or, The Outlaws
of \rkansas. By A. W. Aiken.
60 “'ide Awake the Robber King; or, The
idiot of the Block Hills. By Frank immont.

.61 Captain Sean’nlf. the Private» ‘3y Ned
Buntline.
962 L0 ul Heart; or, Th! 'l‘mppersntmmnsus.

BF ustnve Aimard.

‘33 " .he “ringed “'hale. B ' A. W. Aiken.

ml“ Double-Sight, the Death S ot' or, The Oun-

. “ orgefhfipnjn'?L By *1);  

/ e e nan-or, ocean},
Mics Bv Cant. 11‘. Whittaker '

 

66 Tile Specter Bnrque. By Mayne RPM.“
67 The Boy Jockey. By Jos. E. edger. Jr.
68 The Fighting: ' ‘rnpper' orI Kit Carson
to the Rescue. By Captain J.  C. Adams.
69 The Irish (In nuin. By Capt. F. Whittaker.
70 Ilydrabad, t e Strangler; 0r, Aleillc, the
Child of the Cord. By Dr. J. H. Robinson.
1 Ca nuln Cool-Blade; or. The Man-Shark
of t to Mississippi. By Jos. E. Badger. Jr.
72 The Plinnioln "and ' or, The Heiress of
Fifth Avenue. By A. W. Ai "en.
73 The Knights of the llcd Cross; or, The
Magician of Granada. By Dr. J. H. Robinson.
The Captain oi‘tlLe Rifles; or, The Queen
of the Lakes. By Capt. Mayne Reid.
Gentleman George. By A. W. Aiken.
The Queen’s Musketeers; or, Thisbe, the
Princcsrx Pahnist. By (icorue Albany.
The Fresh ol' Frisco. By A. W. Aiken
The lllyntcrlous Spy. By A. M. Graingr-r.
Joe Phenlx, the Police Shy. B ' AW. Aiken.
A Man ol‘ Nerve. By Philip S. Warnc.
The Human Tiger; or, A Heart of Fire.
By Albert W. Aiken.
J2 Iron “'rlst. the Swerdmaster.
Thomas Hoyrr Monstery.
83 Gold Bullet Sport. By Buffalo Bill.
Hunted Down; or, The League of Three.
By Albert W. Aiken.
85 The Cretan Rover; or. Zuleikah. the
Beautiful. B Col. Prentiss Ingrahnm. '
86 The Illa hunter: or. The uecn of the
Woods. By the author of “ The Si cnt Hunter."
87 The Scarlet Captain ' or, The Prisoner of
the Tower. By Col. Dellc ., um.
88 Big: George, the Giant of the Gulch; or. The
Five Outlaw Brothers. By Jose )h E. Badger. Jr.
89 The Pirate Prince. By ‘ol. P. Ingrahnm.
90 “’lld “fill, the Mad Ratio-hero; or, The Ter-
rible Texans. By Buckskin Sum.
91 The \Vlnnlug Our; or, The Innkeeper-‘5
Daughter. By Albert W, Aiken.
92 B-uil‘alo Hill. the Buckskin King; or. The
Amazon of the “'est. By Maj. Dangerfield Burr.
93 Ca nuln Dick Tnlbot, Kine ol’ the Road;
or, he Black-Hoods of Shasta. y A. W. Aiken.
94 Freelance, the But-cancer; or. The Wait of
the Wave. By Col. Prentiss Inzraham.
96 Azhort, the Axman; or, The. Scerets of the
Ducal Palace. B Anthony 1’. Morris.
96 Double-Dent I; or. The Spy Queen of Wyo-
ming. By Capt. Fred. Whittaker.
97 Bronze Jack, the California Thoroughbred.
By Albert W. Aiken.
98 The [lock Rider: or, The Spirit of the
Sierra. By Capt. Frederic: Whittaker.
99 The Giant lllllemnu. By Oll Coomes.
100 Tile French Spy; or, The Btide of Paris.
By Anthony P. Morris.
01 The Man [from No“! York; or, The Ro-
‘ manor of a. Rich Young Woman. By Alkcn
102 The illaskcd Bum]; or. The Man With.
. out a Name. By George L. Aiken.
103 Morle, the illutinecr; or,’l‘he Brand of
the Red Anchor. Bv Col. Prentiss Ingraham.
104 l'lontczulnu, the illerrilcus' or. The
Eagle and the Serpent. By Col. P. lnttmham.
105 Dan Brown oi Dcnvcr the Rocky Moun-
tain Detectivv. By Joseph . Bad'wr. Jr.
106 Shamus ()lelcn, the Bould B
gal. By Col. Delle Sum.

oy ot‘ Glin-
107 Richard Talbot of Cinnabar; or.The
Brothch oftho Red Hand. By A. W. Aiken.
1 08 The Duke of Illulnondu; or. The‘lt‘lowcr
of Calcutta. By Captain Frederick Whittaker.
109 H: tnln Kyd, the King of the Black Flag.
B r ‘01. Prentiss lngmham.
1 10 ’l he Silcnt Killomun. By E. W Herbert.
111 The Smugglcr Ca 11111“; or, The Skip-
cr's Crime. By NM] 1' untline.
112 no l’hcnlx Private Detective: or. The
League of the Skeleton Keys. By A. W. Aiken.
113 The Sea S lpper' or. The Amateur Free-
bootvrs. Bv Prof. J. ll. lnp‘rahnm.
114 The Gentleman Froul Plkc; or. The
Ghost of the ()ttttyon. By Philip‘s. Warne.
115 TIIP Severed Il-‘lld' or. . he Sun-ref. «1'
Castle Coucy. By Capt. Bred. Whittaker
116 Black Plume, 1h" Devil of the Sea. ‘5'
(‘01. Prentiss ingrnham.
117 Dashing Dund ' the Hotspur of the Hills.
Bv Mu or Dnnucrfle ( Burr.
118 The Burglar ('11 Halo: or. The Fallen
Star. By Prof. J. 11. nzruham.
119 Alabama J no; or. The Yazoo Man-Hun-
ters. By Jos. E. Badger. Jr. _
120 The Texan Spy; or, The Prairie Guide.
By Newton M. Curtis.
121 The Sea l‘ndct ; or. The Rover 01: the Rigo-
letts. By 001. Prcntiss Ingraham.
122 Saul Subbcrdn ' the idiot. Spy; or,Lulions.,
the Seminolu. By ed Buntline.
123 Alapaha, the S IIIMV ; or,'l‘he Renegades
of the Border. By ‘mncis Johnson.
124 Assowaum, the Avenger: or. The
Doom of the Deskovers. By Francis Johnson.
125 The Blacksmith Outlaw; or. Merry
England. By Harrison Ainsworth.
126 The Demon Duelist; or. The League or
Steel. By Col. Thomas Hoycr Monstery.
127 ~\ol Soon, the Music d Miner; lor,
Brown’s Double. By Jos. E Badger. or.
128 The Chevalier Corn-air. By the author
of " Merle the Mutincer."
129 Mlsslsslji’ul Mone' or. A Strong Man's
Sacrifice. v Edward illett.
130 Captain Volcano or, The Man ofthe Red
Revolvers. Bv A. W. iken.
131 Buckskin Sam, the Texas Trail :or. The
Pundits 9! the Bows By Col. 3’. 1.... ,Mm

q
5.

meQq 44
ucwmq on

By Colonel

Dan

 

132 Nemo, King ofthc Tram s. M}

Frederick Whittaker. p By

133 Body lhc Rovcr the Ribbonmanof 1H;-
lund. By William Carleton. ’

1 31 lborkie Dan, the Colored Detective; or,
Mississippi Mystery. By Col. P. Iumham. '

135 The llurth lhnlgcr' or, The Half-Breed

Brigade. By Francis Johnson.

1 1’, The Outlaw-ll untcr; or, Red John, ch.
Bush Ranger. By Francis Johnson. .
l 37 Long Board, the Giant Spy. By W

(Joomcs.

138 The "order Bandits or. The Horse,
'l'hll‘f'S 'l‘rnil. By Francis Jo .ison.

139 Fire-Eye. the Sea Hyena: or. The Bride J
n Buccaneer. By (:01, l’rcntlss In raham.

l 40 The. Three Spaniards. Bv e0. Walker.

1 All Equinox Tom, the Bully of Red Rock; or
Dun Brown’s Mustersbroke. By Joseph. E
Badger. Jr.

142 “aptulll Crimson, the Man of the Iron
Face, By Maj. Dangeifleld Burr

143 The Cznr’s Spy;or, The Nihilist League .

By 001. T. H. Moustcry.

144 The Hunchback of Notre~Dnme.
By Victor Hugo.

145 Pistol Paras ° 01', Soft Hand, the Silent
S ort from Cinna. ar. By Wm. R. Eyster.

146 The Doctor Detective; or, The Mystery
of the Golden Coffin. By Geo: e Lemue .

147 Gold Spur the Gentleman rom Texas. 1!]
Col. Prentiss 2Ingrahum. _

148 One- \rnled All" the Giant Hunter of the
Great Lakes. B oil Coomes.

149 The Border lilies. By Gustave Aimsrd.

I'll llnblo Bravo, King of the Swordsmen.

By Col. Thomas HUyrl‘MOhStel‘Y.

The Freebootcrs. By Gustave Aimard.
Captain Ironncrvo, the Counterfeit»

mm m
(G!- C

max
nt-u

6"

HHHHHI-II-l
Gm

Chief. By Marmaduke Dev.
'3 he “'hite hcnlpcr. By Gustave Aimard
J ouquln, the Saddle King. By Joseph E»,
Badger, Jr.
The (.‘orsnlr ucen ; or, The Gipsies o_I
tin: Sea. By Col. ‘entiss Ingmhum.
5 Velvet Fncc, the Border bravo; or. Muriel;
the Danirc’s Bride. By Dangerfield Burr.
I57 Mournd, the Mumclukc; or. The Three
Swoxdmusters. By (201 Thomas B. Monstery.
158 The Booms-d Dozcn; or. Dolores. the
Danite‘s Daughtvr. By Dr. Frank Powell.
159 llcd Rudiger. the Archer; or The Lady
Bertha's Treachery. By Cu t. F'. Whittaker.
160 Soil "and, Sharp' or. ‘he Man \\'ith th‘
Sand. By Wm. B. Eyster.
161 The \I olvcs of Noni York or, Jot
I’hvuix‘z-l Great Mun Hunt. By A. . Aiken.
162 The Mad lllarincr' or. Dishonored and
Disownl‘d. By Col. Pren iss lngt'sham. '
163 Ben Brion, the Trap er Ca tnin: or. Red-‘
with. the Avrngcr. By 1'. J. . Robinson.
164 The King’s Fool ' or. The Knights of the
Claspcd Humisantl Red Branch. By C. D.Clark.
165 Joaquin, the Terrible. By J. E. BadgerJn
1 66 Owlcl, the Robber Prince: or. The Unknown
l-‘Iitzhwuyman. By S ptimus R. Urban.
167 The Mun oI‘Stccl ; or. The Mnsked Knight
0: the White Plume. By A. P. M01111.
168 111111 Bill, the Pistol Dead Shot; or. Dagger
Don‘s Double. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham.
l 69 1 'orporul Cannon. the Man of Forty Duels.
B Col. Thomas Boyer Monstery.
170 Sweet “’lliiam, the Trapper Detective.
By J cs. E. Badger, Jr.
1'71 Tiger Dick, the Man of the Iron Heart; or
The Dumb Bandit, By Philip S. Wsme.
172 The Isluck Pirate; or. The Mystery 0!
the G01. en Fettcrs. By Col. P. Ingrahum.
178 California John, the Pacific Therougha,

bred. B Albert W. Aiken.
174 The hantom Knights. By Capt. E.

Whittaker.

175 Wild Bill’s Trump Card' or. The Indian;
Heiress. By Major Dangerfield Burr.

176 Lady Jaguar, the Robber Queen. ByCa
tnin Mark Wilton.

1 77 Doll liiublo, the Planter-Corsair; or. The
Rim]: of the Sea. B ' Col. Prentiss Ingraham.

178 Dark Dnslrwoo . the Desperate: or, The
child of the Sun. By Major Sam 8. Hall.

179 (‘onI-nd. thc Convict; or, was He Guilty!
By Prnt'. Stewart. Gildcrsieeve, LL. D. t

180 Old ’19: or. The Amazon of Arizona. By
Jos. E. Budger, Jr.

18 i The Scarlet Schooner: or. The Nemesfl
of the Sca. By( 01. Prentiss ingrahnm

1 82 lIandn lip ' (1'. The Knights of the Canyon.

Bv Wm. R. fiyster. ,

183 Gilbert, the Guide; or. Lost in the 10%
(lei-ness. By C. Dunning Clark.

184 The liccnn \"am flu; or, The Heiress d
Castle Curse. B 00 . Prt‘lltlSS lngrnham.

18 5 The Man S nit or; or, The Beautiful Sphinj.
By Anthony lllorris

186 The Black Bravo: or. The Tonkawny‘.
Triumgl‘. B Buckskin Sam.

187 The cat. 1’»: Head ('uirasslers: oz.
Brave of all Braves. By Capt. Fred. Whittakel

1 88 The lentoln Mazeppu; or, The H cm.
of the Chn arrals. By Maj. Dangerfield I ,

189 \Vlld Bl l’s Gold Trail ' or. ' he Despa.
ado Dozen. By Col. Prentiss ’Ingraham.

190 The Three Guardsmen. ByAl
Dumas \

A new “we every Wednesday.
Beadie’s Dime Library is for sale a.
hewsdealers. ten cents per copy or sent 3y It
receipt of twelve cents each. B’EADLE m

l

Publishers. 93 Willie!“ Street. New You" I w ’

jg ._ . ..rm..,.m;.-1r.:;n%.nm W»

73 +-

rv—w; fi_

m

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   
      
  
 
  
  
  
    
 
   
 
   
   
  
   
  
   
    
    
  
 
 

THE DIME SPEAKERS.

 

 

 

W.___,. i

Dime American Speaker, No. 1.

Youn America,

irthgay of Washington.

ea for the Maine Law,

at on the Battlefield,
The Italian Struggle,
we endence,

r ountry,
The Equalit of Man,
Character 0 the Revo‘n,
The Fruits of the War,
The Sewing-Machine,
'l‘rue Manhood,
The Mystery of Life,
The‘ Ups and Downs,
The Truly Great,
Earl Retiring and Ris’g,
ard‘s Oration,

rue Nationahty,
Our Natal Day,
Bolferino,
Intelligence the Basis of
The ar, [Liberty.
Charge of Light Brigade,
After the Battle,
ghe Glass Railroad,

 

ase of Mr. Macbeth,
Prof. on l’hrenology,
Annabel Lee.
Washington‘s Name,
The Sailor Boy‘s Syren,

Dime 'Natlonal
Union and its Results,
Our Country's Future,
The Statesman’s Labors,
lTrue Immortality,

'Let the Childless Weep,
ur Country’s Glory,
nion a Household,

Hnde endence Bell,

The cholar’s Dignity,

The C cles of Progress,

A Oh stmas Chant,

Stability of Christianity,

The True Higher Law,

i‘he One Great Need,

The Ship and the Bird,

Pecumseh’s Speech,

l‘errltorlal Expansion,

Martha Hopkins,

The Bashful Man‘s Story,

The Matter-of—Facthan,
oh and Poor
eln the Echpse,

Beaut es of the Law,

Ge-langl Git U ,

The Rats of Li 8, I

Creowning Glory of U. S. ,

Three Fools,

“85°11.
gur Great Inheritance,
» ulogy on Henry Clay,

l Dime Patriotic

r merica to the World,

ve of Countr ,
Right of Se Preserva-
{Bur Cause, [tion,
A Kentuckian’s appeal,
Kentucky Steadfas ,
'l‘imidity is Treason,
i‘he Alarum,
’15 ril 15, 1861,

9 Spirit of ’61,
The Precious Heritage,
The Irish Element,
Mln’s Sgeech

peech,

Let Me Alone,
Brigand-ier-General,
The Draf ,
- nlon Square Speeches,
The Union,
Our Countr 's Call,
The Story 0 an Oak Tree,
L-e-g On My Leg, \

- mgr:

 

 

J. Jeboom’s Oration,

A Dutch Cure,

The Weather

The Heated Term,

Philosophy Applied,

An Old Ballai ,

Penny Wise, Pound Fool-

‘I‘rue Cleanliness, {islh

Sat‘d‘y Night‘s Enjoy ‘ts,

“ In a Just Cause,”

N 0‘ Peace with Oppres-
Bron,

A Tale of a Mouse,

A Thanksgiving Sermon,

The Cost of Riches,

Great Lives Im erishable

The Prophecy or the Y'r

Unfinished Problems,

Honor to the Dead,

Immortalit of Patriots,
Webster’s olit'l System,
A Vision in the Forum,
The Press
Woman's ights,
Right of the Governed,
w Ladder,

oman,
Alone

The Rebellion of 1861,
Disunion.

Speaker, No. 2.

Ohio,

Oliver Hazard Perry,

Our Domain

Systems of Belief,

The Indian Chief,

The Independent Farmer.

Mrs. Grammar’s Ball,

How the Monev Comes,

Future of the ashions,

Loyalty to Liberty,

Our Country First, Last,
and Always,

British Influence,

Defense of Jeiferson,

National Hatreds,

Murder Will Cut,

Strive for the Best,

Earl Rising,

Dee s of Kindness,

Gates of Sleep,

The Bu le,

A Boo ish Gem,

gin-Ry of the Struggle.

(1 Age,
Beaut ful and True
The Worm of the sun,
Man and the Infinite.

 

Lan e of the Eagle
Wasfiirtlgton, '
The Deluge.

Speaker, No. 3.
Histo of Our Fl

T. F. eagher’s A ress,
We Owe to the Union,

Lincoln’s Message

Last Speech 0 Stephen
A. Douglas,

Great Bell Roland,

The New Year and the

King Cotton, [Union,

Battle Anthem,

The Ends of Peace,

Freedom the Watchword

Crisis of Our Nation,

Duty of Christian Pa-
tnots,

Turkey Dan‘s “ration,

A Fearless Plea,

The Onus of Slavery,

A Forei er’s Tribute,

The Litt e Zouave

Catholic Cathedra

The “ Speculators. ’

Dime Comic Speaker, No. 4.
Hebe ergoss on the War, 'A Song of Woe,

 

Age luntly’Considered. Ward‘s Trip to Richm’d,
Earlvaising, Parofiy,
The asp and the Bee The ountebank,
‘lomlc Grammar No. 1’, Compound Interest,
[’m Not a Single Man, A Sermon on the Feet,
A. Ward's Advice, Old Do Jock,
Buzfuz on Pickwick, The Fis es’ Toilet,
Romeo and Juliet, Brian O’Linn
Happiness, Crockett to Chico—seekers

ogs, Who Is M Opponent?

0 ’ Political tump S eech,
I 'Fexan Eulo ium, Comic Grammar o. 2,

ow to be a roman. Farewell to the Sottle,
The United States, he Cork Leg,
Puff’s Acc’t of Himself, The Smack in school
Practical Phrenology, Shck’s Definition of Wife,
Beautiful, Tale of a Hat,
0c 6' P . . rears: Club.

ble eo mun.
p Lecture on Locomotion,

I ha is a Bachelor Like?
many Me,

In. Bundle on Umbr‘lla.

and Observations.

the Passions:

elancliolv, Despair

Commanding,

perulcncc, Veneration,

riosit

and Phrases, viz. :

Exordium

and the Daggier'
Look Upwar

A Sad Story,

A String 0 Onions,

A Tragic Story.

 h.

‘ou s '

Debt p,

Dev'

Dow, Jr.'s Lectures,

Ego and Echo

Fashionable Women,

Fern Thistlcs,

Good-Nature,

Gottlieb Klebcyergoss

Schlackenlichter‘s sn 9,

Hosea Bi low‘sO inions,

How the oney es,

Hun-ki-do-ri‘s Fourth of
July Oration

If 011 Mean N’o, Say No,

J o ws on Leap Year,

Lay of the Hen ecked,

Lot Skinner’s E egy,

Matrimony,

Nothing to Do

Old Caudle‘s Umbrella,

Old Grimes‘s Son.

Paddle Your Own Canoe.
Parody on “ Araby‘s
Daughter,"

Dime Standard

The World We Live In,
Woman‘s Claims,
Authors of our Liberty,
The Real Conflueror,
The Citizen‘s eritage,

taly ,

The Mechanic,

Nature and Naiure's God
The Modern Good, [Sun,
Ossian‘s Address to the
Inde endence Bell—1777,
The eck,

Foggy Tho hts,

The adies‘ an,
Life,

The Idler,

The Unbeliever,

The Two Lives,

The True Scholar
Judges not Infallihle,
Fanaticism,‘

Instability of Successful
Agriculture, [Crime,

Ire and,

The Peoglg Always Con-
Muslc of bor, [query
Prussia and Austria,
Wishing,

Hon. J. M. Stubbs‘ Views
on the Situation.

Hans Schwackhelmer on
Woman‘s Suflrage,

All for a Nominatio

Old Ocean, Sea,

The Sea,the Sea, the open

Star Bangled Spanner,

Stay Where You Belo ,

Life‘s What You Make ,

from Conscience,

 

ghere's My Money,
’5 Relation to Society

Dime Elocutionist, No. 5.
SEC. 1. PRINCIPLES or TRUE Esrmcurros.—Faiflts
in Enunciatiou; How to Avoid Them. Special Rules

Difference Agreeing, Exhorting
ing, Acquitting, Condemning Teaching, Pardon-
ing, Arguin r Dismissing, Re using, Granting, De-
Hope, Desire, Love, Re
spect, Giving, Wonder, Admiratiou, Gratitude, Cu
Persuasion, Tempting, Promising, Affects.-
tion, loth, Intoxication, Anger, etc.
SEC. III. THE COMPONENT ELEMENTS or AN ORA
Tron—Rules of Com osition as applied to Words
rity, Propfiety, Precision.
As applied to Sentences, viz.: Length of Sentence,
Clearness, Unity, Strength. Figures of Speech; the
the Narration, the Proposition, the
Confirmation, the Refutation, the Peroration.
SEC. IV. REPRESENTATIVE Exaacrsss IN Pnosa AND
VERSE—Transition; A Plea for the Ox; Falstaff’s
Soliloquy on Honor; the Burial of Lincoln; the
Call and Response; the Ba onet Charge; Histor
ofaLii’e‘ the Bu lo; the 1;, h
amlot's Solilo uy; Old Things:
; king William Ru us; the Eye; an
Essa Onto Musik; Discoveries of Galileo.
SEC. V. Onsnnvxrrons or Goon Au'rsoamns.

 

SEC. II. THE ART or Omroav. Sheridan’s List of
Tranquillity, Cheerfulness, Mirth,
Raillery, Buffoonery Joy, Delight, Gravity In-
fiiiry, Attention, Mm est , Perplexity, Pity, Grief,

car, Shame, Remorse,

Courage, Boasting, Pride, Obstinacy, Authority,
For'hidding,

Affirming, Denying,

Judging, Approv-

ells; Byron ' Macbet

Dime Humorous Speaker. No. 8.

POetry Run Mad,

Ri ht Names,

Sr eutiflc Lectures,

The Ager,

The Cockney,

The Codflsh,

Fate of Sergeant Thin,

The Features’ Quarrel,

Hamerlcan Voodchuck,

The Harp of a Thousand
Strings,

The Last of the Sarpints,

The March to Moscow,

The Mysterious Guest,

The Pumg,3

The Sea- rpent,

The Secret,

The Shoemaker

The Useful Doc r,

The Waterfall

To the Bachelors’ Union

Leggue,

Unit States Presidents,

Va aries of Popping the
uestion,

What I Wouldn‘t Be

Yankee Doodle Aladdin,

;L§33Moskeetare,

Speaker. No. '7.

John Burns Gettysburg,
No Sect in eaven,

Miss Prude‘s Tea-Party,
The Power of an Idea,
The Beneflcence of the
Suffrage, , Sea.
Dream of the Revelers,
HowCyrus Laid the Cable
The Prettiest Hand,
Paradoxical,

Little Jerry, the Miller,
The Blarney Stone,

The Student of Bonn

The Broken Household,
The Bible,

The Purse and the Sword
My Country.
True Mora Courage.
What is War?

Butter

My Deborah Lee,

The Race,

The Pin and Needle,
The Modern Puritan
Immortality of the Soul,
Occupation,

Heronsm and Daring,

A Shot at the Decanter.

Dime Stump Speaker. No. 8.

The Limits to Ha princes,
Good-nature a Blessing,
Sermon from Hardshell
Tail-enders, [Bapdst,
The Value of Money,
Meteorlc Disqulsition,

Be Sure You are Right,
Be of Good Cheer
Crabbed Folks, fShrew,
Taming a Masculine
Farmers, [Our Country
The True Greatness o
The Cold-water Man.

 

Permanency of States,

Liberty of S eech

New Itnglan and nion,

The Unseen Battlefield,

Plea for the Republic,

America, [Fallacy,

“ Right of Secession " a

Life’s Sunset,

Human Nature,

Lawyers,

Wron of the Indians,

.IAIppea in behalf of Am.
iseries of War, [Liberty,

A Lay Sermon,

A Dream,

Numbers 1 to 24, inclusive. Each Speaker, 100 pach 121nm, containing fl'om 50 to 75 pieces.

,,_::=3

Astronomical,

The Moon, [26
Duties of American Glitz
The Man

Temptations of Cities,
Broken Resolutions,
There is no Death.

Races,
A Fruitful Discourse, '
A Frenchman‘s Dinner, g

The Amateur Coach
John Thompson‘s Dau‘r.
House Cleaning;

It Is Not Your anneal.

Dime Juvenile Speaker. No. 9.

A Boy’s Philosophy,
Hoe Out Your w,
Six-Year-Old‘s Protest,
The Suicidal Cat,

A Valediction,

Pop lng Corn,

The ditor,

The Same, in rhyme,
The Fairy Shoemaker,
What Was Learned,
Press On,

The Horse,

The Snake in the Grass,
Tale of the Tropics,
Bromley's Speech.

The Same, second extract
The Fisher‘s Child,
Shaks arian Scholar,
A Mai en's Psalm of Life,
A Mixture,

Plea for Skates,

Playin Ball,

Ah, W y

Live for Something "
Lay of the Hen-Pec ed,
The Outside Dog,

Wolf and Lamb,

’fi'm‘ ‘hbiie' r m
rogs s n or a n
Sick Lion, g 3'
Country and Town l;;..e,

Man and Woman,

Home,

The Lotus-Planter,

Little Things.

A Bab 's Soliloquy,

Re en ce

A lea for Big 9

Humbu Pat otism,
Night A ter Christmas,
Short Legs,

Shrimps on Amusements,

How the Raven Bacall.
Bl k

ac ,
A Mother‘s Work,
The Same,
Who Rules,
A Sheep Story,
A Little Correspondent,
One Good Turn Deservu
My Dream, [Another,.

n
I'llfii’ever Use Tobacco.

A can 0.

The Old Bachelor,

l’ra 'er to Light,

tht e J lm,

Angelina‘s Lament,
Johnny Shrimps on Boob
Mercy,

Choice of Hours

Poor Richard‘s Sayingfi
Who Killed Tom Roper.
Nothing to Do

Honesty Best Policy.
Heaven,

Ho for the Fields,
Fashion on the

On Shanghais,

A Smile,

Casablanca

Homon ethic Soup,
Nose an Eyes,

Malt [Coma
A Bundred Years to
The Madman and . he,
Little Sermons, [Rama
Snuffles on Electricity,
The Two Cradles,

The Ocea a Storm,

Do T Little—Do it Wel
Little ss,

Base-Ball (Fever,
Prescription for Spring

Dime Spread-Eagle Speaker. No. 10.

gen Buster‘s Oration,
ans Von Spiegel's 4th,
Josh Billln s‘s Advice,
A Hard-she Sermon,
The Boots,

The Squeezer,

Noah and the Devil,

A Lover‘s Luck
Hifalutin Adol ’hus
Digestion and aradise,
Distinction‘s Disadvant-
Smith

. [uses
Gushalina Bendibus,
A Stock of Notions
speaking for the Sheriff,
Baking a Shweat,
Then and Now
Josh Blllin s‘s'Lectur’n .

Drum-head Sen-inane,
Schnitzerl‘s Philosoped.’
“ Woman‘s Rightq,‘
Luke Lather,
The Hog.
grack S rathd T

ew 11 an ragedy
The Anc enl. Bachelor '
Jacob Whittle‘s Speech,
Jerks Pro ostlcates,
S m“ " twmk“

ll ven
. A Mule Ride,
1 Josh Billings on Bum
, ll Trovatore,
1 Kissing in the Street.

Scan ous,
Sligh Mixed,

 

Doctor De lister‘s Ann t, 3111: 0 ce-seeker

Consi nments,
gardB ves, s h
an ant‘s peec
A Cololryed View, '
Original Maud Muller,

o ody
Train of Circumstances,
Good Advice
The Itching aim,

Bachelors,
W man,

i o
i The Niam Niams,
l People Will Talk,
I‘ Swackhamer‘s

‘ Don‘t De nd on Dad

1 M ‘3. m

, usic of her
I The American Ensign?

Who Wouldn‘t be ' -

Debater and. Chairman’- Guide No. 1 1. ,

r.-—Dmrmo 80mm.
Its Office and Usefulness.
Formation of,
Constitution of,
By-Laws of,
Rules of Government,
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"0H! MAMMA, BUY ME THAT!" A COLLECTION or JOLLY Jone AND Pom
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' .' II? MOTHER-m-LAW- BY “ENGINE” Illustrations by BOUNCED; on, THE ADVENTURES or AN UNLuch 
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This is one of the most humorous stories 0! the dny. Every man and
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my attempts and failures. in getting rid of her. ‘

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vividly the first attempts of a young husband at housekeeping. ’ WANDER. Illustrated. 64 pp., Paper, 8vo. ‘

This book is n humorous record of the Deacon's trsntlc struggles with alm’
MITH .IN SEARCH OF A WIFE. By the author of " Our malignant enemy or the hnmnn race—the dreaded mm Pen. '

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HANDBOOK OF WINTER SPORTS,

EMBRACING :

ICE—
_ SIEfEITéIEIGfiG ROLLER-SKATING, RINK‘BALL

, AMERICAN FOOTBALL ’~
A AND ICE—BOATING, ’

 Together with th
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. SkaMgngingress‘ and Records of Matches at Beasse-kgzfig or the
at on the Ice. Edited by Henry Chadwick. and

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Bill
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DIME

 

 

 

 

 

979 Buffalo Bill‘s Relentless Trail.
Prentiss lngraham.

973 The Dread Shot Four; or, M Pards of the
Plains. By Col. \V. F. Cody.y

964 Buffalo Bill’s Invincibles; or. The Sable Shad-
gwer's Sublime Sacrifice. By Col. P. Ingra—

am.

960 Buffalo Bill's Blue ‘Belt Brigade; or, Sun-
flower Sam of Shasta. By Col. P. Ingraham.

956 Buffalo Bill's Volunteer Vigilantes; or, The
Mysterious Man. in Blue. By Col. P. Ingra-
ham.

950 Buffalo Bill at Bay; or. The Gold Seeker’s
Doom. By Col. P. Ingraham.

943 Buffalo Bill's Block Game; or, The Mounted
Miners of the Overland. By Col. P. Ingra-
ham.

936 Buffalo Bill's Black Pard; or,_ The Gold
Boomers of the Big Horn. By Col. P. Ingra-
ham.

927 Buffalo Bill’s Bluff; or, Dusky Dick. the
Sport. By Col. P. Ingraham.

921 Buffalo Bill's Quandary; or, Velvet Bill‘s
Vow. By Col. Prentiss lngraham.

915 Buffalo Bill and the Surgeon Scout: or. Go-
wan-go, the Redskin Rider. By Col. P. In-
graham.

909 Buffalo Bill‘s League; or, Red Butterfly. By
Col. Prentiss Ingraham. _

904 Buffalo Bill's Tangled Trail; or, Gentleman
Jack, the Man of Many Masks. By Col. P.
Ingraham.

900 Buffalo Bill's Rough Riders; or. Texas Jack's
Sharp-Shooters. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham.

895 Buffalo Bill’s Secret Ally; or, The Texan's
Double. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham.

890 Buffalo Bill‘s Life-Stake; or, The Pledged
Three. By Col. P. Ingraham.

882 The Three Bills; Buffalo Bill, Wild Bill and
Band-Box Bill; or, The Bravo in Broadcloth.
By Col. P. Ingraham.

874 Buffalo Bill‘s Buckskin Braves: or, The Card
Queen’s Last Game. By Col. P. Ingrahzxm.

869 Buffalo Bill's Road Agent Round-Up; or, The
Mysterious Masked Man in Black. By Col.
P. Ingraham. ;

863 Buffalo Bill's Death-Charm; or? The Man
With the Scar. By ColuPrentiss Ingraham.

857 Buffalo Bill's Royal Flush; or, The Pony Ri-
der’s Deatli~Run. By Col. Prentiss Ingra-
ham.

851 Buffalo Bill’s Double Dilemma; or, The Great
Scout's Big Three. By Col. P. Ingraham.

845 Buffalo Bill's Redskin Ruse; or. Texas Jack's
Death Shot. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham.

839 The Ranch King Dead-Shot; or, Texas Jack's
Proxy. By Buffalo Bill.

830 Buffalo Bill's Boys in Blue; or. The Brimstone
Band’s Blot-out. By Col. P. Insraham.

826 Buffalo Bill’s Sharp-Shooters: or. The Surgeon
Scout to the Rescue. By C01. 9- Ingmham-

822 Buffalo Bill's Best Bower; 01‘. Momebeuo the
com King, By Col. Prentiss Ingraham.

By Colonel

T

ceipt of

 

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820 White Beaver‘s Still Hunt; or, The Miner
Marauder's Death—Track. By Buffalo Bill.

816 Buffalo Bill's Bed Trail; or, The Road-Rider
Renegade’s Run‘ Down. By Col. P. Ingraham.

812 Buffalo Bill's Death-Knoll; or, The Red Hand
Riders of the Rockies. By Col. P. Ingraham.

07 W'illi Bill, the Wild West Duelist; or, The Girl
Mascot of Moonlight Mine. By Buii'alo Bill.

807 Wild Bill, the Wild Vl’est Duelist; orI The Girl
Grande Ralph. the‘ Cowboy Chief. By Buf-
falo Bill.

794 Buffalo Bill's Winning Hand: or. The Masked
Woman of the Colorado Canyon. By Col. P.
Ingraham.

787 Buffalo Bill’s DeadShot;or,TheSkeletonScout
of the Colorado. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham.

781 Buffalo Bill's Brand; or, The Brimstone
Brotherhood. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham.

777 Buffalo Bill's Spy-Shadower; or, The Masked
Men at Grand Canyon. By Col. P. Ingraham.

773 Buffalo Bill‘s Ban; or. Cody to the Rescue.
By Leon Lewis.

769 Buffalo Bill’s Sweepstake; or, The Wipe-out:
at Last Chance. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham.

765 Buffalo Bill‘s Dozen; or, Silk Ribbon Sam.
By Col. Prentiss Ingraham.

761 Buffalo Bill’s Mascot: or, The Death Valley
Victim No. 13. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham.

757 Buffalo Bill's Double; or, The Desperado De-
tective. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham.

750 Buffalo Bill's Big Four; or, Custw's Shadow.
By Col. Prentiss Ingraham.

743 Buffalo Bill's Flush Hand; or, Texas Jack's
Bravos. 13y Col. Prentiss Ingraham.

739 Buffalo Bill's Blind; or, The Masked Driver
of Death’s Canyon. By Col. Prentiss Ingra-
ham.

735 Buffalo Bill and His Merry Men: or. The
Robin Hood Rivals. By Col. Prentiss Ingra-
ham.

731 Buffalo Bill’s Beagles: or, Silk Lasso Sam.
By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. ’

727 Buffalo Bill's Body Guard; or, The Still Hunt
of the Hills. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham.
722 Buffalo Bill on the War Path; or. Silk Lasso
.am, the VVill—o’—the-Wisp. By Col. P. In-

graham.

716 Buffalo Bill’s Scout Shadowers: or. Emer-
ald Ed of Devil‘s Acre. By Col. P. Ingraham.

710 Buffalo Bill Baffled; or, The Deserter Des-
perado’s Defiance. By Col. P. Ingraham.
697 Buffalo Bill’s Buckskin Brotherhood; or,
Opening Up a Lost Trail. By Col. P. In-
graham.

691 Buffalo Bill's Blind Trail; or, The Daughter
of the Regiment. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham.

682 Buffalo Bill's Secret Service Trail. By Major
Dangerfield Burr.

667 Buffalo Bill’s Swoop; or, the King of the
Mines. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham.

'658 The Cowboy C’ian: or, The Tigress of Texas.
By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham.

E DIME LIBRARY is for sale by 511 Newsdealers,
ten cents per copy, or sent by mail, pro-paid, on re-

price.

 

 

\ llnIalu.

653 The Lasso King’s League: or, The Tigers of
Texas. By Colonel Prentiss Ingrahem.
649 Buck Taylor. the Saddle King. Buffalo Bill'-
Chiet of Scouts. By Col. P. Ingraham.
644 Buffalo Bill's Bonanza; or, The Knights of
the Silver Circle. By Col. P. Ingraham.
639 The Gold King; or, Montebello, the Magnifi-
cent. By Buffalo Bill.

629 Buffalo Bill's Daring Role; or, Daredeath
Dick. King of the Cowboys. By Leon Lewis.

2599 The Dead Shot Nine; or, My Fords of the
Plains. By Buffalo Bill.

517 Buffalo Bill's First Trail; or, Will Cody, the
Pony Express Rider. By Ned Buntline.

414 Red Renard, the Indian Detective; or, The
Gold Buzzards of Colorado. By Buffalo Bill.

401 The One-Armed Pard; or. Red Retribution in
Borderland. By Buffalo Bill.

397 The Wizard Brothers; or,
Trail. Bv Buffalo Bill.

894 White Beaver. the Exile of the Platte; or.
AmVVronged Man's Red Trail. By ffalo

White Beaver" s

362 Buffalo Bill's Grip; or. Oath-bound to Custer.
By Col. Prentiss Ingraham.

329 Buffalo Bill's Pledge; or. The League of

hree. By Col. P. Ingraham.

319' Wild Bill, the Whirlwind of the Wen." By
Buffalo Bill. ,

304 Texas Jack, the Prairie Rattler; or, The
Queen of the Wild Riders. By Buffalo Bill.

243 The Pilgrim Sharp; or. The Soldier's Sweet-
heart. By Buffalo Bill, Govemment Scout
and Guide.

189 Wild Bill's Gold Trail; or,
Dozen. By Col. P. Ingraham

175 Wild Bill's Trump Card; or, The Indian
Heiress. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham.

163<Wild Bill. the Pistol Dead Shot; or. Dagger
Don's Double. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham.

158 Buffalo Bill, Chief of Scouts; or, The Doomed

ozen. By Dr. Frank Powell.

117 Buffalo Bill's Strange Pard; or, Dashing
Dandy. the Hotspur of the Hills. By Major
D. Burr.

92 Buffalo Bill.
Amazon of the West.
Burr. .

83 Gold Bullet Sport; or. The Knights of the
Overland. By Buffalo Bill.

52 Death Trailer, the Chief of Scouts; or. Life
$35 Love in a. Frontier Fort. By Buffalo

The Desperate

the Buckskin King;, or, The
By Major Dangerfield

NEW ISSUES TO COME. i
981 The Gold Lace Sport; or, The Texan Sam-
son’s Wide Swath. By Joe. E. Badger. Jr.
982 Chris Crewley's Winning Hand;‘ or. The
Rascally Valet‘s Double Game. By A. P. ‘
Morris.
988 Kid Glove Kris, the Sport.
drick. Ready August 25.
984 Buffalo Bill's Life Raffle; or, The Doomed
Three. By Col. P. Ingraham. Really Sept. 1.

By J. C. COW-

 

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