BY MRS. FRANCES FULLER BARRITT.

BEADLE AND COMPANY,
LONDON: 44, PATERNOSTER ROW;
NEW YORK: 141, WILLIAM STREET.
 
&

 
 
 

 

 

 
 

*
THE LAND-CLALM:

A
STORY OF THE UPPER MISSOURL

 

GHAPTHR °Ii
FATHER AND DAUGHTER.

Away, away toward the almost trackless plain stretched the
rolling prairies. The Indian Territory had given way before
the advancing hosts of civilization, and surveyors, speculators,
locaters, squatters, traders and adventurers gathered where the
red-man had been, to found new States. Nebraska and Kan-
sas became familiar names; and, as the Pawnees, the Owahas,
the Ottoes, the Kickapoos, the Puneas, disappeared like
shadows, the tide of restless, eager, insatiable “ pale-faces”
poured in to make the Indian wilderness to blossom with a
new life. The grand old river, coming from the unexplored
and mythic regions of the Rocky Mountains, poured its flood -
through plain and forest, through bluff and bottom, to bear on
its bosom the new civilization which it was to serve with the
best elements of health, wealth and peace. From its sides
spread the avenues of settlement, and villages sprung up like
magic to stand as buoys guiding the settler to the new regions
beyond, where plains were still unstaked and timber bottoms
still unclaimed.

Among those who sought the Nebraska country, at an early

.moment after its opening for settlement, was Thomas New-
come. Though hailing from Connecticut, he was an English-
man, and had sought “ the West,” not more to better his for-
tunes than to gratify an uneasy and reckless spirit, little fitted
for the observations and restraints of a New England commu-

- nity. His history had been tinged with the romance—which,

unfortunately for happiness and good order is too frequently —

~

 

 
 
  
    
   
 
 
  
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
     

6 THE LAND-CLAIM,

the truth—of a mésalliance ; he had won the love of an art-
less girl, the daughter of a noble family which he served as
gardener, and, with her, had fled to America. The mere
child-wife of his deception learned her error only teo late, and
lived long enough to taste the bitterness of poverty as well as
the more poignant sorrow of unkindness at the hands of the
cruel and unforgiving man she was forced to call husband.
The act of desertion had not only alienated her friends and
family, but her fortune—the prize which Newcome had most
coveted—was disposed of to others, and the beautiful woman
only lived long enough to teach her daughter the grace and
culture of a cultivated circle—to impart to her a mother’s
beauty, and, alas, all her sorrows.

Newcome and his child occupied a claim close upon the
Missouri. Their newly-built log-cabin nestled close in upon
the belt of timber which, fortunately, ran across the selected
section of land, whose boundaries—well defined on three sides
by the river, the woods, and a ravine cutting down through
the bluffs—were still open and a matter of doubt on the fourth
side. The “ blazing” of trees, and driving of stakes across
the prairies, indicated the limits of the land “ located” by the
preémptors. Where these lines were thus plainly marked,
no doubts could arise as to each man’s proper possessions ;
where the lines were not so marked, or where the stakes had
been moved either by accident or design, the limits of the
claim might become a matter of dispute. Such disputes
often occurred, and afterward proved the source of much lit-.
igation as well as violence.

On the fourth side, Newcome’s lines were not definitely
indicated, and trespassers were not long in waiting. The
rich soil adjacent had been located by one of four young
men, whose cabin reposed on the bosom of the prairie in the
midst of their conjoined claims. The Englishman found the
stakes driven on what he conceived to be his soil; whereupon
his unruly spirit became aroused to its fullest extent, and he
proceeded to pull up the offending landmarks. The stakes,
however, were replaced by his bachelor neighbors, and the
intimation given that they should insist upon their line—an
intimation which stirred Newcome’s heart to the point of
resorting to powder and ball to defend -his claim. Against

|
a

 
THE FRENCH TRADER. y

this spirit of her father, Alicia, his aailfllter, was powerless.
Though but a girl in years, she was his only aid and house-
Keeper, and alone had to bear her heavy burden. The fear
of bloodshed, however, induced her to plead for peace—a plea
which only aggravated the parent’s unnatural harshness. He
walked the floor, in his anger, uttering imprecations on his
neighbors. Alicia, to divert his thoughts, at length timidly
remarked : i

“Mr. Mauyais, from the trading-post, was here to-day
inquiring for you.”

“ What.did he want with me ?—the cursed Frenchman !”

“ He did not state his business ; he said he would call again
in a day or two.”

Newcome Jooked sharply at his daughter.

“Must have been urgent business, I should say! How
long did he stay? What did he say to you?”

The young girl felt herself blushing, more at her father’s
tone and manner, than at any thing she recollected in the
interview with the trader. This suspicious manner on the part
of the questioner made her own hesitating and embarrassed,
as she answered :

“T hardly can tell what he said; though I think he ad-
mired our choice for a building spot—remarked that this whole
country was familiar ground to him—that he could tell me
many interesting stories of the Indian wars, ners, legends,
ete.” ;
“No doubt. Very interesting some of them would be. He

 

‘ought to be pretty well posted in Indian customs. What else

did he say ?”

“We asked me whether I had any brothers and sisters ;
and thought I must be very lonely on this wild claim with no
one but you; and you gone much of the time.” >

“He thinks you need company, does he ? Well, I don’t
agree with him. I tell you what, Alicia Newcome, if that
French trader comes around here any more, asking for me,
and stopping to talk with you, I'll make you sorry for encour-
aging such acquaintances.” :

“But, how can I keep him from coming, or from talking to
me if he should come?” asked Alicia, between grief and re-
sentment at her father’s harshness.

 
 

8 THE LAND-CLAIM.

“There’s wraylilongn, Every woman knows, or ought
to know, how to rid herself of the society of disreputable
men.”

“But I am not a woman yet, father; and I do not know
how to give any but a respectful answer to respectful remarks
from any one.”

“Too much mother’s blood, eh? Take care that I- don’t
see you showing your good blood too plainly. You under-
stand? I will not have you doing as your mother did before
you—courting with her gracious smiles every one she met.”

This manner of being revenged on his aristocratic wife for
bringing him no money was habitual with Newcome, and had
been one of the briers in her crown of thorns while she lived.
Accustomed as was Alicia to hear her mother sneered at on
account of that very gentleness which had made her too easy
a prey to a foolish passion and a designing underling, she
could but reflect upon her superiority in all those qualifications
which confer grace and sweetness; nor could she help being
hurt at every fresh insult to the memory of her dead mother,
though use had done what it might to render her young mind
callous to them. <A few slow-dropping tears rolled over her
cheeks, which she brushed away stealthily, for fear of giving
occasion to a yet more cruel taunt on her likeness to her
beloved and departed mother.

The cabin of Thomas Newcome was but a dreary place for
so fair a young creature as his only child. Happily for her
she did not feel it as a serious misfortune to be poor. What-
ever of clegant tastes she had received from her mother’s
training while still they abode in intellectual New England,
had taught her rather to embellish poverty with many careful
arts, than to be herself overcome by its natural ugliness. Thus
it happened that, though every thing was most unpoetically
new, rude and ungraceful about the cabin home, an air of
neatness and propriety were everywhere visible, which spoke
volumes in favor of its youthful mistress. And yet, making
every possible allowance, and seeing every thing in the most
favorable light, it was, after all, but a poor and barren spot for
gentle youth and eminent beauty to take healthy root in,

Perhaps some such thought was in the sullen breast of
Thomas Newcome, as he stole a furtive glance at his daughter

     

 

#,

  
#,

THE FOUR CLAIM-HUNTERS. 9

straining her eyes to hem-stitch some curtains for the cabin-
windows by the light of a single tallow candle. What would
her proud English relations say, could they see her as he saw
her at that moment? Cursing them in his heart, he started —
up so violently as to upset the rude chair he had occupied,
and began pacing the puncheon floor restlessly.

“Go to bed, girl! I want an early breakfast; for I shall be
out ahead of them claim-jumpers. If it’s boundaries they want:
that’s what Pll give them to-morrow morning. If they dare.
to pull up one of my stakes, Pll let daylight into them, with-
out further notice.”

Terrified at her father’s unusually violent mood, Alicia
quickly and silently obeyed, retiring to the only bedroom,
while her father threw himself on a “ bunk” in the common
living room ; and stillness, if not sleep, fell upon the inmates
of that lonely habitation.

CHAPTER «II.
AN EVENING IN BACHELOR’S HALL,

In quite a different spirit had the evening been enjoyed by
the squatters on a neighboring claim. or the sake of soci-
ability, comfort and economy, four young hunters of claims
had agreed to board and lodge together, thus saving the
trouble of three other cabins being built and furnished; for
the claim-laws only required that a foundation should be laid
to indicate possession, and the dztention to build. Thus, while
they surveyed and marked out the lines of their several
claims, one roof was sufficient for all, and a vast amount of
enjoyment did these amateur housekeepers find in trying to
make themselves barely comfortable.

A fine-looking set of young fellows they were, too, in won-
derful red woolen shirts, and a surprising amount of beard
and hair. Sufficient refinement appeared in their looks and
manners to show that they had “seen better days,’ while
enough of the ruddy hue of active exercise glowed on their

 
 

  

THE LAND-CLAIM.

careless faces to demonstrate the power of air and motion to
beautify manhood.

The quartette was made up of four distinct professions—a
physician who had never practiced, a lawyer ditto, a surveyor,
and an editor—the latter two having had some experience in
what they pretended to practice. Very harmoniously lived
these four together, in a shanty of rough boards, furnished
with two rude bedsteads, as many plank benches, a cooking
stove, pine table, and a few tin dishes. It was agreed among
them that, “ for short,” each one was to be called by his pro-
fessional title, or an abbreviation thereof. Thus Doc, Squire,
Ed, and Flag, served to denote the personality of gentlemen
whose real and complete names will transpire in due season.
Over the soubriquet of Flag, there had at first been consider-
able discussion, one contending for Comp., abbreviation of
compass; another for Tent, and a third for Chain; but the
surveyor himself carried the day, and was voted unanimously
to be Flag, at his own suggestion.

“T say, fellows, this is jolly, isn’t it?” remarked Squire, kick-
ing up his heels like a four-year-old, as he lay at length on
one of the beds.

“ Jolly !” reiterated Doc; “I should think so, for you fel-
lows, kicking up your heels on the beds! But this is my
fourth day as cook, and my back aches like blazes.”

“Pooh, you talk like a woman,” says Flag, in a tone in-
tended to be very disdainful of the weakness.

“T only wish I could hear a veal woman talking, in this
shanty,” answers Doc, mournfully. “Confound it! I shall
neyer learn to pour the water off the potatoes without scalding
my hands with the steam.”

“Why don’t you take the potatoes out of the water with a
fork?” asks Flag, with provoking coolness.

“ Because that’s not the way it’s done by women cooks,”
was the reply, in rather a surly tone. “That's the way you
did, I suppose, when you was cook, and that accounts for
their not being fit to eat.”

“ Without doubt,” put in the Squire, soberly ; “ women are
among the most useful of the domestic animals. Now, agnan
may keep house very comfortably without a dog or a Cat, a
horse or a cow ; but without a woman, something is pretty apt

 

tA.

  
a

MALE COOKERY. a1

to go wrong. I shouldn’t wonder, if we had a woman in the
house, if she could put to flight these pilfering mice that are
destroying every thing. There was Mrs. Smith that I boarded
with when I studied law—she never had a cat about the house
nor a mouse either. I suppose she must have caught them
herself. Then she didn’t keep a cow, and yet we had plenty
of milk—she said it was milk—for our coffee. There wasn’t
a dog nor a horse about the place either, that I knew of; and
we all got along comfortably. I always thought it was her
management. In fact, I suppose a woman to be an epitome
of the domestic universe !”

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself—talking so disre-
spectfully of the sex,” said Doc, indignantly. “Your mother
was a woman, I suppose ?”

“@uess so—couldn’t swear to it, though,” Yeplied the
Squire.

“ Well, supper’s ready. I hope this coffee is hot enough to
burn your tongue, and learn it better manners.”

“You’re confounded cross to-night, Doc,” said Flag, as he
seated himself on one of the benches beside Squire.

“ Cross! Wasn’t you cross, I wonder, while you was cook?
To be sure, you said it was because you had such a terrible
cold from the wind blowing on your bed during the storm ;
and that you had liked to have blown your brains out—the
only witty thing you were ever guilty of saying, to my knowl-
edge.”

“Plague take the mice!” ejaculated Doc, vehemently, as
he viewed the wreck of his only bit of butter; “they get into
every thing. I believe they would go through a Dutchman’s
money-chest after a greasy coin; and as to keeping them out
of things in ¢/is shanty, it isn’t to be done.”

“We'll have to have a rat-tail supper,” remarked Flag.

“ A what?” asked Squire.

“A rat-tail supper.”

“That's a new delicacy! Pray, how should they be served ?”
asked Doc, with great interest.

“In soup, I should say,” suggested Squire.

“Oh, you unsuspecting ‘innocents !” laughed Flag, “ would
you, really now, desire some rat-tail soup ?”

“Why, of course, if it’s good.”

 
 

  
 

  

THE LAND-CLAIM.

Flag indulged in an uproarious burst of merriment, which
nearly upset the table.

“ Explain yourself,” said Squire.

After beginning several times and stopping to laugh, Flag
managed at last to explain:

“Why, fellows, all there is about itis just this. Where I
was raised, down in Southern Ohio, there was lots of rats—in
fact the varmints caused very serious losses to the farmers and
others, One winter, when I was a boy, we took to forming
companies of rat-catchers. Two of these companies would
contend together for catching the largest number in a given
time ; and when the time came for counting tails, the party
that was beaten had to give the other party a supper.

“Oho !” said Doc.

“Very patriotic,” said Squire.

Flag humanely forbore to laugh any longer at the expense
of his fellows; being under a wholesome fear of retaliation at
the earliest opportunity.

After supper was dismissed, the dishes were tumbled to-
gether into a pan, to be left for Ed to wash when he came home.

“ As for doing Ed’s work, I am not going to do it an hour
longer. Three days is the rule; and Ed has shirked a whole
‘day of his time as usual ;” saying which Doc stretched himself
on the bed which Flag had considerately given up because the
cook complained of an ache in his back.

“Yes, Ed is a shirk, that’s a fact,” Squire remarked, as the
Doctor became silent.

“He is real mean, J think,” added Flag. “He always takes
the best of every thing that the rest of us have troubled
ourselves to get; and he never gets any thing.”

“That's just it)’ rejoined Doc; “ he is lazy and selfish,”

“Suppose we play him a trick ?” said Squire.

“ Agreed. What shall it be ?”

“ He'll be sure not to get himself any supper when he comes
in, so it is easy enough to trick him, Just set the cold meat
and bread on the table in a careless manner, as if it was in-
tended to be thrown out. He won’t mind that—he’d rather
eat the pieces than cook any thing.”

“But I don’t sce what joke there is in that—it’s just what
he always does,” said Doc.

-

ve
  

~~

a

 

A PRAOTIOAL JOKE. “48

“Tet me finish,” said Squire. We'll just step out long
enough to give him time to come in and eat, and, when the
fatal deed is done, we will reappear in time to assure him he
has just eaten our wolf-bait, strychnine and all. Lord! won’t
it be fun to see his roaring and kicking? for he will be
frightened to death.”

“ Good,” cried Doc.

“Excellent,” echoed Flag. “But we must hurry, for I
hear his whistle already.”

“There goes the stuff on the table. Let’s run now, boys.”

Doe quite forgot his back-ache, and was lively as a cricket,
while the others were not behind.

“Where are you going?” called Ed, who at that moment
came within hail.

“Going to see if old Newcome isn’t staking his claim by
pesca ” answered Squire, cheerfully; “be back again
directly.”

The three retired to a safe distance, and atsctiaded the best
manner of giving the alarm.

The unsuspecting Ed lunched off the broken remains of the
supper with the relish of a hungry man, and then betook
himself to a newspaper fresh from the “ States,” whose date
made it two weeks old.

“You are late this evening, Ed,” remarked Squire, as the
conspirators returned ; “ got any news ?” :
“Not much; some interesting letters here from the Crimea.
That’s pretty much all that’s worth reading two weeks after
printing. Confounded bore to be deprived of the daily news,

isn’t it?”

“Tis so; but then a fellow soon gets used to it. It’s all
in habit.” 4

“Yes, like every thing else,” rejoined Doc. “Had any
supper, Ed?”

“Well, I helped myself to the leavings; guess that’ll do.”

The Doctor gave a start, and turned to survey the table.

“Good heaven! did you eat that stuff on the table ?”

“T eat some meat and bread, to be sure I did. But what
is the matter? You all look as if you had the palsy.”

“You're a dead man!” exclaimed Doe, sinking nore ? one
of the benches.

 

  
   
  
 
  
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
   
  
 
 
    
  
 
 
    
  
 
   

THE LAND-CLAT™,

©The wolf-bait! strychnine!” cried Squire and Flag, in
tones of horror.

“What do you say? Was the meat poisoned ?” asked Fad,
piteously, his face and limbs fairly rigid with terror.

“What do you give for strychnine poison, Doc?” inquired
Squire, with a sudden appearance of hopefulness. “It may
not be too late to save him yet.”

“But strychnine acts almost. immediately,” groaned Flag,
despairingly.

“Oil! fat! lard! grease!” ejaculated Doc, rapidly. “ We've
got some lard and some oil; I'll try that.”

While Doc plunged an iron spoon into the lard-can, Ed
sat rocking himself to and fro on a bench, with his hands on
his stomach, and an expression of agony upon his countenance.

“Oh, it’s no use,” said he, as Doc offered him a large
spoonful of cold lard; “it’s too late now; the poison has
done its work. Oh, I am in such awful pain! Oh, dear!
oh, dear! how could you be so careless ?”

“ Forgive me, Ed, before you die, if you do die; but perhaps
you won’t dic, after all, old fellow,” said Doc, affecting a
cheerful manner. ‘“ Come, take this lard, quick—there’s no
time to lose; swallow it right down.”

Dying though he believed he was, poor Ed found it hard
work to get a quarter of a pound of cold lard down his
throat. After swallowing a small portion of it he laid down
on the bed in despair.

“Don’t give up so, Ed,” said Flag, kindly; “take this oil,
which is easier to swallow. Come, now, don’t give up.”

Thus urged, Ed made an effort, and swallowed the contents
of an oil-cruet at one gulp.

“Tsn’t that enough to save me, Doctor ?” he asked, writhing
with imaginary pains and real sickness of stomach.

“T don’t know ; ‘don’t you feel any easiér since the lard?

“Oh, no, I don’t feel any better. at all. I believe if the.
lard was melied I could take it easier, Somebody rub my
stomach for me, can’t you ?”

Squire and Flag proceededgto rub him as requested, while
Doc melted some more lard in a tin cup over the flame of a
candle, for the fire in the stove had all gone out.

“J believe the rubbing does me good,” gasped the poor

x

—~>
“)

~~

 

    

THE CHEAT EXPOSED. 15

victim, who could with difficulty get his breath under the
vigorous treatment of his friends.

“TJ think it does,” replied Doc; “and now if you can
manage to get down a little more of this grease I guess we
shall be able to save you.”

“Oh, Lord!’ cried Ed, as his stomach heaved at the
nauseous dose; “it is near about as bad as the poison.”

“Never mind, Ed,” was Squire’s advice; “if it saves your
life you can get over the medicine.”

“There, that will do, boys. Ill just lie still awhile, and
see how I feel;” and the poor fellow lay groaning under a
horrible sickness, while his anxious friends stood grouped
about his bed in silent sympathy. Presently there was a
violent retching and vomiting which really alarmed his friends
for fear some injury would come from it; and, after a while,
silence and exhaustion. After repeated violent yomitings,
poor, victimized Ed fell into a profound slumber, and the
three conspirators retired to rest, almost ashamed to laugh at
the success of their joke, satisfactory as that had been.

At an unusually early hour of the morning, the whole party
was awakened by a noise as of some one coming in.

“Ts that you, Doc?” yawned Squire, who occupied a bed
with Flag.

“No,” said Doc, “I guess it’s Ed; he’s not in the bed, at
any rate.” :

“What are you up so early for, Ed? Do you feel worse
again ?”

“Worse! I guess you would feel worse if you had half a
pint of oil and as much more lard griping in your vitals.”

A roar of laughter burst from the occupants of the beds,
which caused some grumbling*on Ed’s part.

“Tt's very easy for you to laugh, no doubt; but if either
of you had come as near being poisoned to death, and had to
suffer the way J have, there wouldn’t be so much fun in it, I
reckon,” :

“That’s a fact,’ put in Squire, sympathizingly. “ You'll
be all right again, and it ¢s7 mean for the fellows to laugh
when you have been in such danger.”

“Well, we weren’t laughing at your accident, you know,”
added Flag, “but just at the funny parts of the treatment

 
 
 

THE LAND-CLAIM,

  

But I think, after all, Ed, we ought to make you pay for the
wolf-skins, ’cause we'd surely haye trapped three or four, it
was such a pretty night for them to be out.”

“More likely that I ought to sue you all for damages,”
groaned the victim, rocking himself to and fro in the darkness
in a frantic manner.

“Don’t be wrathy, Ed; of course, it was all a mistake.
Doe shall do double duty now, and be cook for ‘two: days
longer, as a punishment for his carelessness.” _

This promise somewhat mollified Ed’s resentment, and
he soon subsided into a doze.

An early breakfast was prepared, in order to give all a good
start in the business of the day. It was pretty well understood
that Newcome intended to remove some of the stakes which
bounded a claim belonging to Squire and Doce, and the young
men resolved to be on the ground in time to intercept such
irregular proceedings.

Flag had business with a party of surveyors, which would
take him several miles from home, and keep him out until
. nightfall. Ed declared his intention to go hunting, if, after
eating some breakfast, he felt able to carry his gun.

“Then you can shoot the wolves you cheated-us out of last
night,” remarked Flag.

“Confound you, Flag! I’ve half a mind to shoot you, or
Doc, or whoever it was that put the strychnine on the meat,
and then left it on the table. I’m not sure but I could make
out a case of intentional poisoning, and have you all arrested.”

“No, you couldn’t Ed,” said Doc, with a provoking smile,
“because there wasn’t any strychnine on the meat. You've
just been cleverly sold, that’s all.”

Ed glanced at the faces of Squire and Flag, and saw ‘that
they were on the point of “exploding.” Hastily finishing his
single cup of: coffee, the victim of the “sell” arose from the
table, took his gun from its rest, ‘and left the shanty without
a word,

“Whew ! he’s as mad as a hornet,” said Flag. “TI shouldn’t
wonder if he did something ugly in revenge.”

 

“Yes, wouldn’t he be enraged if the joke should get into’
oO >

the papers? His editorial dignity, and all that. He'll never
forgive us, you may be eure.”

 

 

. aw ’ .
ut ETS Al a

Desist neg SR a
parece

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Pe ctsicass canal seatBor”

: w %
“Bp pay cacy

MAY MORNING. %

“Nonsense! a tempest in a teapot,” said Squire, with an
uneasy laugh.

“Tt will blow over by dinner-time; he didn’t eat much
breakfast, and hunger is a potent agent to bring an enemy to
terms,” philosophized Doe.

“Well, good-by, boys, for I must be off to camp.” The
young surveyor rose, shouldered his kit, and stood in the
doorway. “Take care of yourself, Doc. Don’t let Ed do any
cooking until he gets over his pet, or he might poison us, in
good earnest ;” saying which, the young man turned his face
toward the western prairie, whistling gayly as he went.

“ Flag’s a good fallow,” said Doc, thoughtfully ; “long may
he ware!”

CHAPDAR ELI,
THE TRAGEDY IN THE TIMBER.

Tue beauty of this late May morning seemed to have
called abroad every thing animate. Birds sung merrily from

the neighboring woodland—the sly and graceful prairie-wolf

leaped noiselessly through the grass within a few rods of the
passer-by—great, fat, lazy and harmless snakes lay coiled up
in pairs on the sunniest banks, and already small yellow
butterflies fluttered around the wild pinks, larkspurs and
honeysuckles.

Henry Edwards and Frederick Allen, the Doc and Squire
of the foregoing chapter, could not restrain their pleasure as
they trod buoyantly along the way to their claim. Their
path lay along a ridge of the blufi which divides the prairie
from the timber land; on one side an ocean of green land
billows; on the other a sloping forest, going down, down, for .
a mile of irregular descent, until it came to the banks of the
mighty Missouri, glimpses of which could be seen here and
there, through long green vistas, made by ravines traversing

- the bluffs in a downward direction to the river.. The sky
= hac that beautiful azure hue which denotes a pure atmosphere ;

“the sun shone brilliantly ; and {o the two young men who

 
 

18 THE LAND-CLAIM. ;
sung, and Jaughed, and shouted as they walked, with axes
slung over their shoulders that never felt the weight, life
seemed a festival, bare existence a rich delight.

There was another young creature abroad that morning
who felt “glad that she was alive.” Having prepared her
father’s early morning meal, as the night before directed, and
put the simple furniture of the cabin in order, Alicia had
come out with her basket to gather strawberries, thousands
of baskets of which were lying in luscious ripeness among
the hazel-bushes that skirted the prairie. Nothing could have
been more entirely appropriate as a crowning beauty to the
May-morning landscape, than this young English beauty.
The simple, flowing dress, the pretty straw hat, the scarlet
shawl crossed over the girlish bosom and tied behind, to he
out of the way of the bushes—these first caught the eyes and
fixed the admiring gaze of the young men on their way to
dispute boundaries with her father.

Alicia Newcome was not personally known to either of
them, though the fame of her beauty, which was spread
abroad among the settlers, had already reached their ears. A
nearer view of the face, half hidden in soft flaxen curls and
shadowed by the wide straw hat, left no doubt who was the
charming strawberry-girl they found it necessary to pass,
though with never so much reluctance.

With a courteous salute, the young men walked past, each
wishing in his heart he had some good excuse for speaking to
the lovely child-woman—for so she looked—yet not venturing
to abash the gentle modesty that breathed from her very
figure; and had gone on but a few paces, when a ery of
alarm ‘suddenly arrested their steps, and caused both to hasten
back to the spot where Alicia was standing, spell-bound with
terror. S

Two immense serpents, coiled together into a mound of
frightful dimensions and appearance, explained the occasion
of her alarm.

“They are quite harmless, Miss—Miss Newcome, I
presume?” began Fred Allen.

Alicia drew a long breath. ‘Oh, I beg your pardon, sirs,
for interrupting your walk, but Iam so timid about snakes,
and don’t know a harmless one from one that is venomous.”

   

  
 

  

DISPUTED LANDMARKS. 19

This was said while the three hurried rapidly away from
the ugly-looking coil.

“Tt is no wonder you were frightened, I am sure,” the
Doctor rejoined. “I never fail to be startled at every form
of serpent, whether fanged or not. Pray, let me carry your
basket, for I perceive you are still trembling.”

“Oh, no, sir, I thank you. It is not large enough to he
heavy; and not half full either,’ she added, smiling. “T
don’t think I shall fill it to-day.”

“For fear of more frights? Let us see if you have enough
for dinner,” said Allen, smilingly taking the basket from her
hands. “ Why, no; here is not half a basketful, sure enough.
There are plenty of them over on my claim, close by. The
Doctor, here, and myself, could soon fill it for you, if you will
allow us.” ;

A look of frightened perplexity came over Alicia’s before
untroubled face, and pausing instantly, she extended her hand
for the basket.

“No, no; you are very kind, but I can not trouble you so
much.” Then seeing that the young men were surprised at
the sudden chanve in her manner, she seemed to take a rapid
mental survey of her situation, and eagerly continued, in tones
of childlike earnestness: “For you are the gentlemen, are
you not, whom my father is disputing boundaries with? TI
don’t know who is right. I think it very likely my father
may be wrong—he is hasty—but—oh, sirs, I fear something
sad will happen if the dispute goes any further.”

Her evident apprehension, and the tearful pathos of her
glance, as she concluded the last sentence, affected the young
men visibly, though it was only through sympathy.

“Do not be alarmed on your father’s account, Miss
Newcome,” Allen said, gently. “I give you my word that I
shall not use violence in this quarrel.”

“Tt is not my intention, either, to do so,” added the Doctor.

“T am very much afraid,” murmured the young girl, sadly.
“T ought not to conceal from you that my father is in a terrible
passion, and that he took his gun out with him this morning.”

“Then,” said Allen, affecting an indifference he did not feel,
“your father is safe, and it is only we who are in danger; for
we, you perceive, are not armed,”

 

  
   

20 THE LAND-CLAIM.

The child was not used to argument, nor to express her
own convictions very often; therefore she gave for answer
not words indeed, but such a look of touching appeal as was
better than a whole chapter of logic. Allen felt his heart
give a great bound in answer to it.

“Tf you will let us fill your basket with berries, and go
home contented with our peaceable intentions, I think I may
promise you a happy settlement of the present difficulties.
What do you say, Doctor ?”
> “That I shall be very happy to help bring about the
promised settlement.”

Thus urged, the young girl complied pleasantly. She
secretly thought, besides, that delay was in this case not
“ dangerous,” but, on the contrary, might prove a means of
conciliation, by giving her father time to cool his anger, in
the bright morning air. Cheered by this hope, her native
graciousness of manner returned to her, and she received the
heaped up basket with mirthful thanks.

“ Good-morning now, Miss Newcome,” Allen had replied ;
“perhaps your father may invite me home with him, to help
eat them.”

“J hope he may,” was the fervent rejoinder; the echo of
which answer rung in Allen’s ears, and lit, also, a half-conscious
blush on the cheek of the fair child herself, as she remembered
her father’s taunts of the previous evening, and feared she had
been too forward in conversing with these strangers.

In a somewhat altered mood, the young men proceeded on
their morning walk, and arrived at the disputed boundary in
time to find their stakes already removed, and new ones
placed where they cut off a valuable portion of their claim.
This alteration prevented their prairie and timber land from
joining, as it did before, and spoiled the shapeliness of the
claim. The first impulse of either was a disposition to fight
it out by force, if necessary—for they had the claim-laws on
their side—-but, upon remembering their promise to the timid
child they nad just parted from, a better resolution replaced
the promptings of passion.

“ All we can do in the premises,” said Allen, “is to pull up
these stakes, as Newcome has done, and put them back in
their former places.”

   

—
- 4 ——

AN ALTERCATION. 21

“ Agreed,” answered the Doctor. “I don’t see any other
way.”

For half an hour the young men worked uninterruptedly ;
but, coming to the border of the timber, they then perceived
Newcome, leaning against a tree, and carefully watching their
proceedings. Resolving to take no notice of him unless first
addressed, they continued pulling up and. laying the stakes in
heaps, until they came quite opposite the spot where he stood.

“Yow'll find your labor lost, gentlemen,” he remarked,
grinning maliciously.

“Very well; we can repeat this game as often as you can,”
was the Doctor’s impulsive reply.

“You may repeat it once too often!” retorted the
Englishman.

“Do you threaten me?” asked the Doctor, angrily

“Remember our promise, Doc,” muttered Allen, so as not
to be heard by the other. “Let the obstinate dog go; he
may do you some mischief.”

“Tf I don’t threaten I may execute,” said Newcome, with
an ugly sneer.

Allen now saw that this war of words was likely to
continue to an unprofitable length, and desiring to cover the
Doctor’s irritation, he hastened to put in a reply before his
friend could do so.

“We don’t think, Mr. Newcome, that you will do any thing
violent or unlawful. If we can not settle this difficulty
between ourselves, we can take it before the claim-club, or
into a court, if you choose.”

“No, you don’t get me into law, my fine gentlemen! I
know very well where my rights would go to, in that case.
Folks of your profession are not troubled with too much
honesty, and I prefer to settle my own difficulties.”

“Take care what you say!” cried the Doctor, whose blood
—Irish blood it was—was roused.

“Pshaw! don’t mind the poor fool!” muttering which
contemptuous expression Allen turned away, but not in time
to have escaped a blow with a heavy stick, had it not been
averted by the Doctor, who struck up the cudgel with the ax
he carried in his hand, and which in descending just grazed
the arm of Newcome,

 
  

22 THE LAND-CLAIM,

The man’s eyes fairly blazed with malice, and instixctively
he clutched and half raised his gun, which hitherto had rested
against the tree.

“Take care, Newcome! don’t shoot!’ exclaimed Allen,
hastily. “I apologize for my discourteous language, which
you were so unwise as to provoke. Let this business stop
here, before it comes to something we should all regret.”

“Tshouldn’t apologize—I’d have the man arrested,” cried
the Doctor, passionately.

“ Have me arrested if you dare !” -hissed Newcome, through
his clenched teeth. Saying which, he laid his gun on his arm,
and stalked into the woods.

The young men stood conversing for a few minutes,
undecided what course to pursue with so desperate an enemy,
when sharp and loud came two distinct reports, almost in the
same moment, and the Doctor fell to the ground, exclaiming,
as he fell: g

“ Allen! my God, I’m shot!”

For a short interval of time the young man was so distracted
by the loss of his friend as not to know what course it was
best to pursue. But seeing at last that the Doctor had really
ceased to live, the necessity of doing something to secure
his murderer suggested itself; and despairing of success,
singlée-handed in such an undertaking, he set out rapidly for
the trading-post, as the nearest point at which help could be
obtained.

Soon the whole settlement was engaged in the pursuit, if
pursuit it could be called, for the culprit had made no effort
to escape, but was found still in the woods, near the spot
where the murder was committed. The man eyed those who
came to arrest him at first with a defiant scorn; but when
told that he was accused of the willful murder of Dr. Henry
Edwards, he gave a terrified start, and drooped his head
forward as if smitten with a sudden mortal pang.

The dead body of Edwards was conveyed to Fairview, the
county town, and laid out in the room where the examination
was to be held, before one of the district judges.

 
  
 
 
   
  
 
    
  
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
   

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THE CABIN AND ITS MISTRESS, 23

CHAPLER . LV.
THE EXAMINATION.

Wuen Allen, who was the accuser of Newcome, was asked
if there were any other witnesses to appear at the preliminary
trial of the man, he was forced, very much against his own
feelings, to name Alicia Newcome as the only person who
could, to his certain knowledge, give important evidence in
the case. There were others, no doubt, who knew of the
hostile feelings of the prisoner toward the murdered man, and
himself also; and such persons were publicly asked to come
forward and give in their evidence. As for the prisoner's
daughter, it seemed cruel to oblige her to testify against her
own father, and that she might not be too much alarmed at
the summons, he proposed to go first and break the news
to her.

The cabin of Thomas Newcome stood in the center of a
clearing, on the sloping face of the bluff, overlooking the Iowa
side of the river, and affording a glorious view up and down
the Missouri for miles. The little square patch of cleared
ground was walled about on three sides by thick woods, which
living wall was everywhere festooned with wild grape-vines,
diffusing a delicious perfume. Below the house, along the
path to the river, were clumps of wild plum-trees and
gooseberry bushes, mixed with raspberry and elder, the fruit
already defined in shape, and promising an abundant harvest.

The cabin’s young mistress was busy preparing the midday
meal, yet making frequent pauses in her work to stand in the
little rustic porch shading the door, and gaze at the shining
river, the exquisite blue of the sky, the luxuriant foliage of
the spring—bursting out in song every now and then, as she
thought what a glorious thing it is to live in such a world.

As Allen approached the house he caught the sound of the
birdlike singing, and it almost paralyzed his limbs; for how
could he so soon change that happy music to cries of anguish ?
He knew she was flitting back and forth, and round and
about, for he could notice the changes in the sound of her

>

 

 
   
 
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
 
      

THE LAND-CLAIM,

voice as she did so. Just as he reached the porch, she had
flitted to the door for another glance at the beautiful May
landscape and smiling heavens, her flaxen curls prettily
disordered by exercise, and such roses blushing on her cheeks
as only blossom out of English complexions, or our Jew
England ones.

But the roses faded, and the gay carol died on her lips, at
the sight of her visitor. Involuntarily she stretched out her
hands, as if to beg of him not to tell the news he brought.
Allen took them in his own very tenderly, and led her into
the house, where he perceived the table already spread for
dinner, in the center of which was a dish of delicious-looking
strawberries.

“ Ah,” said he, making a poor attempt at a smile, “TI hope
you will allow me a dish of this beautiful fruit, though I have
come uninvited.”

But he did not release the little hands that they might
serve him; he only looked anxiously in the changing counte-
nance, with a weakness at his heart which he could not
overcome.

And Alicia herself, between embarrassment at his singular
manner and a conviction of some impending calamity, was
unable to extricate her hands from his grasp, or to ask for an
explanation of his visit. How long Allen would have remained
tongue-tied on the subject he had come about is uncertain,
had he not caught the sound of excited voices approaching,
and felt the necessity of breaking the news before they should
reach the house.

“Poor little girl!” he hurriedly whispered, “I have bad
news for you. ‘Your father is under arrest—”

The sentence remained unfinished, for he felt her hands
drawn suddenly out of his, as she sunk fainting at hig feet.

He had laid her on her father's bunk, and was endeavoring
to restore her to consciousness, when the constable made his
appearance, attended informally by two citizens of Fairview.
The constable, who was a tender-hearted man in his rough
way, was very much impressed in this instance with the
unpleasantness of his duty.

“So she tuk it hard, did she, poor thing! I’m glad I
didn’t see her faint away. Never could bear to have women-
sain
x

Piscean ei

A DAUGHTER’S GRIEF. J

folks mixed up in sich scrapes; they allus take on so, a man
feels mighty bad to see ’em.”

Allen made no reply. He was thinking of the part he
must act in this sorrowful business, and feeling beforehand
how that young creature would hate him as her father’s
accuser, and what desolation he should be instrumental in
bringing upon her.

“Why, she’s nothing but a child,’ remarked another man,
peering over the constable’s shoulders. “I wonder if she’s
all the housekeeper Newcome had—the old wretch !”

“T don’t see where she got her beauty from,” was the com-
ment of the third person; “she’s mighty pretty, that’s
certain.”

“ Sit down, gentlemen, if you please,” said Allen, a little
impatiently ; “ you keep the fresh air from her.”

“She’s a-comin’ to now,” observed the constable, as he
walked to the porch and sat down on the steps.

The other men had less delicacy, and hung about, as near
as they felt it safe, in the neighborhood of the reviving girl.
Allen wanted to thrash them; but restrained his indignation
by silence. Carefully as a woman he arranged and composed
the disordered dress, watching for the first convulsive signs
of recoyery, which were heralded by frequent faint moanings.

“Oh, my father!” at last broke from the pale lips. Several
times was the expression repeated ere she opened her eyes,
to find herself watched and tended in such a strange way by
all those unknown men. The sight of these new faces seemed
to impart resolution and strength. She instantly raised
herself to a-sitting posture and restrained her moans, though
the tears now rolled over her pale cheeks in a shower.

“Be comforted, Miss Newcome,” said Allen; “ your father
is well and safe for the present. Providence may show some
way of clearing him yet; at all events, it is too early to
despair.”

The constable, coming in to inquire if she was better,
overheard the latter part of this attempt at consolation.

“Ta! yes, Miss. It isn’t half the men as is accused that
gets any thing proven agin’em. Like as not this may turn
out to be accidental shooting, at the worst.”

“Ts it true, then, that my father killed some one?” cried

 
26 THE LAND-CLAIM.

Alicia, a composure almost frightful in one so young settling
upon her face. ‘“ Why,” she continued, addressing Allen,
“you are alive! and—and—who then was killed ?”

“ My friend, Dr. Edwards, was shot,” replied Allen, gloomily,
as a vivid recollection of the occurrences of the morning
returned to him.

Alicia made no reply, the occasional convulsive movements
of her face alone indicating her increased agitation. Seeing
that the strangers were evidently waiting for something which
she did not comprehend to transpire, she whispered to Allen,
who still maintained his seat beside her, to know the occasion
of their presence. Allen beckoned the constable.

“This gentleman,” said he, “ will explain what is necessary
for you to do.”

“My dear Miss,” began the constable, embarrassed, “it is
very unpleasant of course for a daughter to give evidence agin
her own father, an’ I hope you may not have much to give
that will go agin him; for your sake [ hope it. But law and
justice make it necessary for you to say what you know
about this affair, before the Judge, to-day.”

Alicia had listened silently to every word uttered by the
officer of the law, as if she might discover some comfort in
them for her heavy trouble; but when she found that they
only showed her the influence which she could and must use
in fixing her father’s guilt, her despair quite overcame her
fortitude, and she broke out into piteous sobbing, and cries of,
“Oh, my father! oh, my father!’ Tears came into the eyes
of all present.

“T guess,” said the constable, “as the examination don’t
come off till three o’clock this afternoon, we'd better go home
now, and send some of the women-folks to comfort her.
*Pears she’ll cry herself sick at this rate.”

“ Miss Newcome, I am obliged to return to the village now
to attend to the affairs connected with my friend’s death,”
said Allen, with an effort, forcing himself to speak. “ Shall
I send some one to you ?”

“Qh, no! oh, no! £E do not wish to see any one, unless I
could see my father,” she added, looking inquiringly toward
the constable.

“Must say no to that, young lady, though I am real sorry ;

   

—__—_—.«+——

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’

PREPARATIONS FOR THE TRIAL. 27

wut you can not see your father fore the examination,”
answered the officer.

“Shall I come for you this afternoon?’ asked Allen,
thinking that, friendless as she secmed, she might accept this
service even from him, who stood to her in the light of an
enemy.

“No, oh, no! I will come by myself to the village. But
where shall I find him ?” she asked.

“Waal, he will be at the Judge’s house, I reckon, ’cause
we hain’t got a court-house in Fairview yet,” answered the
constable. “Tl bring down my light wagon for you, at the
right time; so, don’t trouble yourself about nothing, only to
get over feelin’ so bad. Mebbe there ain’t no use of it, after
all.”

With this consoling remark the officer left the house,
beckoning his two attendants after him, who came rather
reluctantly, as they perceived that Allen still lingered, and
they had “come to see it out.”

“T wish to assure you, Miss Newcome, that I did not vio-
late my promise this morning, and that I would have done
much to haye prevented this catastrophe, for your father’s
sake and yours, as well as my poor friend’s.”

“Oh, dear me! I can not thank you for that, Mr. Allen,
for it only makes my father’s case so much the worse.”

“Remember one thing, poor child, your. father’s guilt is
net yet proven or known. You can be as guarded as you
choose in your evidence; and now I must leave you to com-
pose your mind for the trial. Try and think of every thing
that will go in your father’s favor.”

“Thank you for that,” cried the grateful girl, as Allen
turned rapidly away to overtake the constable.

So deeply rooted in her mind had been the apprehension
of some violence on the part of her father, that Alicia had
scarcely questioned the truth of the charge preferred against
him ; in fact, she did not expect his acquittal, and hence the
vehemence of her grief. But she was too young, and knew
too little about the nature of evidence to realize that her own
testimony would do more to commit him than that of any
one else not a positive witness of the crime. The circum-
stances of the murder being all unknown to her, she naturally

 
THE LAND-CLAIM,

looked for the convincing proofs to come from some one con-
cerned in the affray. Therefore, in thinking over what she
might have to say, she had almost persuaded herself that she
could soften the weight of any but positive evidence against
him; and remembering that Allen had said her father’s guilt
was “not yet proven,” she took a little comfort from this
small ground of hope, and prepared with some courage for
the trial. :

That apartment in the Judge’s house temporarily converted
into a court-room, by three o’clock was filled almost to suffo-
cation with the people of Fairview and vicinity. In the
center was a rude table, on which reposed the body of the
murdered man, it having been examined by a surgeon, and
the ball extracted from the deadly wound. On one side of
the table stood the prisoner, and on the other his accuser,
while a few feet distant sat the Judge, and near him, counsel
for both sides. :

When Alicia entered the court-room, it was observed that
the prisoner started violently, and that his brow contracted
into a sullen gloom. The murmur that arose upon her ap-
pearance soon subsided, and an anxious silence prevailed in
the assembly, while the proper officers proceeded to open
court.

Allen was first examined, and related the interview with
the prisoner as it occurred, as also the circumstances of the
death of Edward; forbearing to refer to the warning given
him previously by the prisoner’s daughter. Other persons
testified to a knowledge of the dispute concerning the bound-
ary of the Newcome claim; and also that the prisoner had
often spoken very angrily about the owners of the adjoining
claim.

Alicia Newcome was then sworn. People murmured as
they observed how pale and frightened she looked, and saw
the entreating glances she cast upon her father. They also
noticed that he kept his eyes constantly averted. The wit-
ness testified, in a voice hardly audible from agitation, that
her father had spoken very excitedly on the subject of the
dispute the night previous; that he had said he would pull
up the stakes of the other claimants ; that he had even threat-
ened to shoot them—the claimants, Also, that he was a

   

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i ay sei

 

THE PRISONER COMMITTED, 29

man of irritable temper, and sometimes threatened her; and
she raised her voice a little as she added, of her own accord,
“but he never struck me when he has threatened, and so I
do not think his anger is of a dangerous kind.”

There was some cross-questioning, and inquiries into the
nature of the wound, from which it appeared that the ex-
tracted ball fitted the prisoner’s gun, and also that the gun
when taken was empty, and_had been recently fired.

Counsel for defense reminded the first witness that he had
stated that there were two shots fired almost simultaneously.
“Did witness see who fired either of them ?”

“ No.”

“ Was there any apparent difference in the nearness of the
reports ?”

“Now that I am reminded of it, I think I noticed a differ-
ence at the time.”

“Which shot was it, first or last, that took effect on Dr.
Edwards ?” ;

“T could not say. I had heard both before he fell.”

Counsel for prosecution then desired to know what direc-
tion the prisoner took when he left witness; and in what
position the murdered man stood in reference to that
direction.

Witness “could not answer positively. In the excitement
of the moment did not notice more than that the prisoner
went into the woods behind us; but whether to the right or
left, could not say.”

The surgeon then uncovered the body, and demonstrated
that the ball must have come from the left of where the de-
ceased was standing at the time; and also thet it had been
fired from a lower point of ground, as tlie appeararice of the
wound indicated.

While the body was uncovered there was a strong sensa-
tion in the room; and it was noticed and commented upon
that the prisoner showed no emotion at the sight, but rather
seemed curious to observe the correctness of the surgeon’s
observations.

Upon the testimony offered, the Judge felt compelled
to commit the prisoner for further trial, and to await the
impaneling of the Grand Jury. The crowd, who had been

 
80 pe THE LAND-CLAIM.
waiting in suppressed wrath to obtain this sanction to their
already settled convictions, now began to mutter threats, and
to talk about “stringing him up,” “ putting him in the Mis-
souri,” and the like methods of executing hasty justice ; none
of which threats seemed to alarm the prisoner, who, during
the whole examination, had been calm, though sullen; and
had only said in reply to a question from the Judge as to
what defense he could make, ghat he “had not killed Ed-
wards; that there was somebody in the woods besides
hin.”

The sheriff, constable and a few others quietly surrounded
the prisoner; and the Judge requested the crowd to disperse
peaceably, as the law was amply able to take care of offend-
ers; and that they must show respect for it by keeping it
themselves ; counsel to which they reluctantly yielded, after
some mutterings.

Then came-a scene which tried the nerves of the specta-
tors, The poor unhappy daughter, who felt that she had
done her father so miserable a service, was waiting for the
opportunity to beg his forgiveness before leaving him to lone-
Jiness and imprisonment. Throwing herself on the floor, she
bowed her head on his knees, and gave way to sobs that
wrenched her delicate frame with their violence.

“Oh, my father! would I had died before I spoke such
words as I did. If they kill you, they shall kill me, too ; for
what have I to live for, without mother or father? Oh,
heaven! how terrible it is!”

To these piteous lamentations the offended father turned an
indifferent ear. “She could cry and lament, now that she
» had done what she could to deprive herself of a father; but
she must not expect pity from one she had not pitied ;” and,
finally, he expressed himself weary of her complaints, and,
rising, left her fainting on the floor.

It would have been well for Thomas Newcome if he had
shown some compassion for his suffering daughter—the im-
pression of his cruel nature gaining more ground among those
who witnessed this exhibition of it from this one circum-
stance, than from the accredited fact of the shooting an
enemy. : :

But there was pity for her in other hearts, if not in his

s

 
ATTEMPT AT’ RECONCILIATION. 81

The constable’s wife had lingered behind to offer sympathy
and protection; and now, when she beheld the misery and
nelplessness of the poor child, her woman’s heart bled for
her.

“The poor, dear young thing! She shall not be mother-
Jess, nor yet fatherless ; for I will be a mother to her, and my
husband shall protect her as a daughter.”

Mrs. Wyman spoke with that inspiration of eloquence
which genuine feeling imparts to even the humblest language ;
and from that moment Silas Wyman’s wife took a high rank
in the esteem of all present—a rank which she continued to
hold by after deeds of goodness; for the friendless and home-
less girl was taken immediately to her home and heart, and
cherished and nourished through a lingering illness which
had nearly cost her life,

CHAPTER V.
AN APPARITION.

THAT evening, when the surveyor was returning home,
healthily weary, and in anticipation of the usual merry times
at the shanty, he fell in with the editor, mounted on a pony,
and pacing easily along in the twilight.

“Ts that you, Ed? How do you do by this time ?”

“None of your business,” retorted Ed.

“Come, now, old fellow, don’t be cross about a joke.
Remember, the Bible says, ‘let not the sun go down upon
your wrath; and it’s after sundown now. Give me your
right hand of fellowship, my friend, and let’s forget about
this matter, until you get a chance to pay us fellows
back.”

“Pooh ! don’t be sentimental, Flag. I suppose I’ve a right
to be out of humor if I please; but you need not feel troubled
about it. As for paying you back, you may be sure I shall
do that at the first opportunity ; and there'll be time enough
after that to shake hands,”

 
82 THE LAND-CLAIM.

“Just as you pleaso; hope it won’t be long,” answered
Flag, good-humoredly. “ Wher. did you get that pony ?”

“ Bought him.”

“He’s a fine, stout fellow. What did you pay for
him ?”

“Traded my gun to one of the Omahas for him.”

“Did you get any game this morning ?”

“No. I made up my mind to go and look at a claim
down on the Platte ; and that’s where I found this animal.”

“Hope Doc has supper ready,” said Flag, as they came in
sight of the shanty. ‘But there’s no light, and, of course,
no supper, and I’m as hungry as a starved wolf,” he
added.”

Flag went into the shanty and threw down his kit, while
Ed remained outside to picket his pony.

“T don’t see*what keeps Doc and Squire out so late, this
evening,” Flag remarked, coming up behind Ed so unexpect-
edly as to cause him to jump aside as he was driving a stake
in the ground. “I believe I shall go up to the village and
get my supper. What do you say to going along?”

“Tm not hungry; but I’m tired, and I shall stay at home
and go to bed.”

“Very well; I wish you a good night’s rest;” and Flag
turned away, half amused and half provoked at his mess-
mate’s surly humor.

It was near midnight when Flag returned, accompanied by
Allen—other friends and citizens having volunteered to take
charge of the body of Dr. Edwards. The night was beauti-
fully light and warm. As the young men walked home-
ward, conversing on the events of the day, their imaginations
became very naturally much excited, and enabled them to
recall each and every past circumstance of their association
with the deceased. These reminiscences had quite scared
away all sleepfulness, and when they threw themselves upon
the bed which they occupied in common, it was not to close
their eyes, but only to relax their limbs, while they continued
their talk.

“We ought to waken Ed, I suppose, and tell him about
this affair,’ said Flag.

“No, not to-night,” answered Squire, wearily. “I have

 
THE OTHER SHOT.

had excitement cnough for one day; and what’s the use
of spoiling his sleep, since he can sleep ?”

“T heard a great deal about Newcome’s daughter, in the
village. Is she such a wonderful girl as the people make her
out 2?”

“Tf you mean is she very intelligent and pretty for her
station and parentage, yes. And very gentle and affectionate
too, I should say. I wonder where she learned her ladylike
ways.”

“That’s what the Fairview people talk about. The Judge’s
wife is very much taken with her, and is sorry she let the
constable’s wife carry her off.”

“She has fallen into good hands, I think; but the poor
girl was terribly broken down by her misfortunes. I hap-
pened to see her in the morning before we met her father,
and she was as rosy and smiling as a young thing could be.
But, after the mental struggle she had to go through with,
and a couple of fainting-fits, she was very much changed.”

* “Fer father must be a cruel and cowardly wretch, accord-
ing to all accounts. Do you suppose there can be any doubt
of its being he who shot the Doctor? I heard one man sug-
gest that there was room for doubt in the case, notwithstand-
ing the strong testimony against him.”

“Well, of course, every thing admits of doubt which is
not proven; but I don’t know what stronger circumstantial
evidence could be brought to convict a man. Why, Doc
hadn’t an enemy in the whole world that I ever heard of,
He was so generous with men, and so gentle with women,
that I often envied him his power to attract everybody to
‘him. This is the only trouble of any sort I ever knew him
to get into—this fatal claim-quarrel.”

“Yes, and that makes it seem so much worse, that he was
killed by malice—if killed by malice he was. But suppose,
as that man said, the other shot might have killed him, and,
killed him accidentally ?”

“Tn that case do you suppose any man would be so base
as to conceal the circumstances, and let another man bear the
aceusation of willful murder? It is not probable, in the
least; and if nothing better than such a supposition comes to

aid him, Newcome will surely be convicted.”
2

 
84 THE LAND-CLAIM.

The young men remained silent for some moments, each
engaged in painful reflections. There was no light in the
room but that of the moon, which shone in at the uncurtained
windows so as to illuminate it quite enough to make all its
contents distinctly visible. Without thinking about it at the
time, they had, as they afterward remembered, specially
noticed the order and arrangement of every thing in the room,
as being so remarkably brought out by the unusual.splendor
of the moon’s brilliancy. Some such recognizance of the fact
was present to their minds at that moment. It was a
momentary, partial obscurity of one of the windows, which
drew their attention to the circumstance that some one was
passing it in the direction of the door, and led them to look
for it to open. It did so, though without noise or jar, and
the familiar form of their late friend glided beside their bed.

Standing there, he opened his vest and put a finger to the
wound in his side, his face wearing an expression of agony
which was perfectly distinct, and terrible to behold. Then
silently turning, he pointed to where Ed was lying muttering
in his sleep, and vanished away before their eyes. So
paralyzed with horror were both the young men, that, for a
brief interval, neither of them spoke or stirred. Squire was
the first to recover himself.

“Did you see any thing, Flag ?”

“Why do you ask?” returned he, with an involuntary
shudder. ‘Did you see any thing ?”

“T saw Doc standing beside the bed.”

“So did I. Can this be a trick of Ed’s? He seems to be
unusually sound asleep, for all our talking has not waked
him, and that looks suspicious.”

“But he does not know. Let’s get up and look out.”

They arose, and going out of doors, took a view of the
neighborhood. There were no hiding-places anywhere near
—nothing but the open prairie shining with dew, and no
creature in sight except Ed’s Indian pony quietly feeding near
the house corner.

“Tt is very strange,” said Squire, standing in the open
door, after satisfying himself that there was no intruder on
the premises. :

“Listen!” said Flag; “is that Ed awake 2?”

 
  

   
 
 
    
   
    
 
 
  

 
   
 
 
     
   
 
  
     
   
   
   
   
     
   
   
   
   
   
    
     
   
   
 

ED’s DREAM. 85

+— else

“ What is the matter?” inquired Ed, as they turned toward
him. “Where is Doc? Has any thing happened to him?
Why are you not in bed ?”

“ What makes you ask if any thing has happened to Doc ?”
asked Squire, giving Flag a sign of silence.

“JT had a dream—and Doc has not come to bed. Why
don’t you tell me what is the matter?” he asked, raising
himself on his elbow.

“There is something very serious the matter, Ed.”

“Then the doctor is shot!” said he, jumping up hurriedly.

“Yes, he is shot. But how did you know it?”

“T have just dreamed it. Is he dead ?”

“Yes, dead. He was shot two hours after you last saw
him.” ;

A smothered groan escaped from Ed, who, half dressed,
was pacing back and forth in the cabin.

“ Why don’t you tell me the particulars?” he asked; ‘and
whether it was an accident ?”

After relating all he knew about the cause of Edwards’
death, “ Now,” said Squire, ‘tell me what you dreamed ?”

“T dreamed,’ answered Ed, still walking rapidly about and
Shivering, “that I saw the Doctor come into the cabin and
show you a wound in his side; and he looked awful—awful !”

“ Did he make any sign or communication, besides showing
his wound?” asked Squire, now deeply interested to learn
how what he had seen and Ed had dreamed entirely corre-
sponded.

“No; why do you ask?”

“ Only because I wished to know whether you had had the
same vision asleep which I had waking; for I, too, saw the
Doctor come in and show his wound. Was that what you
saw, Flag ?”

“The very same.”*

“Qreat God!” muttered Ed; “ that is very singular!”

After having related the events of the day over again to

af ro

ene

 
    

 
 

* This ‘‘short story’ is repeated from the lips of a citizen of Omaha,
who solemnly testifies to its actual occurrence, in a case nearly analogous
to the incidents recorded in this chapter. Those curious in such matters
A > may refer to Mrs. Crowe’s ‘* Night Side of Nature,” where numerous
i, attested and verified instances of a bodily appearance after death are
recorded. See also Robert Dale Owen’s more recent work, “ Footfails on
the Boundary of Another World.”

   
86 THE LAND-CLATM.

their messmate, who gradually grew ca:m, ana almost indif:
ferent, the young men again returned to seek some repose;
but it was almost daylight in the cabin before sleep closed the
eyes of any of that party to a brief oblivion of their mutual
grief and uneasiness.

CHAPTER VI.
JUDGE LYNCH.

Tm funeral services of Dr. Edwards being over, and his
body committed to the virgin earth of prairie-land, people
dispersed to their homes with minds somewhat softened and
solemnized by the scene, always impressive, of a stranger's
burial in a strange land, but with their hatred of his murderer
by no means lessened.

At the big log-tavern in Fairview, the appearance of the
three young men who had acted as chief mourners was being
descanted upon by a crowd of citizens, intermixed with a few
persons from other towns, and an occasional new-comer to the
territory. In a country where the population is made up of
new-comers, no notice is taken of such except to endeavor to
be the first to sell them some claim of fabulous merits, on
discovering a disposition in the stranger to “look around.”
But to-day even the spirit of speculation was dumb and lame
in the presence of the more absorbing theme; and a middle-
aged gentleman, of fine looks and somewhat lofty bearing,
listened with uninterrupted interest to the free discussion
going on around him, which gradually became a running
commentary on every circumstance connected with the late
tragedy.

“T never seen anybody more tuk down than two of them
mourners was,” remarked one man. “They couldn’t a felt

worse if they had lost a brother.”

2 “Yes,” responded a second, “them are fine fellers. One
is a lawyer, son of old Judge Allen, in Ohio, where I cum
from; and tother is a surveyor from Michigan—I don’t
remember his name, cause Allen allers calls him Flag, and so

 

ef lasllaitassns esi eae a a

 
THE ORPHAN. 87

ne’s got to go by that. I don’t know much about that other
feller—he’s somebody that I don’t like, nohow.”

“No; fe didn’t shed any genuine tears; all crocodile,
every one of ’em. He just sniveled, and looked at the spec-
tators over his handkerchief. He’s a mean-looking cuss, and
I wonder at Allen’s taking him up so kindly.”

“Folks mus’n’t be too pertickular in a new country,” sug-
gested somebody, whom probably the “shoe pinched.”

“Well, the best of them’s gone, to my notion. He wasn’t
quite so peart and full of his jokes, nor so for’ard like as Allen
is; but he was the best-hearted, pleasantest-mannered young
man in the county.”

“Yes; and we ought to have taken Newcome and strung
him right up. That's the way to serve ’em when they get so
bold—shooting a man down in cold blood.”

“Tt would have been done, too, if it hadn’t been for his
daughter. Everybody pitied her—she’s such a helpless young
thing.”

“Her father didn’t pity the girl the Doctor was engaged to.
The postmaster says there's a letter come to-day from her;
and how do you think she will feel when she gets the news
that he is dead—murdered ?”

“Tf she’d a-been right afore his eyes though, the way New-
come’s girl was afore ours, it might have made a difference.
When a man is desperate enough to shoot another man, he
don’t stop to consider friends at a distance, or how they'll
feel about it.”

“ They say Newcome’s girl is right sick; as crazy as a loon
all night, and a-begging of her father to forgive her for
appearin’ agin him. He ought to be hung for bein’ so hateful
to her.”

“TI wonder what'll become of the girl if her father ¢y hung?
She hasn’t got any relations in this country, I heard; and she’s
so young—not more’n fifteen, I reckon—and disgraced at that.”

“Her face is her fortune,” put in some one, curtly.

“Yes, and a poor enough fortune it proves, sometimes, to

have a handsome face and nobody to take care of it.”
“That's a fact. I heard old Mauvais going on about her

beauty at a great rate just the day before the murder, and I

reckon it’s no good luck to have him a-foolin’ around. He

 
   
  
 
    
  
   
   
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
   

THE LAND-CLAIM.

couldn’t marry her if she’d have him, for his jealous Indian
wives would tomahawk him, straight; besides, ’tain’t likely
he’d want to marry a murderer’s daughter.”

“She’s in good hands now. Wyman’s wife will see that
she is taken care of; and Wyman, too, if he wasn’t poor,
would be glad enough to keep the girl, for he’s mightily
interested in her. He’s got a soft heart for a constable,
‘Wyman has.”

“ He isn’t so poor, either, but he has bread enough for one
more mouth,” said the constable himself, appearing in their
midst. “Nobody knows, gentlemen, what may happen in the
futur’, or whether the girl will lose her father or not; but if
she does, an’ she will take such fare as we can give her, she’s
just as welcome as a child of my own; an’ that’s what my
woman says; and so, if you please, you necdn’t be a prophe-
syin’ evil about her, nor her pretty face neither.”

“ Hurrah for Wyman!” said two or three, at once.

But the constable had not come to be hurrahed, nor to
make a figure of himself; he had just dropped in to see what
was going on, and was about making his way out again as
quietly as he had entered, when the middle-aged stranger
before mentioned touched his arm.

“ Allow me to pass into the street with you; I wish to ask
you some questions concerning a man called Thomas New-
come. Do you know him?”

“Yes, sir, I know a man of that name.”

“©an you tell me where he is from ?”

“He is called an Englishman here, though I believe he’s
late from somewhere in Connecticut State.”

“From Hartford ?”

“ Yes, sir, that’s it, I think.”

“And he has a daughter—what is her name ?”

“ Alicia,”

“Where is this man—Thomas Newcome ?”

“At present, sir, he is a prisoner in the sheriff's house,
*cause we hayen’t got a jail built yet. Only two days ago a
man was shot—supposed to be by him—can’t say yet as it was
him—hope it wasn’t.”

“And it is his daughter, then, who is at your house,
very ill, as I have heard. Can I see her, do you think ?”

= pots
@er,

THE STRANGER. ’ 389

“Waal, I don’t know what the doctor that tends her
would say about it. Are you a relation of hers?”

“T haye—ahem !—a great interest in her; perhaps can tell
her something to her advantage. At all events, it is necessary
I should see her personally.”

“She wouldn’t know you, if you was her best friend. She
is clean out of her head about this business of her father.”

“Tt is only necessary I should see her; I will not speak to
her at all, nor in any way disturb her. I wish to settle a
question of identity.”

“Waal, I’ve nothing to say agin it myself. You can go
along home with me now, if you think it will be for her
advantage, as you say.”

“T only said perhaps,” returned the stranger; “I wish to
be certain about it.”

As they were not then far from the constable’s house, a —
walk of three minutes more brought them to its unpretending
portal. The constable soon explained to his wife the —
on which the strange gentleman had come.

“She’s not looking like herself,’ said Mrs. Wyman, as she
led the way into a small, neatly-arranged bedroom on the
first floor. “She’s had to have her hair all cut off to-day,
ind she had such lots of pretty curls it was a great pity to
out the scissors to’em. And then her face is changed, too,
ind looks peaked and sunk to what it did, and wonderful for
auch a little while as she’s been sick.”

Peaked and thin indeed looked the delicate young face, and
more peaked and more ghastly on account of the absence of
its former abundant vail of flaxen curls. The sharp outlines
were not agreeable, yet the stranger gazed at them long and
scrutinizingly.

“This is her hair,” said he, touching with his finger the
heap of curls still lying on a table.

“Yes. I thought ['d keep them to look at till her hair
gets growed out again. It was such a pity?”

The stranger took from, his breast a small miniature on
ivory, and handed it to Mrs. Wyman, at the same time asking
her if she saw any resemblance between that waisre and
Alicia Newcome when she was in health.

“The dear Lord !” exclaimed the good woman, in admiring

 
Sie SS

spares ere

i
{i
i}

 

a a Re eT

0 THE LAND-CLAIM.

wonder. “Was there anybody ever so handsome as that?
Why, it’s just like a picture! To be sure it 7s a picture—but
I mean it don’t look like any human creature—only this poor
child—and it’s handsomer than she is, though I thought no-
body could be.”

“Then you think Miss Newcome resembles this picture ?”

“Oh, yes, she’s mightily like it; same sweet eyes, and
yellowish curls, and pleasant smile, but not quite so handsome
about the mouth and chin, and not so proud-looking in the
way she holds her head.”

The sick girl began to moye about restlessly, and to repeat
her one cry of—“ Oh, my father, pity your child!”

“That's the way she goes on,” said Mrs. Wyman; “she’s
so troubled about some things she had to say in court that
offended her father.”

“Perhaps our voices disturb her,” said the stranger, with-
drawing from the room, “ Here is a purse I wish you to use
for her; and let her have whatever she may need, or can be
procured for her comfort.”

“But, sir, we do not wish for help in providing for this
child. We intend to take her for our own if ever the need
should come.” Ms. Wyman spoke tremulously, and with a
half-offended manner.

“T know it; at least, I heard your husband say as much.
But sometimes money is a great power, and Miss Newcome
may need it. I give it to her, not you!”

“Mr, Wyman said, sir, that you said you might have
something to tell her for her advantage. Will you come
again, sir, or will you trust us to tell her for you, when she
is better?” :

“Tt is nothing I can impart to any one at present. Say
nothing about it to her. I can wait, and she must wait.”

The stranger then took leave of the constable’s wife, and
of the constable himself, whom he found outside the door, and
returned to his quarters at the log-tavern.

Here a crowd had been gathered in the last hour, who
magnanimously voted themselves “ the people” of the territory,
and were unanimous in declaring that so yile a wretch as the
murderer of Dr. Edwards ought not to be left to the uncer-
tain execution of territorial justice. Doubtless he would find
  

 

MOB-LAW. 4t

some means of escaping from the sheriff's house, though he
was ironed. Irons could be taken off without much trouble
in several ways; especially where a man was confined in a
room accessible to all who chose to go and see him, as New-
come was. It was trifling with the public safety to run the
risk of letting such desperadoes escape. ‘The man had shown
a brutal nature by his treatment of his daughter at the exami-
nation ; it was plain enough that he would have killed her
if he could; and perhaps that would be the very thing he
would attempt if he should ever get his liberty.

These and similar arguments were being made for the
propriety of executing lynch law. The more the men talked
about it, the more excited they became, until they had worked
themselves into a fury ; and oaths and scowling brows attested
the ferocious spirit they had evoked among themselves. In
vain the more peaceable citizens endeavored to persuade them
or to shame them out of so unjustifiable a course. The
excitement spread like a prairie-fire, until the mob greatly
outnumbered the peacemakers, and had actually started, in
spite of all remonstrances, toward the sheriff’s house.

There they were resolutely met by the sheriff, constable,
and others, who warned them off, and declared their intention
to defend the prisoner with their lives. But the strength
and artifice of the lynchers soon overcame their defense.
The house was forcibly entered, and the prisoner brought
out, unmanacled, to be taken to execution.

A guard was formed in a hollow square, in the center
of which the unfortunate man was obliged to march.
His face was somewhat haggard, pale and sullen, but he
showed no signs of fear or shrinking from the terrible fate
before him. In answer to the jeers and execrations of the
crowd, he only gave them defiant looks, but not one word of
reply or of entreaty.

They had already arrived at the spot—a hollow between
the bluffs—where the tree and the rope awaited him, and
amid a sudden awful silence, were about to place the halter
about his neck, when Allen, who had just been informed
of the proceeding in time to interrupt it at the last moment,
rushed hastily into the ring which had heme hte about
the gallows.

 

  
 

42 THE LAND-CLAIM.

So unexpectedly did he appear, and so authoritative were
the tones of his voice, as he raised it in vehement depreca-
tion of their conduct, that it had the effect to check further
action, and compel the attention of the crowd.

“Men of Fairview, listen to me! or aught you know to
the contrary, the death you propose to execute on an unsen-
tenced man may be a murder more cruel, and more willful
and determined a great deal, than that which you seek to
avenge. It is true that a man—a dear friend he was of mine,
too—has met his death in a manner which throws suspicion
of the darkest nature upon Thomas Newcome, [suppressed
murmurings,] and renders it our duty to hold him accused
until he is proven innocent. On the contrary, the law bids
us hold every man innocent until he is proven guilty. In
respect to the law, Thomas Newcome is still an innocent
man; for he has only had a hasty examination, under excit-
ing circumstances, and surrounded by minds so inflamed by
passion as not to be able to judge in an unprejudiced manner
of the real merits of the evidence produced against him.
[Cries of, ‘That’s cool talk for you.’] Well, my friends.
every man should be cool when he has the responsibility of
life and death on his hands.

“Tt is very true that I have acted im this matter against

Newcome; because, as well as I could see, it was my duty te
‘do so, I had him arrested, and I gave testimony against him,
which, as circumstantial evidence, was very strong to convict
him. It is true, too, that his daughter testified that he had
threatened to shoot both Dr. Edwards and myself, [signs of
rising wrath.]

“He had the same reasons for bearing malice toward
me, that he had toward my friend. But, only one of
us was shot; and the prisoner was prepared with no othe:
weapons, and no more ammunition. I told you in my testi-
mony that there were two shots fired almost at the same in-
stant; therefore there must have been two persons in the
woods, and that other person, whoever he was, might have
fired the shot that killed Dr. Edwards. J do not know that
he did ; you do not know that he did not. Let this matter,
then, be investigated. Find out who that man was that was
in the woods with Newcome, and what his business was;

 
EFFECT OF ALLEN’S ADDRESS. 48

and, if possible, find out whether he did not, accidentally or
otherwise, commit the murder.

“As for Newcome’s threats, a great many men threaten
who never do any thing worse, and that is the very charac-
ter his daughter gave him. You pretend to be very sorry for
her, and very indignant at her father’s treatment of her. But
you propose to break her heart entirely by putting it out of
his power ever to be reconciled to her; while it is plain she
loves him as a daughter should love her father. Ifyou have
any regard for law, order, justice or mercy, you will conduct
the prisoner in safety back to the sheriff's house, and there
leave him under the proper legal restraint until he is con-
victed. Guard him as carefully as you choose—make sure
that he does not escape; but wait for his trial before you
hang him. In the mean time, Providence may show you that
you have yourselves this day narrowly escaped becoming
murderers.”

At the close of this address, so earnestly delivered, not a
man offered to raise his hand against the prisoner, who stood
with burning eyes steadfastly fixed upon the speaker. After
a moment’s irresolution, the crowd showed signs of a dispo-
sition to escape unseen, individually; and, finally, a chosen
guard conducted the prisoner once more to the house of the
sheriff. ‘

Allen did not escape without some comments upon his
address—some friendly, and a few otherwise. Among the
most interested of the listeners was the stranger from the
hotel, who not only gave profound attention to every word,
but seemed to study attentively the countenance and bearing
of the speaker.

“You met with most flattering success in your maiden
speech, Squire,” remarked Ed, with a peculiar searching
look.

“Tt will be better than I hope, if they continue to
take my advice,” returned Allen, meeting his eye unflinch-
ingly.

“You seemed anxious to shift Newcome’s crime to other
shoulders.” :

“T shall always be anxious to have justice done, I think,

Ed.” é

 

 
 

  

THE LAND-CLAIM.

“Perhaps you could yourself direct these people to some
new object of suspicion, if old Newcome could only be
spared. You take a great interest, apparently, in a man
who, according to your belief, is the murderer of your
friend.”

“How do you know I believe that?” asked Allen, sharply
and quickly. 5

“ Because I heard you tell Flag so.”

“T thought you were dreaming !” said Allen.

Ed gave a short, strange laugh; but his eye fell, and he
soon turned into a path by himself, “to meet an engagement,”
he said.

The next morning Ed announced that he had business out
in the western part of the adjoining county ; and Squire and
Flag were left to their loncly liousekeeping, and to long, sad
talks about their late friend’s tragic fate, and the doubt that
seemed to hang about the identity of the real and the sus-
pected murderer.

If ever in these frequent conversations the memory
of the apparition they had seen haunted their thoughts, and
troubled their better judgment, they endeavored to dismiss it
as unworthy their cooler mood. And yet, in spite of reason,
it led them to make a closer investigation of facts than other-
wise would have appeared necessary, and started a question
in their minds concerning a certain other person, which prn-
dence obliged them to keep concealed in their own bosoms,
until some further and more tangible evidence of its truth
should transpire.

 

  
THE CONVALESCENT. 45

CHAPTER VII.
THE OLD-TIME WEDDING ANNIVERSARY.

“Wett, I declare, you look quite like yourself this morn-
ing, all but your hair!’ exclaimed Mrs. Wyman, when she
had carefully dressed her young charge, and placed her in
the great, high-backed rocker, in the little parlor of the con-
stable’s house.

“Oh, yes! and I feel quite like myself, too. There, thank
you! don’t worry over me any longer, for I am just as com-
fortable as possible. What a beautiful day! I don’t think
the world ever looked so lovely as it does this morning, Mrs.
Wyman.”

“That's because you've been shut up in your room so long,
dear. But it is a-most always pleasant in June. I was mar-
ried in June, right in the rose season; for I told Silas I
wanted to keep the anniversary of our wedding, and that was
sure to be a nice time to have a little celebration every sum-
mer. And this is our wedding-day!” said the constable’s
wife, smiling dreamily as she forgot to take the chair she had
placed for herself.

“And are you going to have a celebration to-day ?” asked
Alicia. “I wish I were strong enough to do something for
you.”

“Tf you only look pretty, and have a good appetite, that’s
all the help I want. We're not going to do as we used to—
have a large company—’cause things are changed with us.
Our only son is dead, and our only daughter is married away
off from us; besides, when we lost all our property by fire,
and had bad luck every way, we give up our old ways partly.
Tam a-going to have a nice little dinner by oursélyes, and
Silas has invited some friends of his, I believe, to help us eat
it. So don’t get too tired, now, for then yout won’t enjoy it;
and I want you to be as brisk as you can: Dear mie! I be-
lieve I smell my cake a-burning.”

“YT hope your cake is not burned,” said Alicia; looking
up as the good woman returned to the _ with her

 

 
THE LAND-CLAIM.

hands full—a package in one—a bouquet of flowers in the
other.

“No indeed, it has got a nice bake. But look at these
presents! One would think it was the anniversary of your
wedding instead of mine. Mr. Mauvais has sent you this
bottle—it is labeled French Cordial—and Mr. Allen has sent
you the flowers. There was a long rigmarole of compliments
with the bottle; but the flowers were left by a boy who only
said that Mr. Allen sent them to Miss Newcome.”

Alicia blushed a little with the pleased excitement a young
girl always feels at the first marked attentions she receives from
gentlemen. She read the French label first, and admired the
rich golden color of the wine; but the flowers she kept for
some time in her hands, smelling at them, and in doing so,
softly pressing them to her lips and cheeks. Mrs. Wyman
offered to put them in water for her, when she reluctantly
parted with them, only keeping a bunch of the crimson buds
of the prairie-rose to fasten in the bosom of her white wrapper.

“Tl put these by your plate at dinner,” said Mrs. Wyman,
smiling at the eager eyes which followed the flowers; “ they
will make the table look nice. And the cordial too, to give
you an appetite.”

“Dear Mrs. Wyman,” began Alicia, nervously, “I know
my father would not like to have me accept presents from Mr.
Mauvais. Please tell me what to do about it.”

“Why, your father doesn’t think !—” here the good woman
interrupted herself. ‘There can be no harm in even Mr.
Mauvais’ sending a bottle of cordial out of his cellar to a sick
child like you, dear. I know what some ill-disposed people
might say about him; but there is a great many allowances to
be made for a man that has spent his life among the Indians ;
and Mauvais is a generous-hearted man to his friends, He’s
been very kind to my husband.”

“T would like to send it to my father, if I thought he would
accept it,” said Alicia, mournfully.

“T don’t think he would, dear child; though husband was
saying this morning that he seems a heap milder than he did
at first. I reckon what Allen said to the lynchers made him
feel easier; and I hear that he has been to see your father a
couple of times.”

   
 
  
   
   
  
   
    
    
  
 
    
  
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
 
   
THE BOUQUET AND ITS GIVER. 47

“ He has been so kind! I wish I could see him, and thank
him, Mrs. Wyman.”

“T guess you can,” replied the kind woman, with a beaming
smile, “for he is coming here to dinner. Well, Pll just put
something under the rockers, to hold your chair back, so you
can rest; and then I must go and sce about my baked meats
and pudding.”

Left to herself, Alicia passed the hour in a dream between
hope and fear, balancing in her mind the pros and cons of her
father’s case as she knew them, and trying to find some hith-
erto overlooked ground of confidence. It had got to be an old
employment—one which had occupied her thoughts ever since
her head had been clear enough to think at all—and was
to-day pretty much the same that it had been yesterday, or
any day before. This constant anxious thought had lent a
touching expression of melancholy to her wan and delicate
countenance, as well as a sober grace to her manners, beyond
her years. But the fresh, childlike heart was nowise differ-
ent to what it had been; only if possible more dependent, and
more hungry for sympathy than ever before.

She had been a long time lying back in her chair, silent,
except to answer Mrs. Wyman’s inquiries concerning how she
felt, as the kind woman hustled in and out on the important
business of her dinner. A slight feeling of weariness was be-
ginning to act as a depressant upon the brighter hopes of the
morning, and an occasional tear moistened the drooping lashes
of her half-closed eyes. In the midst of this despondency, a
sudden impulse of gratitude swelled her heart toward one who
had been so unfailingly kind to her under all circumstances,
and seizing the bouquet which Allen had that morning sent
her, she kissed the flowers, over and over.

“Oh, I loye you so much!—so much!” she murmured,
passionately.

She did not observe that any one had entered at the open
door, nor know why such a glorious light shone in Allen’s
eyes, as he a moment later greeted her with a courteous good-
morning, and asked in the gentlest manner after her health.
Like a nervous little invalid as she was, she went from smiles
to tears, and tears to smiles in the most capricious manner,
without being able to make any rational reply to his inquiry.

 
   

8 THE LAND-CLAIM.

Although Allen had neither age nor experience to guide
him in this matter, he very easily guessed that the fluttering
heart must be coaxed to relieve itself; and seating himself
beside her, he took the slender hands between his own, while
he uttered cheerful, caressing words, as he would to a petted
sister. Young as he was he could not help assuming a certain
superiority, such as the exigencies of the case seemed to
demand.

“ And so my little girl loves the flowers I sent her?” he
asked, playfully.

She blushed and trembled so much before she answered,
that Allen felt compelled to kiss the little hands to reassure
her. :

“Oh, Mr. Allen, I love you! ‘You have been so kind to
me always, from the first, that I can not help loving you, very
much—as much as if you were my brother !”

This declaration was so unexpected, and so entirely unique
every way,that the young man felt something of the bashful-
ness experienced by young ladies under similar circumstances,
mingled with surprise, exultation, and a man’s sense of the
impropriety of it. But, this latter feeling quite vanished when
he had time to read the expression of the pure, artless face,
regarding him so earnestly.

“JT am glad you do so,” he replied, with some emotion;
“for I, too, love you very dearly—better than a sister !”

That he had said “ better than a sister,” did not convey any
special meaning to her ears. She was relieved, and satisfied,
and when he kissed her hands again more warmly than before,
she only smiled, and gazed in his face confidingly as a child.

-“ Have you any good news about my father?’ she ventured
to ask. *

“No news. But I have a word of comfort for your private
ear. You must not mention it to any one whomsoever. I
am quite certain your father will be cleared; and I have my
eye on a man who may be the guilty man. That is all I can
tell you; but you can put your faith in it:—I don’t think you
will be disappointed.”

Alicia had no words for her thanks. The ready tears ran
~ over her cheeks, as she seized his hands and showered kisses
upon them.

 
  

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yearend Senne £ ~ secgeaca nase

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ae

DINNER. 49

“ There, little girl,” said he, “you need not be so grateful
to me; it is Providence has done it.”

“ At all events,” she returned, “ you are God’s messenger to
me.”

“ Why, good-morning, Mr. Allen, I didn’t know you had
come in. Don’t you think our young lady is getting along
’ first-rate! Just excuse me; Pll be back again in a minute ;”
and Mrs. Wyman disappeared as soon as she had appeared.

The good woman wanted to give Ailen a chance to move a
little further away from Alicia, without any hurry or embar-
rassment—an opportunity he availed himself of, however, with
some reluctance. But, wherever he moved or whatever he
did, Alicia’s eyes followed him constantly, with a pleased,
admiring expression, very flattering to the natural vanity of a
young man.

“Your ‘young lady, Mrs. Wyman, has been making a great
lion of me,” he said to the constable’s wife on her reappear-
ance; “she thinks I am a very wonderful fellow, and has
made me quite vain of myself.”

“T guess it won’t do any hurt for her to think well of you,
Mr. Allen. Some folks ain’t easily spoiled.”

“Thank you. If flattery gives a man a good appetite for
his dinner, I shall be able to do justice to yours, Mrs. Wyman.”

“Well, ’m glad your appetite is ready, for the dinner is;
but Mr. Wyman hasn’t come. He shouldn’t have been late,
to-day.”

“No, a man shouldn’t be late on his wedding-day,” cried
the constable, coming in quietly, and saluting his wife on one
cheek. “I reckon I wasn’t late twenty-seven years ago this
blessed Thursday—was I, wife ?”

“Tf you had been,” returned Mrs Wyman, “ ae name would

not have been Mary Wyman.”

With a very soft “ Hullo there!” the sinless greeted his’
invalid guest, by way of welcoming her to the parlor. Then
he shook hands with Allen, and afterward with her.

“She looks right smart, now, considerin’, don’t she, Allen ?
Only her hair is rather a short crop. She looks as if she’d
been in the hands of the thief-whippers. There was three of
them fellers catched up at Elktown yesterday, that got a
whipping and their heads shaved ; an’ was told that if ever

alll os ba

 
 

50 THE LAND-CLAIM.|

they was found in the territory agin, a whipping wouldn’t
serve ’em next time.”

“J wonder where the rascals hide,” said Allen. “TI should
think a prairie-country a poor place for horse-thieves.”

“ Oh, they find shelter in ravines, and among the bluffs; and
then if they git a start with horses they can travel faster than
in a wooded country ; and once they git to the river they’re
soon over in Iowa. There’s a man owns a mill, down the
river a piece, had a splendid pair of horses tuk last week. He
was in want of hands, an’ hired a respectable lookin’ feller,
that come around wantin’ work. After the feller had stayed
about a week, he got tired of work an’ left; an’ that night,
both the horses was stole from the stable. That feller got off,
an’ sold the horses in east Iowa. He'll be comin’ back one
of these days, an’ mebbe not have such good luck next time.”

“ Never mind about horse-thieves, Silas. Dinner is on the
table, and I’m afraid it is spoiled, it has waited so long
already.”

“Waal, Mary, we’re comin’; and if the dinner isn’t spoiled
we'll just spoil it for you in short order. Allen, you may wait
on the little girlhere. I’m gittin’ so old I’m not perlite enough
for waitin’ on pretty girls any more.”

The “little girl,’ seemed well pleased to be helped out to
dinner on Allen’s arm; nor did her escort seem at all reluc-
tant. The flowers and the cordial indicated her place at the
table, while Allen was assigned one opposite.

“My. Mauyais sent Alicia some wine this morning,” said
Mrs. Wyman to her husband in explanation of the “ bottle ”—
a piece of furniture which was not common on their table.

A certain sort of consciousness made the young girl look at
Allen to sec how he took the announcement. He was look-
ing straight at her, with an expression which she did not
understand, but which chilled and pained her. She was so
sure that his opinion must be correct about every thing, that
her heart immediately sunk with a sense of having done

something very wrong. Her eyes drooped, and her fine spirits

quite fled away. Seeing her so downcast, Mrs. Wyman sup-
posed that she was thinking of her father’s probable displeas-
ure, and proceeded to mention it, as the best way of setting
her at ease, ;

- « »

ni ~ :
“*

Ya

A SCHOOL FOR ALICIA. 51

“She don’t like to accept it, she says, because her father
wouldn’t be pleased if he knew of her doing so; but I tell her
there’s nothing wrong about getting some cordial sent her
when she’s sick.”

“Pshaw !” said the constable, “not a bit. Keep it and
drink our health in it, little girl.”

“ Let me open it for you,” Allen said, reaching across for
the bottle. As he took it from her hand he smiled in a way
that showed her she was restored to his good opinion. From
this episode the dinner went off gayly, the healths of each
being drank in Mr. Mauvais’ cordial, the last drop haying dis-
appeared before they left the table.

“Your little girl, here, has been so kind as to give me a
brother’s place in her heart,” said Allen, mischievously, to the
constable, as he reseated the invalid in her rocking-chair by
the parlor window, “ and I have presumed upon the favor to
use a/brother’s privilege. I have been thinking that when
Miss Newcome gets well, as she will very shortly, she would
like something to do better than’ to “ look pretty and eat well,
which she says is all that Mrs. Wyman requires of her at
present. There are a few children here in Fairview; enough
for quite a respectable school, and I propose to have them put
under Miss Newcome’s instruction. I calculate you can teach
school, if you come from old Connecticut ?” he added, turning
to the surprised Alicia, and mimicking the pasal twang of rea)
Yankeedom.

Alicia laughed, but did not express any opinion on the
subject. é

“T reckon she could,” said the constable, “ but she needn’t.
There’s enough here for all of us. Just let her stay with us
and keep my wife company; she’s a-most too young to be a
doin’ any thing for herself.”

“What's that you're saying in there ?” asked Mrs. Wyman,
stopping in her “clearing up ” to look in at the parlor door.

“Why Allen, here, is wantin’ to make a school-marm of
the little girl. What do you say to that, Mary ?”

“Say to that? I say it’s all nonsense, and I don’t see what
put it in your head to think of such a thing, Mr. Allen!”

“Tf you please, I should like it very much,” put in Alicis
eagerly, though with evident trepidation.

 
   
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
 
   
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
 
   

THE LAND-CLAIM.

“Tt wouldn’t take her away from you at all, Mrs. Wyman,
except during school hours. I would not propose to have her
leave your protection at present, on any account. The Judge’s
wife first mentioned the matter to me, and I have since spoken
to nearly all the owners of children in the town, and they will
be very glad to have a school. Of course it will not make
Miss Newcome rich; but may furnish her money enough to
buy her dolls’ clothes—young ladies dress dolls until they are
married, I believe, Miss Alicia ?”

Alicia smiled at her roguish “ brother” in a satisfied way,
that showed she was not put out by his raillery.

“Waal, I dunno; she must do as she likes, I reckon, Mary.
It might take up her mind, and be a good thing, after all.”

“Oh, yes, if she wants to, she might try it when she gets
strong,” and Mrs. Wyman brushed some imaginary dust or
crumbs out of her apron with much energy. “ But, there’s no
ueed—none at all. She’s got money of her own—plenty of
it just now; and I guess there’s more where this come from.”

“Oh! dear Mrs. Wyman! J have no money. You are
quite mistaken,” cried Alicia, surprised.

% “Tm not mistaken, child. You don’t know as well as I

_ do. He told me not to say any thing about it; but he’s gone
off now, and I don’t know as he’s ever coming back. I didn’t
tell anybody, not even Silas before. But I hate secrets, and
can’t keep them one bit better than the rest of my sex. A
secret always makes me feel mean till it’s off my mind; so
I’m going to get this off, as soon as possible. There was a
man here—a real gentleman—when you was sick, and out of
your head, that had a great many questions to ask husband
and me about you. Then he wanted to see you with his own
eyes; and when I took him into your room—'twas just after
your hair was cut off—he looked at you mighty sharp, but
said nothing, only to touch your curls a-layin’ on the table
very softly with the tips of his fingers.

“ After that he showed me a picture—the handsomest thing
I ever saw—and asked me if you looked like that when you
was well. I told him you did, and you didn’t; that is, the
picture was much the same as you in most of the features,
but handsomer and prouder a great deal. When he went
away be wouldn’t tell me his business, but gave me a purse
‘THE PURSE OF GOLD. 58

full of gold, which he said was to buy things for you while
you was sick. I told him I didn’t want help about providing
for you; but he just the same as said I had no right to refuse
what he gave to you; and so I took it, but I haven’t touched
it since. JIl run and get it now,” she said, leaving the
room.

When Mrs. Wyman returned she ‘poured a heap of shining
gold pieces into Alicia’s lap, while she regarded the girl’s sur-
prise with real delight.

“Tt is not mine, though,” she said, after gazing on it in si-
lence for a moment. I do not know any one who is likely to
be able to give me so much money, and there must be some
mistake.”

“Let me look at it,’ said Allen; “I am a lawyer, and it’s

‘part of our business to solve mysteries like these. It is Brit-

ish gold, and there is a cypher worked on the purse, under-
neath a coronet; all of which indicates that the purse and its
contents came from some person of rank and consequence.
How do we know but our little girl is a princess in disguise ?
It is not the first time the thought has been’suggested to my
mind. And this stranger, no doubt, had the slipper which
fitted our Cinderilla !”

“T's very curus, anyway. But what makes you so
pale, child? I guess you're clean tired out,” said the consta-
ble, sympathizingly.

“Oh, no; I am not very fired. When can I begin my
school, Mr. Allen?” asked Alicia, hurriedly, as if to avoid
further questions.

“When you are quite well and strong. Don’t let her
begin too soon, Mrs. Wyman. And so you will not use this
money? you prefer school-teaching ?”

“Yes, if I prove capable.”

“ But, don’t you feel at all curious about this other matter ?
Don’t You feel a presentiment of some remarkable good
fortune ?”

“No,” answered Alicia, laughing, though embarrassed.

“But Ido; that is, I think there must be something in
the mysterious conduct of the stranger which las a deeper
meaning than simple benevolence. Haven’t you auy rich
relatives that you know of? Pardon me the question; q

. *

 
  

   

54 THE LAND-CLAIM.

only ask it with a view of finding out the real meaning of this
gift.”

“None that acknowledge us,” answered the young girl,
blushing.

“Then you had some who did not acknowledge you—is
that what you mean ?”

“My mother had; but please, Mr. Allen, do not ask me
any more about it,” she said, putting out one hand beseech-
ingly, which Allen did not fail to take, notwithstanding the
“old folks’” presence.

“No, certainly; I do not wish to be inquisitive, if my
questions pain you. Well, then, I shall see about a school-
house right away, I suppose;” and the young man rose
to go.

“Yes, if you please; but how shall I ever repay your
kindness, Mr. Allen?” asked Alicia; half in sadness, at the
improbability of ever being able to repay him at all.

“TIl take it out in tuition,” laughed Allen. “ My educa-
tion was sadly neglected in my childhood. Good- “by, little
sister; if Mrs. WY yrain does not — I shall be coming to
see you quite often.”

Being assured that he would always be welcome, by the
mistress of the house, the young man took his leave, in com-
pany with the constable.

“J declare,” said Mrs. Wyman, with emphasis, “ it does me
good to see such an open-hearted young man now-a-days.
He reminds me of my son that was lost.”

What higher compliment could a mother pay to a young
man, than to say he resembled her lost idol ?

 
=

THE TRADING-POST. 55

OTA P TAR V its 4
A CRISIS IN LOVE’S CALENDAR.

Tue trading-post was about a mile below Fairview—its
grounds bordering on the lower side of the Newcome claim—-
and occupied one of the most picturesque situations on the
river, where the limestone cropped out at the foot of perpen-
dicular bluffs, and extended in a bed to the river, thus giving
security to the loamy soil against the frequent floods which
make such frightful encroachments on the bottom-lands
everywhere along the Missouri. The steep face of the bluff
being covered with short, thick shrubbery, and festooned with
wild vines, for a clear height of a hundred and fifty feet,
formed a wall of living green, against which the cluster of”
white houses, belonging to the post, looked, from the river,
like a bunch of spring snowballs.

This limestone ledge, though narrow, was not straight, but
curved in and out, where ravines divided the wall of bluff by
sharp clefts from top to bottom, or the wall itself bulged out
toward the river, making, by its windings, a great variety of
river views. Here was always a kind of seclusion, very
soothing to the feelings, as well as charming to the eye—a
place where the great busy world could get no foothold, and
only showed itself in occasional glimpses of some crowded
steamer on its way to the landings above. Here the ripple of
the mighty current was always heard, murmuring like the
wind through the tops of forest-trees. Nor was the quiet
beauty of the place at all disturbed at this time by the com-
ing and going of the Indian tribes who formerly traded
there; these being removed to their “reserves” by the Goy-
ernment. Only occasionally a blanketed chief, or short-kilted
squaw was seen stalking along the half-overgrown paths in
the direction of the post. All about the place itself was now
as quict as any country farm-house—there being only the
trader, his agent, and a few domesticated Indians or half:
breeds residing here.

The building occupied by the trader was Tong; two-story

*

 
 

 

 

86 THE LAND-CLAIM.

block-house, sided over and painted white, and had the wide,
covered piazza and balcony, generally common to houses in
Southern latitudes, and always characteristic of French set-
tlements in this country.

On the balcony of the second story sat the trader himself,
smoking a cigar, and gazing at the river shining in the fore-
noon sunlight. Seeing a young half-breed boy in the yard
below, he called out to him:

“Henri! come here, you scamp!”

“Yes, sir; I’m come,” answered the boy, whose dreamy
eyes and indolent air showed his mixed French and Indian
blood; and he stood beside his master’s arm-chair.

“Did you take those berries and that wine to the young:
lady, as I told you ?”

“ Yes, sir;” without moving a muscle.

“ What did she say ?”

+ “She said, ‘Thank you; they are very nice ;’” as motion-
less as before.

“Did you tell her I would be around there with my car-
riage at ten o’clock ?”

“ Yes, sir ;? without having stirred a hair’s breadth.

“What. did she say to that ?”

- “She said, ‘Thank you; that would be very nice, too ;”
with a slight movement.

“Did she? Is that what the young lady said? Tell the
truth, you rascal !”

“T couldn’t tell the truth, ’cause I didn’t hear her; an’ it
was the old lady as « lid hear ;” this time on the alert.

“Ugh! le diable !”

The boy was too quick for his master, and succeeded in
tumbling down stairs to get out of the way of the horsewhip,
just in time to encounter Ka-shaw, the Indian mistress of the
house,

“What's the row about now?’ she asked, in good
English.

“ Nothing,” answered the boy, trying to get past her.

“Do rows happen about nothing, Henri? Tell me all,”
she said, sternly. The boy understood too well the sovereign
will governing all in that house, even the master himself, to
dare to deny her ; and so he stammered out:

”

oa
*

JWALOUSY. B77

“Mauvais sent a message to a lady, an’ I didn’t do the
errand right.”

“ Was it that Newcome girl?” she asked, her eyes glittering
with rage.

Henri winced under the sense of “getting himself into
trouble” more than of guilt or treachery, as he confessed that
it was she. Nor was that all; for Ka-shaw would have every
particular of the message, presents and all.

“And those very berries I gathered this morning!” she
exclaimed, fiercely. “I wonder if he thinks I will gather
berries for him to court white ladies with !”

At this moment the master’s voice was heard calling—
“Henri! Henri!” in answer to which the boy crept cautiously
up the stairs again, keeping a sharp look-out for the lash of
the horsewhip. But the lash did not descend, though it was
held aloft in a threatening manner; and the trader’s eyes
twinkled with merriment, notwithstanding his brows were*
gathered in a strange frown..

“ Will you ever lie to me again, you Indian rascal? You
should be a Pawnee; they lie, and steal too. You are a
Pawnee, you dog you!”

The boy’s eyes flashed. “I Omaha, Mauvais,” he said,
sullenly.

“Do Omahas lie? Ah, you have nothing to say for your-
self. Now go and tell José to put the horses to, in double
quick. The blacks, Henri; and tell José to see that they are
looking nice, or I’ll thrash you both.”

The boy went very willingly, and the frases resumed his
cigar for a moment, then rose, and went into a chamber off
from the balcony. Ka-shaw was there before him.

“ Where’s my best coat, Ka-shaw ?”

“What you want of your best coat, Mauvais? Going
down the river to-day ?”

“Tm going to call on some friends, Ka-shaw, and I’m in a
hurry. Where have you hid the thing, you witch ?”

“Mauvais can’t have his coat,” said the Indian woman,
quietly.

“What's the cause of this fol-de-rol?’ asked Mauvais,
angrily.

“You can go to see that Newcome girl in your old clothes,”

 
 

 

 

 

58 THE LAND-CLAIM.

returned the squaw, with a malicious smile, which did not
disguise her lively anger.

“Are you jealous again, Ka-shaw?” asked the trader,
becoming instantly more cool, and sitting down on the side
of the bed. ‘“ Have not I been faithful to you and your tribe
for fifteen years? and do not I allow you every privilege con-
sistent with your duty? Why, you give away to your people
every year what would be a handsome income if laid up;
and you have for yourself every thing you wish. What more
do you expect ?”

“That you should be true to your Indian wife, Mauvais.”

“Well, well; time enough to fret, Ka-shaw, when you
have reason for it. But you must not dictate to me too much,
for, though I am the friend of your tribe, I have friends among
my own people too. Give me my coat!” ,

“Tf Mauyais wants his coat he can find it,” answered the

woman, sneeringly, and never stirring from the place where
she had stood by the hearth.

The trader arose and opened a clothes-press at one side of
the fireplace. There he found the wished-for article, but cut,
mangled, utterly ruined.

“What is the meaning of this?” he cried, in surprise and
rage. :

The squaw made no reply, but glared at him in silent
malice.

“You old hag!” exclaimed Mauvais, quite beside himself
with wrath. “Tll turn you out of this house this very
day !”

Ka-shaw, who was burning with an Indian’s desire of
revenge, lost all self-possession at this threat, and, quickly
brandishing a knife aloft, she sprung at the trader with the
agility of a wild-cat. He caught her upraised arm in both
hands, and struggled to deprive her of the knife; but she
threw her heavy weight upon him, and forced him back upon
the bed at such disadvantage that he would have been com-
pelled to relinquish his hold of her arm in another moment.
At this juncture, fortunately, the trader’s agent made his

appearance, having just returned from the Reserve. Seeing.

that she was baffled for this time, the woman begged to be
allowed to retire, with a somewhat humbled demeanor

   

-

    
a

of

 

Sax

A DRIVE. 59

Mauvais dismissed her from the room with an oath, and a
warning as to her future conduct; at the same time intimating
that she need not go away if she would behave herself more
discreetly hereafter.

“ He'll see! he'll see!” muttered the squaw, when the door
was closed between them. ‘ Ka-shaw no Pawnee, no Otoe,
to bear insult !”

“There was no sign of the late unpleasant encounter in the
gallant Frenchman’s manner as he handed the trembling con-
valescent into his stylish open carriage, half an hour afterward.
Trembling she was, not so much through weakness as from
nervous agitation, arising from the consciousness of doing
something that might displease the two people on earth she
cared most about pleasing. But Mrs. Wyman, on whom she
relied now for protection and advice, had said there could be
nothing wrong about it. Mr. Mauvais was an old man,
almost, and she was a young girl, and an invalid. Besides,
other ladies rode out with him, and some thought it quite a
“feather in their caps” to receive a courtesy from the rich and
polite Frenchman. She would soon be well again, and
engaged in her school, when, if she did not wish to receive
his attentions, she could get rid of them more readily by plead-
ing duties.

Thus reassured, Alicia felt her reluctance the sooner dissi-
pated by the fresh air, the lively motion, the beautiful weather,
and the graceful compliments of her companion. They drove
through the village, past the house where her father was con-
fined, paid a flying call upon the Judge’s wife, nodded to
Allen standing in his office door—for Allen had put a shinglo
out in Fairview—and dashed out into the open country.

“The fresh air brings the roses of your cheeks into bloom,
Miss Newcome.”

Alicia smiled the pleased and artless smile with which she
always listened to any complimentary remarks, but made no
reply, for she was not a young lady even of ordinary loquacity
in the presence of strangers.

“Tt would be a pity to fade them in the school-room,” con-
tinued Mr. Mauvais.

“T don’t think my duties will be very trying,” answered

Alicia, pleasantly.

 
   
  
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

THE LAND-CLAIM.

* You are young enough to be a pupil instead of teacher,
my dear young lady.”

Oh, yes, and ignorant enough, that is true,” she aaswered,
with a little sigh.

“Oh, no; no, indeed! not ignorant for your age. On the
contrary, you are so very remarkably intelligent and refined
for—for a young person like yourself, that you captivate us ali.
But I was thinking how much better it would be for you to
go to school in some city for a year or two more, instead of
drudging at school-teaching in the country. Would you not
like it ?”

“Tf it were possible,” said Alicia, “I should like it very
much.”

“What if I should make it possible for you?” asked Mr.
Mauyais, eagerly watching her expression.

“You, Mr. Mauvais?” she exclaimed, blushing with sur-
prise.

“ Oertainly,” he replied. “ There is no reason why I should
not please myself by being an aid to a charming little girl, if
I choose; that is, if she consents.”

“JT do not know about it, Mr. Mauvais; I can not decide
such a question for myself; at least, not without consulting
my friends. But I do not think my father would like to
incur such an obligation.”

“You still consult your father, then, though he is so unfor-
giving?” he asked, gazing at her admiringly. “But sup-
posing that I get him to consent to allow me a sort of
guardianship over you, what other friends would you wish to
consult ?”

“T should like to ask Mrs. Wyman’s opinion; and Mr.
Allen’s too,” she added, hesitatingly.

“Tt is my turn to be surprised, Miss Newcome. I did not
know that young ladies were bound to ask the opinions of
young gentlemen of twenty-three or four on affairs of this sort.
Is Mr. Allen’s. judgment, then, so much more mature than
mine ?” ;

The half-bantering, half-reproving tone assumed by her
companion quite put the young girl out of countenance.

“He has been so kind to me,” was all she could say.

“T would like to be kind to you, too, if you would allow
 

 

 

 

 

A WALK BY THE RIVER. _ 61

me,” said Mr. Mauvais, half reproachfully, yet smiling very
benevolently, at the same time. ’

“Oh, you have been—you are. Tverybody is a great deal
kinder to me than I deserve,” she carelessly answered.

“ Not a bit, little rose of the prairie. Could any one help
wishing to tend a beautiful flower, or to have it for his own
if he could? Mr. Allen is a promising young man, as young
men go. But he is not old enough, nor wise enough, nor
tich enough, to haye the care of a beautiful young woman
like yourself.”

“And you are?” said Alicia, archly.

“Yes, I think Iam. But since you are not sure of it in
your own judgment, I must go to your father about -it.
What would you do for me, Miss Alicia, if I should procure
your reconciliation to your father ?”

“T should be so glad—so grateful!” she cried, with swim-
ming eyes; “and so happy,” she added, with a smile.

“Then I think I must do it for you,” said Mr. Mauyais,
politely raising her small, ungloyed hand to his lips.

She did not ask him how he proposed to bring about this
change in her father’s feclings. She was too confiding to
doubt that what those older and more influential than herself
promised they could perform. She only thought that she
was very happy to have so many and warm friends, and
this pleasant consciousness displayed itself in her animated
face.

As they drove back through the town, Alicia noticed Allen
standing in the street before his office, and that, on their
approach, he went in without turning to look at them. This
incident, slight as it was, alarmed her affectionate heart, and
quite dampened the pleasure of her ride.

“ Adieu, Miss Newcome,” said her escort, as he left her at
Mrs. Wyman’s door; “do not commence your school until I
haye first seen your father ;” and, with a graceful flourish of
his hand, the Frenchman was gone, flying over the road at a
“two-forty” rate.

That evening Alicia received a call from her “ brother,”
who had come to see how soon she would be able to begin
her duties as teacher, and in reply she had frankly related to

_ him all that the trader had said to her.

 
  

    

62 THE “LAND-CLAIM.

“ And will you avail yourself of this man’s generosity ?”
asked Allen.

“T do not think my father will consent,” she answered,
evasively. :

“Tf your father’s consent is all that is wanting, you may
become the ward of this Indian trader !”

Allen spoke disdainfully, almost resentfully, too; and the
tears, always so ready to her eyes, began dropping down her
cheeks.

“T should like your consent besides,” she said, timidly.

“And what if I would not give it ?”

“Then I should not wish to go,” she answered, in a broken
voice.

“There, little sister! how foolish of you to cry,” said Allen,
as he took her hand and raised her from her chair. “ The
moon is shining brightly, there is a breeze and no dew—run
and ask Mrs. Wyman if you may not take a walk with me
down by the river-bank.”

The needful consent was obtained, accompanied by injunc-
tions not to be gone long, and to keep well wrapped up.

Alicia felt very happy as she walked beside the tall and
strong young man, her arm drawn through his, and one hand
snugly stowed away in his broader palm.

“And so you will not let this Frenchman send you to school
unless I give my consent to the arrangement ?” he asked, with
a little triumph in his voice.

“T should be very unhappy if I thought you did not like
it/” she answered.

“Why should you be unhappy to displease only me if your
other friends approved? Am TI of so much consequence in
your esteem that you prefer my approbation to theirs? That
is a very high compliment indeed.”

“T am sure you deserve it, if it is. You were my first
friend, and I believed my best friend, and so you became my
dearest friend; and though I know I am not worthy, I am
proud when you call me ‘ little sister.’ ”

“But I don’t intend to call you ‘little sister’ any more. I-

have thought of another name I would prefer to call you by.
Let us sit down here on this fallen tree and listen to the mur-
- mur of the river, and talk about the new name.”

 
  

 

 
 

WHAT WAS SAID BY DHE RIVUR. 63

It was charming, the young girl thought, to sit there in the
moonlight, hearing the river, and leaning on the strong arm
that was now around her waist; it was so charming that she
forgot to be curious about the meaning of “ little sister” being
rejected, unti] she was reminded of it by finding her head
drawn down against the manly breast, and beholding a pair
of Juminous eyes gazing into her own.

“No, dearest of dear little girls, I don’t want to be your
brother any more ; because I foresee that as a brother I shall
not have power to keep at a distance those who would be
wishing to assume a nearer relationship. Suppose this French
trader should want to marry you, Alicia, after sending you to
school for a year or two—would you like that ?”

“Oh, Mr. Allen, how could you imagine any thing so—so
shocking !” exclaimed Alicia, struggling to free herself from his
arms. ‘

“That is just what I think about it,” said Allen, laughing
softly, and holding her closely. “It would be a shocking thing
for a pure young girl like you to be united to this man ; whom,
on account of his good qualities, I refrain from calling hard
names. But I am quite sure he contemplates such a possibil-
ity. And TI have my reasons for believing that your father
will consent to give you up to him.”

“But my father warned me against him only the night
before—his misfortune. I know he does not think well of
Mr. Mauvais ; and how then could he give me up to him ?”

“Your father is differently circumstanced now; and may
think it is the best thing he can do for you, bad as it is. Mau-
yais is rich, and riches are all-powerful in this as in every
other country. He promised you to bring about a reconcilia-
tion with your father; and he evidently has no power to do
so more than another, unless he should come to some such
arrangement with iin as I have spoken of.”

The words “ differently circumstanced” were the ones that
struck Alicia’s ear in’ this answer, and awakened her fears.
She was thinking that Allen talked as if her father would
bequeath her to somebody because he had no hopes of regain-
ing his life and liberty ; and she tremulously asked him if that
was his meaning.

“No,” said he, “not as far as my belief is concerned. I

 

 
64 THE LAND-CLAIM.

have good hopes yet; but your father may be doubtful, and
may be prevailed upon as I said. And now, dear Alicia, to
provide against what neither of us desire, let us talk about the
new name. What does the little girl say to being called my
wife? Does that sound so shocking ?”

He was holding her face to the moonlight, to read his
answer in the eloquent eyes; but the silken fringes drooped
over them, and she turned her face to the shadow of his
breast.

“Speak, darling ! I know you are too young—and that you
are afraid to take the responsibility of deciding for yourself.
Under other circumstances I. would not have asked you to do
80; but now you should have some better protection than such
as you will get from chance-friends. I love you very dearly ;
so much that I should be reluetant to marry you, at your age,
for fear you would outgrow you¥ affection for me as you be-
came more experienced in judging of men—did not your
peculiar position seem to render it most prudent for us both—
that is, provided that you do love me well enough to be my
wife. Are you afraid to tell me your thoughts, dear Alicia—
dear little wife ?”

“Will you not say one word to me?” he whispered, kissing
the white brow, and the beautiful silken rings of hair that
encircled it, in place of the lost flowing curls. “Am I only
your brother then—and will you not be my girl-wife? Will
you go away to school, and leave me forever ?—tell me, dear,”
he said, unclasping his arms, and allowing her to free her-
self.

“Mr. Allen,” she said, in a wavering voice, and with pale
cheeks looking pallid in the moonlight, “I dare not disobey
my father ; I must not.”

“Then you do not love me!” broke in Allen, with a voice
of passionate regret, and turning upon her a glance of re-
proach.

“T think Ido. Oh, Mr. Allen, I know I do !—better than
any one in the world. But I can not do any thing without
my father’s knowledge and consent. If he gives me away to
Mr. Mauyais, I can not help it, and I must go, if it breaks my
heart in doing so.”

“And mine too?’ added Allen, his former confident

 
TE PROMISE. 65

manner quite gone. “Do you think your father hasa right to
sacrifice you, on the verge of your happy womanhood? I can
not think so.”

“Oh, I do not know. I only know that I will never act
in opposition to my father; never—no, never!” she cried,
bursting into tears.

“Must I give you up then, my own darling? Shall 1?”
and once more she was clasped to her lover’s breast.

“No, oh no, do not give me up yet! I can not do without
you; and perhaps,” she added, with a sudden smile of hope-
fulness, “ my father may approve.”

“ And in that case Alicia consents to be my wife at some
future day ?”

“Tf then Mr. Allen will have me, yes,” she whispered, so
close to his mouth that his lips met hers at the last word.

In that breathless silence, so eloquent of happiness, which
ever succeeds the lovers’ first mutual kiss, sat the young man
and maiden for a few blissful moments; till swift-winged
thought, returning to their present situation, aroused them to -
the recollection of Mrs. Wyman’s charge concerning late
hours,

“ Well, I must take my promised wife back to her guardian
—or she will not trust me to take care of her again, I will
see your father to-morrow, and get before Mr. Mauvais if I
can; so keep up your spirits, dearest—the Frenchman shall
not carry you off, if I can prevent it.”

The walk homeward was performed by feet all unconscious
of motion or distance. Only two enraptured spirits had passed
over that space, to part with reluctance at the constable’s
door.

 
  

CHAPTER IX.
THE SACRIFICE.

WueN Alicia awakened next morning she found Mrs,
Wyman standing beside her bed. “ You sleep late, this morn-
ing,” she said. “I guess you exerted yourself almost too
much yesterday ; but you would have been up bright and
early if you had a-dreamed what good news I’ve got for you.”

“Ts my father at liberty ?” asked the girl, eagerly ; and con-
quering her languor at once, she sat up in bed for the import-
ant news. :

“No, my dear;- I thought you would just guess that. But
he has sent word that he wishes to see you this morning, and
I knew you would be so glad, that I couldn’t wait for you to
get your nap out. Why, you don’t seem half so pleased as I
expected you would!”

“Oh yes, dear Mrs. Wyman, I am very glad indeed; and
I thank you for waking me. I will be dressed in ten minutes ;
but don’t wait breakfast for me.”

“Ta, child! we had breakfast an hour ago, and‘Silas has
gone up town; but I’ve got something warm for you, when
you're ready for it.”

When Alicia came out to breakfast she found a little basket
of fresh raspberries beside her plate, labeled “To my charm-
ing ward.”

“Mr. Mauvais’ boy said his master would be here with the
carriage at nine o’clock to take you .to see your father. But
what is the matter with you, child? You don’t eat a bit of
any thing. Ain’t you going to taste these berries ?—they look
splendid, and were picked this morning, I’m sure.”

“Thank you, I do not care for them. I will breakfast on
your delicious coffee, which is just to my liking, always.”

“Dear me! I do believe my good news has taken away
your appetite ; and I thought it would be just contrary to that.
Isn’t there something you can eat, dear?—'cause if there is,
you needn’t be afraid to mention it. I don’t think any thing.
of the trouble, if you would only relish any thing better.”

 

 

 

sate

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hae
7 ;
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:

   
 

‘ INTERVIEW AT THE PRISON. 67

“Indeed, you spoil me with kindness,” said Alicia, trying
to smile. “Everybody pets me so much I have got ta
be quite a baby, and will soon be good for nothing, at this
rate.”

“Well, it does folks good to have something that they can
pet; that’s my view of the case. There’s nothing makes our
hearts so dry and hard as not haying something to make
much of. If Silas wasn’t an affectionate sort of a man I
should have been dead of pining for my young ones, I do
believe, long ago. But he comforts me up when I get to
grieving, and so we two old folks haye to pet one another,
cause we've nothing else we can love. Do have a little more
coffee, for you haven’t touched any thing substantial.”

Alicia declined, however, any attempts to make her take a
more ample meal, and set about preparing for her visit to her
father. She was scarcely ready when the trader’s handsome
blacks trotted up to the door, and that gentleman announced
himself at her service. The ride to the sheriffs house was
almost a silent one, each party being occupied with thoughts
which were not entirely communicable.

When Mr. Mauvais handed the young girl from the carriage,
he was struck by her exceeding paleness, and inquired very
anxiously if she were ill. Being assured that she felt as well
as usual, he left her at the door of her father’s apartment,
with a profound bow, and the information that he was pre-
pared to await her convenience to escort her back to Mrs.
Wyman’s. : :

As the door opened to admit her, the child’s heart beat
so tumultuously that’ it was with difficulty she could stand.
At one glance her eye took in the bare room, the manacled
limbs, the pale, stern face, wasted by inaction of the physical
and overaction of the mental powers. With a low, thrilling
cry, she sprung forward, and sunk down at his feet. She
laid her face upon his knees, and wept upon.his hands, using
every affectionate and penitent expression to win from him a
tender word; but he was as silent and unmoved as on
the day of the examination. It seemed as if the sight of
his child’s face recalled the bitter resentment of that day

» afresh.

“T have not sent for you,” he said, coldly, “to listen t¢

 
 

68 THE LAND-CLAIM.

your professions of sorrow. I have other business with you
to-day, which concerns your welfare, though you do uot
deserve that I should consult it. Take a chair, and listen to
wnat I have to say.”

“Will you never forgive me?” she asked, passionately.
“Oh, father! father! I do not care about my own welfare, if
yeu will not be reconciled tome. Iam so sorry; I wish so
uch to please you; and I will be so obedient to you that
you can not help but love me a little.”

“Don’t talk about obedience,” he said, abruptly, “ daughter
ofa disobedient mother! Yet you shall obey me at last, and
the time for it has come to-day.”

He paused for a moment, while Alicia seated herself,
according to a sign from him, at a little distance away, and
endeavored to restrain her tears.

“The French trader,’ he resumed, with a sneer at. the
word, “has taken a fancy to your pretty face. He wishes to
adopt you, he says, which means, I suppose, that when he can
shake off the Indian women he has about him, he will marry
you. In the mean time, you are to be sent out of the way of
other and pam admirers, under a pretense of going to

school.”

Seeing that his daughter sat silent, and showed no signs
of surprise, or grief, or resentment, as he believed she must,
the cruel father was goaded on by this patient submission to
even a greater desire for her humiliation than had at first
actuated him.

“You have already begun, I hear, in your mother’s ways.
Last night you were out in company with the man who
caused your father to be arrested as a murderer.”

“Don’t say any more, father, don’t!” cried Alicia, entreat-
ingly. ‘Mr. Allen is your friend now, and hopes to prove
your innocence, he says. He has been kinder to me than a
‘prother, and I can not help liking him very much. But if it
displeases you I will not see him again,” she murmured, with
quivering lips,

“Mr. Mauvais will not give you the opportunity,” Bh
the relentless man.

“Father,” said Alicia, approaching him, and sinking on”
her knees, “if I give up Mr, Allen, and do as you wish with

.

 

Beh
v

 
 
  

tae
“a

 

 

ANOTHER VISITOR. 6

regard to Mr. Mauvais, and am in eyery way dutiful toward
you, as long as I live, will you not forgive me now, and let
me see and comfort you while you are in this place? Oh,
say ‘yes!” ‘

It was not in the human heart to withstand that perfect
submission and loving entreaty altogether. The unnatural
father was checked in his cruel impulses for a moment, but
only for a moment. The relaxing brow gathered its frown
again, and the poor, unhappy pleader saw refusal in his face
before he uttered it.

“No. Iwant nothing more to do with you. I have given
you to Mauvais, and it is to him you are to submit your head-
strong will. If you desire to obey me, do as he tells you;
or, by heaven, I will curse you yet!”

Alicia did not reply. She clasped her hands across her
forehead, and bent her face to the floor, like the most abject
eastern slave. Her young life seemed crushed out of her, and
she felt that the Juggernaut of perpetual despair had already
gone over her. She had no fear, no resentment, no hope; all
was a dull, dead, motionless desolation. In this attitude she
remained for’ several minutes, while her father uttered no
word, and there was no sound in the room except the clank,
clank, of the chain on the prisoner’s leg, as he moved impa-
tiently from time to time.

The sheriff opened the door and announced that another
visitor was waiting on the prisoner's leisure. Without
snquiring who the visitor was, Mr. Newcome ordered him to
be admitted, at the same time commanding the prostrate child
to rise. Wearily she raised herself to her feet, turning her
tear-stained face away from the observation of the new-comer.
But he had already caught a glimpse that revealed to him the
sorrow imprinted there, and her listless attitude betrayed the
rest. He was too late!

For a moment, the young man’s self-possession was in
danger of being altogether lost ; but he quickly conquered his
rising indignation, and addressed himself to Alicia’s father, as
if she were not present, or not plunged in grief and ~
humiliation.

“Mr. Newcome,” said he, as firmly as possible, “I have.
called on you this morning to ask your consent to my

  
 
 

0 THE LAND-CLAIM.

engagement with your daughter. I love her, and she has
promised to be my wife—”

“Ah, she is forward for a girl of her age,” interrupted
Newcome, sarcastically.

“Not without your approbation, Mr. Newcome; she has
promised nothing without your approval.”

“My daughter is disposed of,” answered Newcome, briefly,
with a frown.

Seeing that the man was doggedly incorrigible, Allen
turned to Alice, who sat, leaning her forehead on her hands,
in motionless despair.

“Are you sold to the Frenchman ?” he asked, in a voice:
that would be husky in spite of his efforts to control it.

She gave him a rapid sign of assent in her anxiety lest he
should say something further disagreeable to her father.

“Do you consent to it? to be bartered away like a squaw
to an Indian trader?” cried Allen, losing all control of his
feelings.

“T obey my father,” answered Alicia, with that calmness
of manner which comes from exhaustion of suffering.

“Your father! Much claim he has to that title!” exclaimed
the young man, in the highest excitement. ‘ Father, indeed l
and he stood fixed, in anger and pain of disappointment
He almost wished, at that moment, that he had let the lynchers
hang the man.

Alicia, as if sympathetically informed of his thoughts,
signed him to come near her.

“Don’t be angry with him,” she whispered, “but try to
save him, for my sake.”

Allen did not promise. But he took that opportunity
to press ‘her hand, and to whisper a word of counsel iv
her ear.

“ Alicia, your guardian is waiting for you,” interrupted her
father, sternly.

She immediately rose to go.

“May I come to see you sometimes ?” she asked, timidly.

“ Ask your guardian ?” was the freezing answer.

Choking back her tears, the unhappy daughter approached

the prisoner’s chair, and, bending her lips to his cheek, —
kissed him lightly, as if afraid of being repulsed; and then,  -

  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
   
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

  
ee

 

A VINDICTIVE FATHER. 1

without a word or a look toward her lover, hastily left the
apartment.

Allen restrained the impulse which he felt to follow her,
and seated himself with the determination of making an
appeal to the reason, feeling and interests of the man before
him. But it was in vain he talked of youthful hopes and
affections crushed; of the shame of putting a pure young girl
in the power of a man like the trader; of the indignation his
(Newcome’s) enemies might excite against him on account of
it; of the grief of the child at being parted from all her
friends; even of his own disposition to drop all attempts to
befriend him in his precarious position.

He might as well have talked to Lot’s wife, as she exists
at the present day. The man made no arguments nor
defense; he merely gave an unequivocal refusal to all
propositions to reyoke the purpose he held toward his
daughter, neither showing anger nor fear, but a sullen
vindictiveness. The young man at last sat silent, in wonder,
indignation and despair.

“Mr. Newcome,” said Allen, at last, “something which
IT happen to know may perhaps change your determination.
Your daughter’s relatives on her mother’s side pave been
making endeavors to find her out.”

The lightning glance which Newcome cast at the young |
man showed that at least his apathy was broken.

“Tf you knew that they were likely to give her their
protection, would you not prefer that she should receive it
before that of Mr. Mauvais ?”

“No!” shouted the man, with a terrific oath. “I would
see Mauvais take her to hell first !”

 
  

   

CHAPTER X.
THE MYSTERY CLEARING AWAY.

“How-py?”* exclaimed Flag, bursting into Allen’s office
that afternoon, and finding the young lawyer with his face
buried in his hands, and his elbows on the table before him.
“Why, Squire, old fellow, what’s the matter with you? This
is the first time I ever saw you down in the mouth in this
way. Are you sick, or out of business, or in love, or what's
the matter ?”

“How are you, Flag? I’m prodigiously glad to see you,”
said Allen, shaking hands, but not looking particularly ani-
mated. “ When did you get in?”

“Half an hour ago. Had the greatest time! Been away
over on the Elkhorn, and out on the Platte. Glorious
country, I tell you /”

“Did you find any place you liked better than this ?”

“Oh, I don’t know; I like to be near the river, where I
can hear a steamboat whistle once in a while. How do those
Irishmen get along on our claim ?”

“Well enough, I guess. I don’t look after them much.
Have you seen Ed while you were gone ?”

“Nary an Ed. It’s an interesting case of mysterious disap-
pearance. It’s six weeks, nearly, since Ed went away? I
think we ought to inquire into the matter.”

“T have been inquiring into the matter,’ returned Allen,
“and I’ve found out what I suspected to be true. What
would you say if I should tell you Ed is a horse-thief?”

Flag was so confounded that he said nothing, but only
stared at Allen in silent amazement for full two minutes.
“Gods!” he ejaculated at last; “to-think that we har-

bored such a fellow. Why, what an accomplished villain
he was!”

“ Eivery villain, to be successful, must have talent and self-
possession,” replied Allen, “and he had both. Only once I
caught him off his guard.”

* Omaha fox “ Bow de you do?”

 

 

o

   
THE TRUE CULPRIT. %3

“But how did you find out about him, Squire? Has he
been caught ?”

“Pl tell you‘all I know about it, and how I came to make
up my mind. ‘You remember the apparition we saw that
night? and that we supposed Ed was asleep ?”

“Yes, I remember; I don’t think I shall ever forget. that
night. You don’t mean to say Ed was not asleep, and did
not dream as he said he did?”

“To tell the truth, I had a little suspicion of him all the
while—that is, after my mind had time to cool off, when the
examination of Newcome was over, and I recollected about
the two shots. But I was not certain enough to make it safe
to act on the suspicion, and I felt, almost ashamed of myself
for having it, besides.”

“What are you coming to now, Squire? You can not
mean you thought he shot the Doctor ?”

“Draw your own inferences, Flag, but don’t interrupt me.
I was speaking about that night. Well, you know how he
behaved—about his dream, and all. Iam not superstitious
—though that is what everybody says—but I did feel that
what we saw meant something more than a lively imagina-
tion. Whateyer it was—ghost, phantom, apparition—call it
what you please—it was fearfully real and perfectly distinct.
You agree with me about that? And it pointed to Ed, who,
we thought, was sound asleep. Why should the ghost have
pointed to Ed? that was what I asked myself over and over
again. The question kept in my mind, dogging me into
watchfulness. The day the lynchers so nearly finished New-
come’s job for him, when. I was walking away from the
‘place of execution,’ Ed came along and complimented me on
my success in dispersing the mob, rather sarcastically, I
thought; and seemed quite excited about my have urged the
people to discover who fired the other shot. I was looking
out for him, and accidentally, in the heat of his apprefrension I
suppose, he dropped the remark that he ‘knew I believed
Newcome the guilty man.’ I asked him quietly how he
knew, and, quite thrown off his guard, he replied: ‘I heard
you tell Flag so.” I retorted: ‘I thought you were dreaming,
He gave me a very peculiar look in a sly way, but I affected
not to see my advantage. However, he soon left my society,

 
 

  

THE LAND-CLAIM.

and tne next morning he had business in another county.
Now you may give me your inference.”

Flag, whose countenance had undergone a variety of changes,
was visibly affected.

“This is a strange case, Squire,” he said. Ican not help
being impressed in the same way you are; and then there is
another circumstance might affect the evidence. Ed sold his
gun that day—at all events he said so—and he got rid of it,
any way. Was he afraid it would betray him, or was he
anxious to get rid of it for some other reason? It was a gun
he made a great fuss over, and had often said he would not
sell it. But it was curious he should have hit upon the very
description of thing which we had seen, when he related his
dream.”

“Well, either he saw the apparition too, the same as we
did, or else he learned enough from our remarks to be able to
describe it, and took that way to divert suspicion. For if he
saw the Doctor point him out, as we did, he must have felt
very uneasy, lest we should be impressed by it in a way to
injure him. He acted his part exceedingly well, for he must
have been in mortal terror. But he did not sell his gun! JI
looked out for that too, and I found it one day, hidden under
a log in the ravine, not far from where the dispute occurred,
and in a direction from it to have hit the Doctor, as the sur-
geon described, and on lower ground, as he said. What more
do we want to know about it?”

“Not much. But you have not told me yet how you Sane
out he was a horse-thief.”

“Only by ‘induction, as the philosophers say. I eau
to hear of a case where a respectable-looking young man had
applied for work at a mill-place down below here a few miles,
and, after remaining there at work long enough to get ‘the
hang of things,” had demanded his pay and left. That night
the horses, a splendid pair, were stolen, the stable lock having
been picked with the mill tools. The owner told me—for 1
went down to see him, and get a description of the man—that
one of his horses could not have been got out of the stable by
a stranger, or one who had never handled him, which made
it pretty certain who the thief was.”

“ And did the mill-man describe Ed?

 

  
er.

 

A LOVER IN TROUBLE. "5

“Exactly; there is no mistake about him. But the
scoundrel got off safe, and sold the horses over in eastern
Iowa.”

“Tt seems incredible that any man could be so consummate
a hypocrite and desperate a villain, and yet carry no more
marks about him than that man did. The only motive he
could have had was revenge for that joke we played on him
—which cost poor Doc his life. Tl never play another
practical joke as long as I live—I could not, after this!” said
Flag, with tears in his eyes. “ Newcome will be cleared, I
suppose ?” he added, after a pause, during which the young
men’s thoughts were busy with the past.

“No jury will be able to convict him with such doubts in
his favor, and I don’t think he will come to trial at all.”

“ And the daughter—what has become of her? Ah, I have
found out the cause of your elongated visage, I believe. Your:
face can’t keep a secret of that sort, Squire. No trouble in
that quarter, I hope ?”

Allen was just in that state of mind when he wanted a
confidant—somebody into whose sympathetic ear to pour the
story of his wrongs, and the bitterer wrongs of her he loved.
And so he told Flag the whole story.

“The old curmudgeon!” Flag exclaimed. “Why, Id let
him hang; I'll be blessed if I wouldn’t! He's altogether too
hateful to live among human beings, and society would be
better off without him.”

“Unfortunately, that would not help my case at all. The
little saint .has adopted the martyr’s réle in this affair, and
seems determined to offer herself as a sacrifice for the sin of
telling the truth about her undeserving father. The great
thing now would be to gain time; for it is my opinion that
the mysterious stranger will appear again before long, and
that then she will be taken out of Mauvais’ hands. That
would save er; but I suppose I should be looked upon as a
fortune-hunter, if I presumed upon our engagement then,

_ Confound it, I’m out of luck every way !”

“Courage, old fellow! It’s darkest always just before
dawn. What's the reason you can not detain her here as a
witness ?”

“They would get around that by taking depositions; and

 
   
 

   

THE LAND-CLAIM.

she'll be hurried off and hid away in some convent. That, I
suspect, is the Frenchman’s plan. ‘There comes Wyman in a
terrible hurry ; I wonder what’s the matter now ?”

“Tye just run in to tell you, Squire Allen, that our little
girl is poisoned. The doctor’s gone to see her, and I mustn’t
stop to talk. You'd mebbe better come and see her too,
though it won’t do any good as I know of She’s mighty
bad ;” and without stopping to answer questions, the constable
was gone in a twinkling.

“Good God! what next?” cried Allen, bursting into tears,
and burying his face in his hands.

“Why, Allen, my friend,” said Flag, laying his hand on
the young man’s shoulder gently, “don’t give up that way.
It may not be so bad as you think.”

“Bad!” ejaculated Allen, with boyish petulance of man-
ner; “I think the evil one has been let loose in Fairview.”

“Nonsense, Squire. His Satanic Highness has deen loose
these six thousand years, going about all the time like a raging
lion, seeking whom he may eat. So his presence is nothing
new; and all we’ve got to do is to turn him a cold shoulder
whenever we can; or, if he gets to be too impudent, to thrash
him soundly. And as to this Fairview devil, if I were you
I'd give him the-slip by kidnapping that young lady-love of
yours, and running away with her. I'l help you do it if you
need any help.”

“You talk as if she wasn’t dying perhaps—or dead,” said
Allen, choking on the word. “I’m going to see how she is,
and what this means. Come in again this evening, Flag, for
I want to talk with you.”

Allen arrived at the constable’s house almost as soon as the
physician, and found Mrs. Wyman in a state of the greatest
alarm. And truly the patient’s appearance was sufficiently
alarming. Her complexion, so lately pale, now was a bright
scarlet; her eyes distended, and the pupil enlarged, though
apparently visionless; and she was suffering from distressing
nausea, while she was, at the same time, in a muttering
delirium. Of the cause of these symptoms Mrs. Wyman
knew nothing. Evidently they were the effects of pee
but how administered she could not tell.

“What has she eaten to-day ?” asked the physician, at the

 
 

THE SQUAW’S REVENGE. AT

same.time preparing active means for relieving the patient’s
stomach of its poisonous contents.

“ Almost nothing at all. She was ailing when she came
back from visiting her father; and she laid down right away,
and couldn’t be coaxed to eat any dinner; but a little while
ago I felt bad to see her so miserable, and urged her so much
that she ate a little piece of bread and some fresh raspberries
that Mr. Mauvais had sent her this morning ; and that’s all.”

“Did she eat any of the berries in the morning ?”

“No; she didn’t take a bite for breakfast—only some
coffee.”

“ Did any one else eat any. of them ?”

“No; they was just for her; I never touched them.”

“ Let the rest of them be kept for examination,” said Allen,
who had asked the last two or three questions.

That night, after active treatment, the dangerous symptoms
abated, the patient being left in a state of great exhaustion.
Meanwhile the news of the poisoning had been conveyed to ~
Mr. Mauvais at the trading-post. a

“ Dieu ! Ho, José! Get me a horse, quick !” ejaculated the
trader in the greatest excitement of manner. “Curses on that
panther!” he muttered; “it’s her work. By the furies, Pl
kill the old wild-cat !” -

As if fate had sent her that way, Ha-shaw at that moment
crossed the piazza. Mauvais sprung after her and caught her
by one arm.

“She-devil! You have poisoned her—my little white friend
—who never harmed you. ‘You deserve to die.”

Ka-shaw did not shrink from his powerful grasp, nor avoid
the fiery anger burning in his eyes. Her own glittered with
satisfaction. i

“Ts she dead? the pretty white girl? Ka-shaw is sorry for
poor Mauvyais.”

“ You did it!” repeated the trader, still gazing sternly in
leer face. But the expressionless features gave no sign of agi-
tation ; only the twinkling of the small black eyes betrayed
the secret triumph of the Indian woman’s hate.

“ Mauvais is drunk,” she said, contemptuously.

“The lightning blast you!” cried the trader, quite beside
himself with passion, and shaking her violently. ~

 
  
    
 
   
   
  
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
 

  

a

THE LAND-CLAIM.

“Take care, Mauvais! An Omaha never forgives,” said
Ka-shaw with a warning calmness in her voice.

“Omaha!” ejaculated the frantic man. ‘“ What do I care
for your whole beastly tribe? Beggars, thieves and murderers,
all of you !”

The words were scarcely out of his mouth before the gleam
of a knife flashed before his eyes. It descended upon his
shoulder, inflicting a deep flesh wound. Maddened by the
pain, and invested with more than ordinary strength, the tra-
der ~succeeded in snatching the knife, stained with his own
blood, from the strong grasp of the squaw, and plunged it in
her side. She fell heavily to the floor, dragging him with her
in her fall.

“Poor Ka-shaw !” said Mauvais, raising himself on one knee
and looking at his victim, “I believe I have killed you indeed.”

His shouts gathered the people of the post about him, who,
knowing the overbearing nature of one, and the violent temper
of the other, were not in the least surprised at the revolting
tragedy, though the Indians muttered threateningly among

‘themselves.

“T can’t wait long on this scratch,” said Mauvais to the
post surgeon who dressed his wound. “I must go up to the
Reserve, and explain ‘his business to the Indians, or they'll
be sending after my scalp.”

“You will add a salve of a few hundred dollars to each of
the chiefs’ national feelings too, I suppose ?”

“ Dieu, yes! They’ll make me pay well for it. I’m sorry
I killed the squaw, for I don’t like blood; but there is no
doubt she poisoned Miss Newcome, and she might have done

) the same for me, seeing that Miss Newcome escaped dying.
‘Tm going to quit this Indian life; I’m sick of it !”

  
 

  

THE TRADER’S LIBERALITY..

CHAPTER XI.
THE STORY OF A NIGHT.

Two months had elapsed, and Alicia was still at Mrs. Wy-
man’s. The effects of the poisoning, and her continued deli-:
cate health, together with her anxiety to remain in Fairview
until after her father’s trial, had caused an order from her
physician that she should be allowed to follow her own desire
in this matter. Yet the preparations for a year at school were
going on, and the little parlor of the constable’s house was
like a fancy bazaar, so great was the profusion of pretty
colors and fine fabrics which the trader's generosity had
supplied.

“T declare it seems just like getting ready for a wedding !”
Mrs. Wyman exclaimed as she stood with upraised hands in
the midst of musSlins, silks, shawls and laces, which Alicia was
unfolding from a package brought up by the last steamer.
Mr. Mauvais was in St. Louis, and had sent these presents to
his ward.’

Alicia did not smile as most young girls would at such an
allusion ; she did smile however, just to please the kind woman
who took so great interest in all her affairs, and presented each
article anew for her admiration.

“Ts strange you don’t seem to care much for these pretty
things,” continued Mrs. Wyman. “ When I was a girl, such
a lot of handsome presents would have set me wild. Mauvais
is a generous man, if he has faults.”

Mrs. Wyman always spoke well of the trader; partly be-
cause she seldom spoke ill of any one; and more, perhaps, be-
cause he had been a liberal friend of ‘her husband when they
first came to the new country.

“But I wish things was a little different. Now, if Mr.
Mauvais was your uncle, or some relation to you, and these
was your wedding-clothes, and you was going to be married
to young Mr. Allen, it would be nice! If Allen was my own
son, I couldn’t feel much worse about his disappointment than
I do; for I like him better than any yoting man I know.

 

  
    

 
 

80 THE LAND-CLAIM.

And [’m sorry enough you didn’t just do what he asked you
to—be married to him whether or no. For your father has
cast you off; and Mauvais has no right to you—nobody thinks
he has. It is worrying about this that keeps you so pale, ’m
afraid ; tho’ you don’t just own it. For you see it is going
against nature.”

“ Please, dear Mrs. Wyman,” said Alicia, coaxingly, “ do not
mention Mr, Allen to me any more. I can not help doing
what I have promised; I should be very unhappy to do any:
other way.”

“Well, dear, I won’t trouble you; you have troubles enough
I guess. I only wish you would take good care of yourself,
and not work so steady when I know you don’t feel like it.”

“T have been thinking all the afternoon about home—I mean
about our house on the claim,” said Alicia, dreamily. “Don’t
you think I might go there by myself, Mrs. Wyman ?”

“T guess you might. ’Tisn’t likely you will meet any one
out there. But I don’t like to see you taking such lonely
walks, because company would make you feel a great deal
cheerfuller.”

“Not to-day,” said Alicia, shaking her head. “TI am longing
to see the place alone; company would prevent my enjoy-
ment of it.”

“Well then, take care not to overheat yourself. It’s very
sultry, and looks as if we might have a shower by evening,
You'd better go by the lower road, in the shadow of the
bluffs.”

Promising to take all these precautions, Alicia set out upon
her walk. As she left town she turned into the “ lower road,”
which was a mere terrace along the river-bank—a limestone
ledge, like that on which the trading-post was built—and was
overhung in the same way by a vine-clad wall of steep blufis.
In several places the wall was opened by the mouths of ravines
that divided the ridge of the bluffs and afforded a way of
ascent to the high prairie-land beyond, as they gradually nar-
rowed in depth to. the top of the ridge, like a funnel with its
wide end inclined downward to the riyer. Opposite to one
of these openings Alicia observed a skiff moored, with the oars
still wet ; but the oarsman himself was not visible. Thinking
- it was one of the many that cr ossed_ the river daily on somg

 

2 yt nA a.

Geers seemeenasaiat 2 : reetenisg sepeerannaer
4. t= <

Peicwne Se ARCS 0 NGA Pe gp alls AM

fee i cep ecetectmrns? 7

AN ACCIDENTAL MEETING. 81

errand to the trading-post or village, she did not look about
her for the owner. If she had, she would have seen a pair
of piercing eyes gazing at her from behind the shrubs and
vines that choked up the mouth of the ravine.

Slowly she pursued her way, thinking her own sad thoughts,
hearing the river’s murmur as in a dream, hoping little, fear-
ing nothing, but patiently bearing the cross that had been laid
on her young life. As she climbed the steep terraces which
had been cut out of the bluff to reach the cabin, she often felt
compelled to pause for breath, sitting down as she did so, and
gazing absently, yet with a feeble sense of enjoyment, at the
shining river and the hazy August sky. Her dress was the
same—a white wrapper, a little scarlet shawl, and straw hat
drooping over her face—that it had been on that last day at
the cabin. She was thinking of that day, and wondering if
eyer there would be any more so bright as that, before the
terrible trouble fell upon it. In her reyerie she did not hear
a step coming toward her, until she heard her name pronounced
by a well-known, but of late absent voice.

“ What good spirit brought you here to-day, Alicia? Sit
still—do, dear ; do, dearest Alicia! I have been hovering about
here for an hour, not knowing some kind spirit held me here
that I might at last see you.”

“T was going to the house—to see the old place,” answered
Alicia, rising, and at the same time trembling too much to
proceed.

“Well, go there, if you wish. Only let me go along. Do
not refuse me. It is not safe for you to go alone, either—
really it is not. There may be some scoundrels lurking about
here, knowing the place is deserted, You see this lariat?
Tye been looking all day for my horse, without finding him ;
and have about made up my mind that he is stolen. There
is no telling who you might meet. Lean on my arm, dear,
up these steps. I know you are forbidden to see me; but the
one who forbids you has no right to exercise such authority.
Lean harder on me, darling ; I could carry you up easily, you
are grown so light. You look like a beautiful spirit—an
angel without the wings,” said Allen, gazing on her with
mingled sorrow and delight.

It was so difficult to resist his impetuous manner, and so

 
   
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
   
   
 
 
   
  
  
  
   
  
 
  
    
 
 
 
 
 
  
   
   

THE LAND-CLAIM.

hard to deny the pleader in her own heart, that Alicia ceased
to think of it, and quietly accepted his offered assistance.

“Tf you knew how unhappy I have been!” continued Allen,
“and you too, darling—I do not need to be told that you are
suffering with me. Oh, if I could bear it all, I would submit
more cheerfully.”

“T fear it is not wise, Mr. Allen, for me to listen to any
conversation on this subject. You remember the terms on
which I am permitted to remain here until after my father’s
trial. “Even seeing you in this accidental manner puts me in
danger of being sent away.”

“They shall not send you away; indeed, they shall not.
I will carry you off in my arms first.”

“You forget, Mr. Allen, that my consent would be want-

ing to such a proceeding.”
- “Ah, you smile as beautifully as ever. But don’t call me
Mr. Allen, dearest. Did you not know my name is Frede-
rick? You have never called me that, though I wish you
would. Oh, darling! Providence has thrown us together
once more to-day. It may be we shall never meet again
alone. Don’t be cold with me. You did not promise not
to love me, but only to give me up. And now that we have
met by the kindness of pitying Heaven, do not waste our
precious moments in assumed indifference. Let this be an
afternoon to remember through years of trial. Dearest
Alicia, forget your father and Mr. Mauvais, and all the world
but me. Give me these few brief hours.”

‘Where was the gay and confident Allen of a few months
past ? :

“Every one says,’ murmured Alicia, regarding him at-
tentively, “that J am very much changed; but I can not
think I am so changed as you are. Dear Frederick, how
much pain I must have caused you! I am so sorry! I wish
you could forget me altogether.”

“She sighed, and drew her hand away, as if her free renun-
ciation would help him in making his.

“Don’t take your hand away, dear. Lovely little hand,
whose owner talks of being forgotten! If I could forget you,
darling, I would not wish to. The misery of a hopeless love
for you, is sweeter than happiness with any one else. So
GOLDEN HOURS. 83

don’t talk about it; but look upon me as yours always—yours
forever—let what wili happen.”

Arm in arm—for Alicia was so carried away by his stronger
will that she no longer cared to deny herself the pleasure of
this unexpected meeting—the lovers, blessed for one little
hour, strolled about the cabin and premises, or sat upon the
porch, gazing at far-off landscapes over the river, while they
talked of prospects in the future, more far-off, and not so bright
as these glorious river-views.

“Bear this in mind, my love,” said Allen, at the close of a
vain effort to shape any tangible hope out of what seemed their
inevitable fate, “that I have not given you up. Time and
unforeseen events may do something for our cause, though we
are able to do nothing for ourselves; and whenever that time
comes, I shall not be far away. But, I want to ask you one
thing, my love. I know you are the best litile girl in the
world, and that you always sacrifice yourself to a sense of
duty; but is there not some other reason for your extraordi-
nary constancy to your father—who certainly has not seemed
to deserve such perfect self-sacrifice from you—some secret
motive, I mean, for being the most dutiful daughter that
any one ever knew? I have sometimes thought there must
be :

“T do not know,” replied Alicia, embarrassed, “that it is a
daughter’s province to judge of her father’s deserts.”

“ Perhaps not, dear; but you evade my question. IfI am
impertinent in asking it, tell me so without embarrassment—I
can bear a little reproof from you.”

“Oh, no,” she answered, nervously thridding her slender
fingers through the scarlet fringe of her shawl; “it is not pre-
sumptuous in you to wish to know any thing which concerns
me; and I should tell you any thing willingly which would
not displease my father.”

“Your father again! Well, you are an incomprehensible
girl. But I won’t tease you any more, for I see I have:made
a good guess,”

The afternoon sun was shining hotly, and the air was very
sultry. The little porch was not a comfortable place on such
an afternoon, and Allen proposed to seek the cooler shelter of

the woods. The forest along these bluffs was crossed inevery = —

a

¥

 
 

~

84 THE LAND-CLAIM. -

direction by Indian trails, affording well-beaten paths through

the wildest thickets, and often leading into the most picturesque
glens, dells and ravines. Alicia had formerly wandered about
these paths alone, with the greatest delight, and now accepted
the proposition to retrace them with pleasure.

With her hat swinging by a ribbon from one hand—and
with arms about each others’ waists after the immemorial fash-
ion of young lovers, Allen and Alicia entered the woods and
strolled about its checkered ways until almost sunset, stopping
occasionally to rest on a grassy mound or fallen tree. They
had been so happy in each other’s loved society that the
thought of parting again so soon began to overshadow their
joy and make long pauses in their conversation.

During one of these sad silences it was, that Allen felt Alicia
give a sudden start of alarm and quickly withdraw herself
from his arm.”

“What is it, dear ?”

“J see a man in the woods; and was afraid he might
observe us.”

“ Don’t be afraid, love,” he replied, in a low tone ; “ which
way from us is he?” i

“Tn the path round the head of the ravine. He is walking
slowly and looking about him carefully ; do you see him ?”

“Yes, I see him. Don’t be alarmed, darling; he can not
see us behind these bushes ; and it is not any one who knows
us, I think.”

“ Good Heavens!” whispered Allen, after watching the man’s
movements in silence for a few minutes. “I know that man,
Alicia. It is the one who ought to be in your father’s place !”

He was trembling with excitement—the great drops of sweat
standing out on his forehead.

“Can you be very brave, dear,” he asked, eagerly, “ and
help me take that villain prisoner? Dont look so frightened.
You know I would not risk any injury to you for the world.”

“But you?” she whispered, “you are single-handed and
unarmed.”

“J will take him at a disadvantage,” he replied, keeping
his eye on the man. “He is coming this way. If he sees me
he will retreat; but if he only sees you, and you do not appear
to notice him, he will be less apt to take alarm. Now love,
A CAPTURE. ~ 85

if you can be composed and cool enough to do as T tell you,
your father is paved. ‘Will you?”

Alicia gave a sign of assent, and Allen pressed her hand in
return. He had no time for thanks.

“J might knock him down senseless,” he said in the same
low tone, “ but I do not want to do that. I must take him
prisoner, and haven’t got the means, Listen, dear! Get up
slowly, and walk toward the house leisurely, as if you did not
suspect his near neighborhood. That will reassure him, and
keep him from running away; but when you get out of sight,
run as fast as you can to the house and bring me the lariat I
left lying on the porch. By the time you can get back I will
have him, or my name is not Fred Allen!”

Alicia did not need urging, timid as she was, for in t fis

event she saw the greatest hopes for her father. She made .

her movements with so much quiet ease that the prowler was
deceived completely, and kept advancing along the path
directly toward the place of Allen’s concealment. He came
very slowly, without any apparent motive, but watching the
flutter of Alicia’s white dress as she disappeared in the direc-
tion of the cabin.

“The young bird hovers about the nest, tho’ the old one
is caged,” he muttered. “It would be a little odd for she and
I to meet. What the devil brought me here? To see New-
come’s girl ?—pleasantly suggestive, any way! She’s a pretty
" ereature to be a murderer’s daughter!” and he laughed a low,

strange sort of laugh, that roused the waiting lion in Allen’s
- blood.
By this time he was quite abreast of where Allen was stand-
“ing, sereened by some low oak bushes; and, as if irresolute
about going any nearer the clearing, paused and half ‘turned
in the path.

“T suppose Squire is looking for a horse to-day. Wonder
how he likes that kind of practical joking? There comes
Newcome’s girl again—I believe I'll wait and speak to her—
she don’t know who I am.”

“ But I do!” exclaimed a stern voice behind him, and the
next instant he was struggling violently in the iron grasp of
a pair of powerful arms, which so pinioned his own that he
could not use them for defense. In the struggle both fell to

ity

 
=~
86 THE LAND-CLAIM.

the ground, Allen taking care to be uppermost ; and while he
saved his hands from injury by partially releasing his antago-
nist, he made his weight of good use in keeping him down
while he secured a fresh hold of his arms. Ed, or more pro-
perly Joe Carnes, had been so taken by surprise as not to
be able to command his whole strength, always inferior to
Allen’s, and made but a short though fierce resistance to his
captor.

“Give me your help, Alicia,’ gasped Allen, panting from
exertion. “Here! bind the lariat around his arms, while I
hold them. Make it tight. Use all your strength on it.
There now ! tie it—good and strong!”

Excitement had given her strength, and lent quickness and
energy to her motions, as well as color and a resolute expres-
sion to her face. As she bent above him, laboring with all
her might to make his fetters fast, something of the rage and
ferocity of the man’s face disappeared, and an expression of
sarcastic humor took the place of it.

“Tt isn’t often a man has the honor to be taken captive by
a pretty girl,” said he, lightly. “Squire, I owe you something,
and we'll settle that one of these days—but Miss Newcome,
here—really I never can repay the kind attentions she has
just honored me with.”

Allen had seated himself on the prisoner’s knees, and was
too busy tying his ankles together with a portion of the lariat
to take notice of his remarks. But Alicia shrunk from his
untimely mirthfulness, and retiring to a little distance, awaited
the next turn in affairs.

Having bound and disarmed his man, Allen forbore to make
any reply to the curses “ not loud but deep ” which were show-
ered upon him by the prostrate foe, leaving him to reflect
upon the chances of his present position while he consulted with
Alicia about further movements.

“How worried you look, dear,’ he said, gazing with min-
gled anxiety and admiration in her face, from which the flush
had faded. “TI fear I have asked too much of you already;

but if you would not be afraid I would like to leave that —

fellow in your charge for half an hour, while I go for an
Officer to take him.” :
“Oh, let me go for some one,” pleaded Alicia, terrified at

    

 

 

 
 

    
 
  

 

TIE PRISONER AND HIS GUARD.

the thought of being alone with such a man, though eyer so
much bound,

“ Really, darling, I do not think that would be best. It is
already getting late; you could not get to town one quarter
as soon as I could, and would not be able to accomplish the
business in some time after getting there. There is nothing
to fear, my love.”

“But what if he should have comrades in the neighbor-
hood ?”

“T don’t think it likely that he has. Besides, I will leave
you this knife and pistol. The pistol is loaded, and you
know how to use it in case of necessity. Are you still
afraid ?”

“T will stay,” answered Alicia; but she did not say with-
out fear.

“Thank you, my brave love. I will go, then, right away ;
but first let me get you a seat.”

He found a place for her near the prisoner, and, handing
the pistol to her, turned to Carnes.

“T have given this young lady directions, if you attempt to
escape by calling any one to your assistance, or otherwise, to
put this pistol to use instantly; so you will use, discretion,
unless you wish Miss Newcome fur your executioner.”

“A fair hand to die by,” muttered Carnes, when Allen was
out of reach of his glowering glance at him. “ You really
would oblige me, Miss Newcome, by sending a ball through
my head. It aches confoundedly, lying in this position.”

“J will put my shawl under your head,” said Alicia, pro-
ceeding to take it off and fold it into a pillow.

Carnes watched her movements with a mingled expression
of surprise and amusement; but when she raised his head and
put the pillow under it, he scrutinized her face attentively.

“Do you do this because you pity me so much?” he
asked.

“You said your head ached in that position,” she replied,
returning to her seat and resuming her guard.

He turned his face toward her, and continued to. look at
her for some minutes.

“Do you know why I am in this situation?’ he then

 

  
  

after crash, reverberating among the bluffs, and deafening the

88 (THE LAND-CLAIM.

“T was not given liberty to answer questions; don’t ask
me any more, if you please,” said Alicia; with a quiet show
of displeasure at the freedom he used.

“Tf your father had been as discreet as yourself, he would
never haye got into the scrape he did,” said Carnes, ma-
liciously.

Then, seeing she did not reply under such great proyoca-
tion, he grew restless, and writhed his body about constantly.

“A damned pretty situation for a gentleman to be in,” he
grumbled. “Suppose I make an outcry, and bring a friend to
my relief? I could do it.”

“TJ shall do as I was bidden—shoot you at the first attempt.”

“You! You could not shoot a man—your heart is too
soft for that.”

“T hope you will not put me to the test. I shall certainly
do my duty,” answered Alicia, firmly, though the bosom under
the white dress was throbbing violently.

“Ts going to rain,” said Carnes. “TI feel a. drop on my

face. You had better run to the house, for you see I can’t
get away. I'd be happy to escort you there if I could.”
- Alicia looked up through the trees, and saw that there was
other reason than the approaching sunset for the gloom that
was gradually darkening the woods. Gray, flying clouds
were gathering thickly in the air, quite obscuring the heavens.
Could she have seen the black eagle’s wing spreading out in
the west, she would haye been terrified. As it was, she
was simply very uneasy. The half-hour was not yet gone,
and it was already quite dark in the woods.

“Miss Newcome,” said Carnes, after apparent deliberation,
“J have a skiff down at the foot of the bluffs. If you would
cut this lariat and let me take my chances of escape, even
now, I swear to you that I will save your father from the
hangman. Will you doit? Answer quick!”

Before Alicia could have replied, there came a roar through
the woods, as of perpetual thunder. The trees creaked, and
swung their tops together like giants in battle. The lightning
flickered through the air, as if the heavens were one great
electric battery, and every living thing a conductor. Above
the roar of the wind came sharp reports of thunder, crash

   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
 
   
  
 
 
 
   

aptneernate
 

ae

 

  

89

 

THE RESCUE.

ears that heard it. The rain poured down in torrents, beating
upon the undefended form of the terrified girl-guard, and her
equally terrified prisoner. Neither could see the other, except
as the frequent vivid flashes of lightning revealed their faces,
wrinkled and pallid with fear. Still, Alicia sat holding pistol
and knife, not knowing what to do nor where to go. ~

The wind continued to increase in violence, wrenching off
great branches of trees, and whirling them through the air;
and Alicia felt, rather than saw, that one had fallen very near.
The next flash of lightning showed that Carnes was partly
buried under it. A feeling of humanity prompted her to try
to remove it, and groping her way by the flashes, Alicia made
her way to the prisoner, who, when she came near enough to
distinguish his voice, she found moaning with pain.

“Are you hurt?” she cried, aloud; but the words seemed
to fly off on the whistling and roaring wind, without making
a sound. She repeated her question as loud as she could call.

“My arm is broken,” she heard, in words that seemed to
be floating off out of reach. “Cut the cord—do, for God’s
sake !” ;

Fearful even then of being imposed upon, Alicia felt bound
to discover whether or not the prisoner’s arnt was really
broken, and began to exert herself to remove the branch that
seemed to lie upon it; but the force of the wind, the numb-
ing effects of the rain, and her mental confusion made that
impossible. Meanwhile, the man kept moaning in a way to
excite both her sympathy and alarm.

“Oh, Allen! Allen! will you never come?” she cried,
wringing her hands in anguish.

A louder peal of thunder answered her, and she saw that &
tree near her was struck with lightning, and stripped of bark
from top to bottom. She sat close by the prisoner, listening
to his groaning and imprecations, mixed with entreaties—
tempted to free his hands, yet fearing to do so.

After waiting in this state of mind for a length of time, to
her an age of horror, the storm seeming rather to increase ~
than to abate, the poor exhausted girl sunk upon the ground,
weeping bitterly. Yet, over the noise of the tempest she
thought she caught the sound of voices, and raised her head —
to listen. Yes, they were close by, but in the wrong direction.

  

  
 

90 “THE LAND-OLATM.

‘What tney said could not be distinguished, though they were
almost upon her. A horrible oath attested their surprise at
what they saw, on coming near enough to discover the situa-
tion of Carnes and Alicia. She caught but a few words,
mostly oaths, and learned enough to know that these were
not her friends, come to rescue her, but the prisoner’s friends,
who would rescue him.

Thinking now only of escaping from their dangerous
society, the frightened girl was groping to some hiding-place,
when a hand was laid upon her arm. A terrified scream
burst from her lips, whose shrillness overtopped the roar of
the storm. Then followed rapid words, apparently in alter-
cation between her captor and Carnes, and she was released.
She knew, by the gleam of the lightning, that she was left
alone—alone with the rage of the elements, but safer than in
the company of man.

Still the tempest raged at its highest, and still Allen had
not come. Sometimes Alicia thought of trying to get to the
cabin, and again she dared not stir away from that spot for
fear of being lost, or of missing Allen when he should return.
So she kept walking back and forth in the most open space
near the place where Allen had left her, or sometimes crouch-
ing down, with her face upon her knees, to escape the glare
of the lightning. Drenched with rain, without even the
protection of her shawl, which she had given Carnes for a
pillow, her thin, white dress clung chillingly to her shoulders,
weakening and benumbing her so that she moved with difii-
culty. In this situation she waited for another half-hour,
which seemed half the night instead. Then came a peal of
thunder, louder, with a sharper report, than any that had
preceded it, while the air seemed ablaze with the electric fluid,
Alicia was so shocked and stunned, though uninjured, that
she dared not raise herself from the ground, nor her head
from her knees, to look if the bluffs were not rent, or the
forest strewn about her. Shuddering, she sobbed the name
of Allen over and over, as if it had some charm to soothe
the elements,

. But the last grand discharge had been made by heaven’s
batteries. The thunder retired, muttering, with a rolling
sound, as if its flying artillery were hurrying to a new position

   
  
    
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
   
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
   
  
   

i

 
~-
}
;
|

 

 

 
  

100 LATE. - 91

m the field of combat. The wind abated, and though the
rain came down in heavier torrents than before, and the dark-
ness thickened around her, this was less frightful and less
dangerous than the previous storm. She now resolved to call
Allen’s name at intervals, in the hope that he might be
searching for her, but too bewildered by the darkness to dis-
cover where she was. Adopting the peculiar tone used in
the West to call aloud any one at a distance, she shouted,
with all her might and strength:

“O-o-h, Allen! O-o-h, Allen!”

She was answered by a hail only a short distance off, and,
in another moment, flying to meet her lover, found herself
clasped in his arms.

“My poor darling!” he exclaimed, as he felt how wet and
chilled she was.

“ Are you alone?” she asked.

“Yes. I started first, but the constable is not far behind.
Forgive me, dear, for being so long away. I was detained a
few minutes by an accident, and then the storm almost pre-
vented my getting here at all. My love, how you must have
suffered! But how is your prisoner—safe ?”

“He is gone—escaped with his comrades.”

“Escaped!” exclaimed Allen, in a voice of unspeakable
disappointment.

Alicia hastened to relate all that had happened.

“T shall never forgive myself for leaving you exposed to
such perils,” he said, drawing her closer to his bosom.
“Poor little girl! there is no end to her troubles!”

Alicia did. not know why there was- such a pathos in his
voice as he uttered these pitying words. She only thought
how much he loved her, to show such tenderness; and nestled
closer to his breast in grateful confidence.

Soon the constable’s lantern twinkled between the trees,
and the lovers turned to meet him. Mr. Wyman held the
light to Alicia’s face, and shook his head gravely.

“Strange work for our little girl,” he said, sadly; then
speaking to Allen, he inquired for the prisoner.

“He is escaped—got off during the storm, by the help of
some of the gang. He had a boat down at the bluffs, he
said, and may be over in Iowa by this time.”

  
 

 

 

 

THE LAND-CLAIM.

“Tf he tried to cross in that storm, he is more likely at the

bottom of the river, where he ought to be,’ said one of the

constable’s assistants.
“ His arm was broken, he pretended, by the falling of an

oak limb on it. Perhaps it was, perhaps it was not. At all :

events, there must be some of the gang about these ravines,
and they ought to be hunted out,” said Allen.

“Yes, that’s true,” answered Wyman. “But we hayen’t
force enough to undertake that sort of a job, such a night as
this. But come, Allen, you must take Her home right away.
My wagon is down here in the road. One of us will haye to
go ahead and carry the lantern. I wonder where them fellers
- das their boat moored ?”

“Tt ig down opposite the big ravine,” said Alicia, who was
‘ollowing, with Allen, close behind the constable.

“T left my wagon there; hope they won’t find that,” he
said, striding on faster.

Alicia was so completely exhausted by the time they had
reached the road, that she could not go on another rod, and
begged to be allowed to rest.

“Let her-wait’ there, Allen, while I fetch the wagon up,”
said Wyman, hurrying off, while Alicia sunk upon the lower
step of the terrace. The other man followed the constable,
leaving one of the lanterns for Allen. :

“ What can I do for you, darling? Here, sit on my knee,
dear; don’t refuse. It is nothing—or rather it is necessary,
for you will catch your death-cold, I am afraid, on the
ground. You ought to be put in a warm bed this instant. I
know how to nurse you, but I can not. I wish I was a
woman !”

Alicia could not help laughing a little, dreary as she felt.
Soon the constable was seen returning on foot, and without
the wagon.

“Tll bet my head those thieves have got it!” exclaimed
Allen, jumping up so quickly as to throw Alicia off his knees,
though he still kept his arms around her,

“My wagon and horse are gone! I don’t see what you
will do, unless you carry her up to the cabin, and build up a
fire. She can’t get to town to-night through this mud and
water. I must be after them rascals right off, without losin’

 
 

 
  
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
 

i.
7
|

SLEEPING AND WATOHING. 98

time. I reckon they went down the road—yes, there’s a track
—and I'll git horses and help at the tradin’-post. Have you -
told her yet?” whispered Wyman, in Allen’s ear.

Allen shook his head.

“Waal, waal, take good care of her!” and the constable

was off after his stolen property, in company with the men in _

his service. :

After a.few feeble remonstrances, Alicia consented to be
carried up the steps in Allen’s arms, and though he panted
somewhat under his burden, he still persisted in declaring that
he had carried twice as great weight, and that this was.
nothing at all. A fire was quickly made from the stove-wood
which had been in the house for three months.

“ Now, love,” said Allen, as the blaze crackled and roared,
giving signs of speedy warmth,, “you must change your
clothes, if there is any thing in the house to put on. © If there
is not, you must get into bed, with all these wet clothes off.
I will retire while you make your arrangements; but first tell
me whether you have any clothing here.”

Alicia was obliged to confess that she had not. Allen
went into the bedroom and brought out a large woolen
blanket, and hung it on some chairs before the fire. 5

“When you get your clothes off, dear, wrap this blanket.
around you, and lie down on the bunk. I will come in after
a while, and see how you are doing.”

“Qh, no, I can not do as you tell me,” replied the bashful
girl. “I will dry my clothes on me.”

“Dry and warm you must be. Do, dear, do just as I
tell you.”

He left her and went out of the cabin. When he returned,
half an hour after, she was lying on the bunk in a deep sleep.
Bringing more blankets, he covered her warmly and carefully.

“Poor darling!” he whispered, tenderly ; ‘how much you
need this rest.”

All night Alicia slept profoundly, while Allen watched
and slumbered alternately, sitting by the flickering light of
the fire.

 
   

CHAPTER XII.
THE ROGUES AT HOME.

WueEn the storm began, a party of Government surveyors,
not having time to get to camp, two or three miles distant,
took shelter in a deserted claim-cabin, in the edge of the
timber that skirts the Papillion river. The cabin was a mere
doll-baby house, not more than a seven-by-nine affair, the
building of which was supposed to satisfy the requirements of
the law regarding pretmptions.

“Strike a match, somebody, and let’s see: what’s in here,”
said one of the party.

“A match! I’ve been striking one for two whole minutes,
Keep that door shut, won’t you? the darned things won’t
burn. TI believe they’re wet. Where’s Flag? he’s got a tin
match-box.”

; The door being closed, and some dry German lucifers
produced from Flag’s box, a momentary gleam of light illu-
minated the little dark and windowless hut.

“Golly! give us another match, Captain. There’s some-
thing in the corner here looks like provisions.”

“T hope they'll taste that way, for I’m as hungry as an
Indian,” said Flag, as he lit another match, and held it close
to the “provisions.” ‘Yes, here’s something to eat, sure
enough, boys. But how are we going to eat it without a
light ?”

“T could always find the way to my mouth without a
candle,” exclaimed another voice.

“Yes, that you could; and always manage to find your
share of the victuals, too.”

“Hurrah for us! here’s a lantern!” exclaimed the first
speaker, as the last glare of the match shone accidentally on
that desirable object. “Here, give us one more lucifer,
Captain Flag.”

The lantern being lighted, the party, four in number, sat
down upon the turf floor of the hut, to examine into the
nature of the yiands so unexpectedly provided for their suppers.

—

 

 

 
 

 
   
  

 
    
  
 
 
 
 
  

 

 

 

THE DESERTED CLAIM-CABIN. 95

“Cold beef, dried venison, bread, cheese, and ale. That’s
what I call a good supply of grub. The fellow that owns
this claim has a sight of sense. Wonder who he is?”

“ He’s a trump, any way; let’s drink his health.”

“ And another to the Fiage of our Union— Erin go Unum,
and E pluribus Bragh as the Irish orator said in Cincinnati.”

“ Boys,” said Flag, who had been in a brown study for the
last five minutes, “I am much obliged to you, and wish you
may live to see a thousand returns of this happy occasion ;
but, in place of making a speech, I shall communicate to you
a very grave suspicion which has occurred to me. I believe
we have chanced upon one of the resorts of the horse-thieves ;
for the owner of this claim lives in New York, and there
hasn’t been anybody on it all summer, to my. certain knowl-
edge.”

“That so, Captain? Hope they won’t return this evening .
to find us eating their suppers for them.”

“J would rather like to see them, if we were armed,”
answered Flag; “especially if there was among them a
certain one that I know.”

“You know? Why, did one of them steal any thing
from you ?”

_ “No. One of them killed a friend of mine. Id givea
thousand dollars for the satisfaction of catching that villain,”
said Flag, emphatically.

“Did it happen in this country?” asked two of the men,
together.

“Jt happened last spring, in Fairview.”

“What! You don’t mean to say that it was one of the
horse-thieves killed Dr. Edwards, instead of Newcome?
Was that what Allen thought when he saved Newcome from
the lynchers ?”

“He might have thought so then; he knows so now.”

“Why hasn’t he said so, then, and let Newcome go ?”

“Because he could not yet prove it, and his suspicions
were not evidence on which Newcome could be discharged.
Besides, he wanted to watch for his man.”

“Then he knows the man for certain? And you knew
him, and neither of you have said a word about it? That’s

darned curious !” -

 
   

  
 

96 : THE LAND-CLAIM.

“Well, we had our reasons, and were waiting to get the
evidence all right. He'll be sure to turn up yet, for he’s a
doomed man, and can not escape.”

The conversation had been carried on in tones pitched
unnaturally high, but the roar of the tempest without deadened
all other sounds, and the words spoken could only be heard
by an effort of attention which rendered conversation painful.
Therefore, when supper was dispatched, the young men
stretched themselves side by side on the ground in the seyen-
by-nine cabin, prepared to sleep when the storm should abate,
or tired nature could no longer resist the restorer, “balmy
sleep.”

But the close atmosphere of the place, added to the disturb-
ance from without, and the suggestion Flag had made con-
cerning the probable owners of the provisions they had just
eaten, were sufficient to make them wakeful, even after a
hard day’s work; and they continued to address occasional
remarks to each other, or to exclaim at the violence of the
tempest from time to time.

Perhaps there never was a party of young people, of either
sex, kept awake together at night, especially under excite-
ment, without resorting to story-telling as a means of dissi-
pating time. Our young surveyors were no exceptions to the
rule, at all events, and having once started upon that tack,
might have talked till morning, after the lull in the tempest
gave them an opportunity to be heard. However, about mid-
night, Flag, whose presentiments made him watchful, detected
a sound outside different from the pouring rain or gusts of
wind into which the storm had subsided. Giving his com-
panions a hint to listen with him, they presently distinguished
voices at no great distance from the hut, and coming nearer.
As the candle in the lantern had burned out, they had no
means of discovering who was approaching except by listen-
ing to catch what might be said. There were evidently
three persons, as the voices and conversation revealed ; and
one of them was suffering from some hurt, which made the
others solicitous about him, and caused him to utter frequent
execrations.

“Go ahead and get the lantern, Jim,” said he, after indulg-
ing in a volley of oaths. “TI shall fall over this rubbish and

 

 
 

 

SUCCESSFUL STRATAGEM. 97

break another arm, yet. Curse that dog of a Squire—I wil!
kill him as soon as this one is well—I will, sure!”

“Do you hear that?” whispered Flag, hoarsely. ‘ Boys,
that’s the man I told you about. I'll risk my life to take him
whether you help me or not—but I hope you will help me.
There’s three of them, and four of us. They have arms, and
we haye not; but we may be able to take them all, if we can
frighten them first. I'll be captain, and you keep still till I
give my orders, Hark!”

There was one of the gang trying to undo the latch, which
being a wooden one, and swollen with the rain, did not read-
ily yield to his touch.

A les, hollow, sepulchral groan came from within, which
had the effect to arrest the man’s hand. In the pause the
groan was repeated, more heart-breaking, blood-chilling and
horrible than before. The man hesitated, and on the repeti-

tion of the sounds hastily retreated. There was a parley out-
side between the wounded man and his cowardly confederate,
in which the former used more blasphemy than argument. At
length Flag heard one of the men say :

“Waal, Joe, ef you ain’t afeard, go in there by yourself;
that’s all I got ter say !”

Joe, however, was not so forward in making an entrance
as he desired his men to be; and insisted on the second of his
confederates procuring the lantern before he advanced any
further. Something followed in a whisper which Flag could
not hear; and then some one made a successful attempt to
open the door in spite of Flag’s most appalling groans, and the
surveyors heard a pistol discharged several times over their
heads. But as the pistol-shots did not silence the ghostly
noises, the man proved no more. yenturesome than his pre-
decessor, and retired without entering the hut.

“Lie low,” whispered Flag, when he was gone; “ don’t ex-
pose yourselves to be shot. The next one that comes will be
the man I want.”

He was right in his conjecture. Cursing his associates for
cowards, Joe Carnes advanced to the open door, pausing an
instant to listen for the noises which had so frightened his
comrades; but not hearing them repeated, he cautiously
stepped inside, when he felt himself suddenly hooded and

4

 

 
y8 THE LAND-CLAIM.

almost smothered in a thick woolen blanket deftly thrown ove:
his head to prevent his making an outcry, while at the same
time he was pinioned by the strong arms of his assailant, and
thrust against the wall of the hut. In this position, unable to
make a noise, unless it was to imitate faintly the groans which
had frightened his associates, the villain writhed and struggled
both with pain and fear.

“Now boys,” whispered Flag, “ bind this fellow’s legs to-
gether, while I hold him quiet. Take your handkerchief, or
any thing you can get without a noise. Be quick! The others
will need your attention in a minute.”

“There! lay him down while I hold his mouth shut, and
listen for the rascals outside. Shut the door, and burn some
matches. They will see the light through the cracks and
think it’s the lantern. Keep them burning until you hear
them at the door; then open it, and grab them by the arms.
Tl help you then.”

According to Flag’s expectations, the light of the matches
reassured the reluctant rascals, and they came forward with
alacrity to seek shelter from the pouring rain. But the instant
they swung the door open, the light disappeared and the two
men felt themselves grasped by powerful hands, and with such
expertness as to be deprived of the power of resistance. They
were speedily dragged within the hut, uttering oaths mingled
with expressions of alarm, to which their captors made no re-
joinder, except to ask and give each other assistance in mak~
ing fast their prisoners; which they did with the surveying
chain, and whatever they had about them that would confine

- strong limbs.

“Ts that you, Flag?” asked Carnes, having succeeded in
getting his head out of the blanket, after Flag had left him to
assist in taking the others.

“TJ know your voice—you ought to remember mine,” said
the surveyor, briefly.

“Tt seems I do,” returned Carnes, stifling a groan. “I don’t
know what you’ve taken me prisoner for. It’s a d—d out-
rage to lay in wait for a man this way. But when a fellow
is in pain, with a broken arm, he has to act the suppliant some-
times; and I want you to do me the favor to try to set my
limb, which was broken by the branch of a tree falling on it.”

   
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
       
   
   
   
   
   
   
   

 

 
yy

 

THE PRISONERS. 99

“T don’t understand surgery; and besides there’s no light,”
said Flag.

“There’s a lantern somewhere in the cabin,” whined Carnes,
overcome by his distress.

“ Yes, I know, but the candle’s burnt out. If it wasn’t, T
don’t know as I would help you, Ed. ‘Your time has come
for suffering some of the things you have made other people
suffer ; and though I am not usually vindictive, I do bear you
some malice. You have been a devil whose malign influence
has haunted Fairview all summer. When you are chained,
we look for the millenium.”

Carnes made no reply except to breathe a smothered groan
which ended in an.imprecation.

“Tf you take on in that way, you will frighten these com-
rades of yours,” said Flag, in an ironical tone.

“ Blast their cowardly souls! If I had had two whole arms,
you would never have taken me alive.”

“ Wouldn’t he, Joe ?” retorted one of the thieves. “I reckon
vou was took once last evenin’ when you had two whole
arms—an’ a girl tied you too! An’ guarded you arterwards.”

“What girl was that ?” asked Flag, with interest.

“Twas that pretty child of Newcome’s,” answered the man,
with evident satisfaction.

“Hold your tongue, Jim!” growled Carnes.

“T won’t hold my tongue. Ef you hadn’t acted the fool
about comin’ in here, we wouldn’t a-been in this ere scrape
we're in this minit. If the whippers git us, I hope they’ll
make me lay it onto you. Tl swear I’ll lay it on well.”

What Carnes muttered, no one heard; and Flag asked the -

- man to tell how it came to pass that Miss Newcome took part

in the former capture of his prisoner.

“ Waal, that dunno. But I was down in Fairview last
evenin’, an’ I heerd somebody a sayin’ that thar was 8 man
tuk, up in the Newcome woods, for horse-stealing. I reck-
oned-right off who it mout be; ’cause I knowed the captain
was expected over that arternoon, an’ we was to meet him in
the woods at dark. So I listened round, an’ I heerd the feller
that come arter the constable, a tellin’ the constable that thar
was nobody to guard the prisoner but just Miss Newcome ;
an’ that he must go right back agin. Then he started off ;

 
 

 
 

100 THE LAND-CLATM.

but in a minit thar come the awfulest clap of thunder ever I
heerd, an’ it struck the house old Newcome was in—so they
said—and the young man run right off to see what had hap-
pened. But the house was all on fire, an’ I reckoned he
wouldn’t come away very soon; so I give the fellers that was
with me the wink, an’ we took a short cut for the woods.
‘We was some surprised when we found the captain layin’ on
his back in the awfulest rain !—an’ that girl a settin’ close by
him takin’ care that he didn’t run away with his legs tied up, °
an’ his arm broke by a big branch. Ske run away from us
tho’. The captain grumbled ’cause she’d tied him up so tight;
but he wouldn’t let ue stop her from gettin’ away; an’ so we
left her in the woods alone—the wind blowin’ a hurricane, an’
the thunder shakin’ the bluffs, What aye’ s’pose Joe stopped
to hunt for in the dark, ’stead of makin’ off, double quick ?”

“The lady, perhaps,” said one of the surveyors.

“No ’twan’t. It was the gal’s shawl, tho’. She put it
under his head when he was lyin’ on the ground, an’ he was
so tuk by her kindness he wouldn’t part with the shawl for a
hundred dollars, he said.”

The man whom all this relation concerned was moaning,
swearing, and silent by turns. He seemed to haye given him-
self up to his fate, albeit with a bad grace, and no longer in-
terfered with the confession of his confederate; and before
day dawned, Flag was acquainted with the whole history of
the escape. The constable’s horse and wagon were left in the
woods at a short distance from the hut; and it was the inten-
tion of the thieves to have gone up the Platte with them, at the
first streak of light, to an obscure ferry whence they could find
their way to the southern portion of the territory, or into
Kansas—shrewdly guessing that the constable would look for
them nearer the Missouri.

But the route they were obliged to take at daylight was one
they had not calculated on—leading in more public ways, and
to less desirable ends. Laid bound in the wagon, like calves
destined for the shambles, they were escorted into Fairview
by Flag and his assistants, and delivered into the hands of
the authorities, to be dealt with according to law.

 

 

  
 
 

+

 

 

   
 

 

MRS. WYMAN’S TROUBLES.

CHAPTER XIII.
THE MESSENGER OF DESTRUCTION.
WueEn the constable left town for the conveyance of Carnes,

“he had not time to leave word with his wife concerning the

business he was on. In fact, he had not been at home that
afternoon, and did not understand how it happened that Alicia
was in company with Allen, nor why she was down at the
claim at all. He naturally supposed that Mrs, Wyman knew
all about both these matters, or he might have stopped to
send her some message in explanation of the absence of her
family at an unusually late hour. As it was, the neglected
tea-table stood untouched, waiting for the absent husband and
guest, when the sudden bursting of the tempest brought dark-
ness instead of twilight, throwing the good woman, already
very anxious on Alicia’s account, into the greatest consterna-
tion, She had always been afraid of storms—and especially
since her husband had sustained a severe loss by the sudden
rising of a small creek, in a very remarkable rain-storm fifteen
years before. To be alone in the house during a thunder
storm was of itself a sufficient trial; but to be alone when
the very air seemed on fire with electricity, and to feel the
most harrowing uncertainty as to the safety of the young
girl she had foolishly allowed to go on a lonely walk, unac-
companied, and not to know what had become of her hus-
band either—all this seemed too much for Mrs, Wyman to
bear.
At the first indications of the tempest, every window and
door in the constable’s house was made fast, and darkened, to
keep out the glare of the lightning, When the first startling
crash came, which, as Jim had said, destroyed the sheriff's
dwelling, Mrs. Wyman was lying with her face buried in a
pillow ; and though she felt sure it must have “ struck ” some-
where within Fairview, she was ignorant of the terrible nature
of the visitation, An hour or two afterward, when she ven-
tured to put aside a curtain and look out, the town was lying
in Egyptian darkness, while the rain poured down upon it in

 

 
 
   
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
       

THE LAND-CLAIM,

inexhaustible torrents, driven aside in sheets occasionally, by
some fitful gusts of wind.

To sleep, under such circumstances. was to Mrs. Wyman
really impossible; and she continued to watch and wait
roaming uneasily about the house, and indulging her imagina
tion in vagaries of the most extraordinary nature.

What if Silas had eloped with that innocent-looking young
thing ?. She had heard of such cases, and even where the
man had lived for a long time on the most affectionate terms
with his wife; and she presumed the wife was just as unpre-
pared for such an event as she was at that moment. Young
girls could be so deceitful sometimes! And she called to
mind several instances of profound deception practiced by the
sweetest-looking young rogues, To be sure, Silas had not
seemed to pay her any attention; but then if folks want to be
sly about such things, of course they can be. What a fool
she should think herself, if she had let a pretty face blind her
eyes to artful qualities. But no; Alicia was simple and
affectionate—miore so than any one she ever knew. What
if these virtues were only assumed, and she should prove to
have the bad traits of her father? | Well, it would not always
be night, and when morning came she should know what to
think of this strange desertion.

Or what if some accident had happened to Alicia, and the
poor child was dead or dying, and exposed to the storm?
What if some of those spiteful squaws from the trading-post
had seen her all alone, and taken revenge on her by murder-
ing her, as that terrible Ka-shaw would have done? What
if Silas had been coming home in the storm and been killed
by lightning? or the horse gone wrong in the dark, and
fallen over the river-bank with wagon and master. Yes, that
was the most likely thing, after all. It was probable that
Alicia might have returned as far as the Judge’s, and stayed
there to tea; and Silas might have met her, and took her in
the wagon, and both were killed!

At this climax to her apprehensions, Mrs. Wyman gave up
to a hearty fit of crying, after which, being much exhausted,
she threw herself on the parlor lounge, and toward morning
fell off into a doze. At the first streak of day she was dis-
turbed by a hasty and noisy summons at the door. Thinking

ey

 

 
 

NEWCOME’S DEATH. 108

it might be Silas happily restored to her, she sprung to admit
him yery eagerly, and was astonished to see only Allen, look-
ing harassed and weary, as if he not been in bed.

“ Good-morning,” said Allen, pleasantly. “Do you receive
visitors at this hour of the morning ?”

“Well, I always receive you, Mr. Allen; because I know
you never come without some good reason. Do tell me what
is the matter. JI haven’t seen my husband nor Alicia since
noon yesterday. Come in, for I know you have something to
tell me.”

“To allay your anxiety, let me first say that Mr. Wyman
is undoubtedly well and safe. Miss Newcome, too, is safe,
and I hope well, though she was exposed to the storm last
evening for more than an hour, and got dreadfully chilled
and exhausted.”

“Dear, bless my life!” ejaculated Mrs. Wyman. “Do tell
me how she come to be out all that time.”

Allen then proceeded to relate as briefly as he could the
adventures of yesterday, and the need Miss Newcome was in
of some fresh clothing.

“Oh, dear! I ought to go right after the child ’fore any-
body is abroad—and Silas is gone with the wagon!”

“Or gone after it, Mrs. Wyman. But I am prepared to
take you in a carriage as soon as you can get ready.”

Mrs. Wyman did not stop to say she would hurry, but she
did hurry, and in five minutes more she was seated beside
Allen in a close carriage.

“There is one thing I did not take time to tell you, Mrs.
Wyman,” said Allen, with some effort; “something which
affects Alicia’s circumstances very much. Her father is dead.”

“The Lord be merciful!” cried the terrified woman, turn-
ing pale. “How did he die?”

“By the visitation of God. The sherifi’s house was struck
and burned by lightning. The family escaped uninjured, but
it is thought that Mr. Newcome must have been killed by the
electric shock, as the lightning entered the room where he was
confined, doing much injury to the house before it took fire.
But in the tempest and confusion no one could say exactly
how it was. Iwas there three minutes after it was fired, and
tried to enter the burning building at some point where the

 
 

104 THE LAND-CLAIM.

prisoner could be reached. Failing in this, I called him from
the windows to assist me in breaking the wooden bars; but
as no one answered I conclude that he was already dead.
There was nobody to do any thing but the sheriff’s wife and
children, who were terrified out of their reason, and utterly
helpless. The sheriff himself was engaged at one of the offices
with the constables who were to go after Carnes.”

“Does she know it?” asked Mrs. Wyman, significantly.

“No. Ihad not the courage nor the cruelty to tell her,
after what had already occurred to worry her, and her
exhaustion, and all. Mr. Wyman was equally careful, so she
does not dream of it.”

** Poor, unfortunate child!” said the kind woman, weeping
at the thought of having to communicate such news. “TI
shall be almost afraid to tell her, for fear of killing her too.”

Mrs. Wyman found Alicia still asleep, though she wakened
at the slightest touch. The motherly heart was inwardly
bleeding for her, and the kiss she bestowed on the pale,
smooth brow, had untold tenderness in it—the tenderness of
pity, love and grief. Alicia answered her with a brilliant
smile. In reply to inquiries concerning how she had slept,
she eagerly asserted that she never had slept so well.

“T had such a pleasant dream!” she said.

“ What did you dream, dear?” asked Mrs. Wyman, helping
her to put on her clothes,

“J dreamed that father had forgiven me. I thought we
were once more living here in this house, and all was bright
and happy. Father praised me for being good and obedient.
He said, laying his hand on my head with a strange but
loving smile: ‘Always be just the same, my daughter ; do not
forget your obedience.”

Mrs. Wyman had not neglected to bring some cordial
along, and was holding a glass ready when Alicia concluded
her dressing and her dream together. Alicia took it, and
then proceeded to envelop herself in the wraps provided to
keep off the heavy morning air.

“Dear child,” said Mrs. Wyman, taking her in her arms
when she was quite ready to go home, “ I believe your father
has forgiven you, for spirits see with eyes different from our
mortal ones.”

 
  

   

 

 
  
 
  
 

    
 

ALICIA’S GRIEF. 105

The quivering yoice and significant accent told all.

“My father is dead!” gasped Alicia, becoming ghastly
white. “Oh, Mrs. Wyman, my father is dead!” and she
clung to her friend for support.

“Be as calm as you can, dear. . Your father has gone to
his Lord, who has shown him how good a daughter you
were, and now he is reconciled with you. Let that comfort
you, to feel that he is reconciled at last. Come, dear, let
us go.”

She meant to give her something to do; she did not want
to grant her an opportunity to give way to sorrow at first ;
so she put her arm about her and drew her to the door, where
Allen was waiting.” :

“We are all ready,” she said to him, with a glance of
intelligence. “Help Alicia in first, if you please.”

“ Allen took her up in his arms, as he had done the even-
ing before, and placed her in the carriage. He whispered but
one word in her ear—“My darling !’—but it unsealed the
fountain of her tears, and when Mrs. Wyman was seated
beside her, she threw herself upon her lap, and wept unre-
strainedly. She did not see, as Mrs. Wyman did, the
blackened ruins where were lying the charred remains of
her father. As if she knew instinctively the manner of his
death, she did not even look in that direction, nor uncover
her eyes until they reached home.

But that day, a memorable one in the history of Fairview,
enough was told her to confirm the horrible idea which
haunted her—enough to quite scare away all efforts at com-
posure, and sink her at last in a happy an a that
lasted for hours.

an

 
   

CHAPTERS LN:
THE “ AVENGERS’” JUSTICE.

Wuen Allen returned from Mrs. Wyman’s, he observed a
large crowd gathered in the street in front of the big log-
tavern. Thinking it only a gathering of the citizens, who
were talking over the catastrophe of last evening, he was
about to pass into his office; but hearing himself called by
name, turned to meet Flag, who was seeking him.

“We've got your man over here—and two more besides,”
said Flag, excitedly.

“Who? Ed?”

“Yes, Joe Carnes. He got away from you last night, I
heard; but he’s safe enough now. Come over and see him.”

Allen complied rather wearily, and Flag gave a hurried
account of the capture. ;

“T was obliged,” said he, “to tell those surveyors that
Carnes was the murderer we know him to be, in order to
get them interested in the business. As they have told the
same to the crowd, I’m afraid it will go hard with him, unless
you can persuade them to give him up to the law. They
want you to tell them what you know about it, and they
swear if they find him guilty on our evidence they will first
whip and then hang him.”

Allen walked around the wagon in which the prisoners
were lying bound, fixing his eyes on Carnes, who, though
evidently suffering greatly from his broken arm, did not fail
to return his gaze with a glance of malignant hatred. For-
bearing to annoy the wretch by any remarks addressed to
him, Allen began to answer the impatient queries of the
assemblage.

“Do you say this man killed Dr. Edwards?” shouted one
man, as spokesman for the rest.

“T mean to have him committe] on that charge,” answered
Allen.

Then followed an endless catalogue of questions and
remarks,

r

 

 
 
  

    
 

AN EXCITED CROWD. 107

“T thought you swore pretty strong agin Newcome !”

“How did this felrer—nis horse-thief—come to be one of
Dr. Edwards’ mourners 2’

“Did you know any thing agin Carnes when you spoke
fair for Newcome ?”

“Waal, J know he’s a horse-thief, an’ thieves are "bout aa
bad as they make ’em. Ought to be hung, anyhow; whip-
pin’s too good for ’em.”

“Tf you say you know this man deserves hanging, we'll
save the law a troublesome job. We must make an example
of some of these scoundrels right off.”

“Let’s hear the whole story first.”

“Newcome died in jail, and if he suffered for another
man he ought to be avenged.”

“Yes, that’s what J say; ’tain’t fair to give him any
chance at all.”

“Some of his gang will git him off agin, ef we shut him
up; you may bet your life on that!”

“ Well, let’s know what we hang him for, ’fore we do it,
that’s what I say.”

“Tf you don’t tell us all about him, we'll hang him any
way.”

“Every scoundrel of a horse-thief in the country ought to
swing. Our property will never be safe until we wipe ’em
all out.”

“That’s so! Hang every one of ’em! Never mind about
what they’ve done besides.”

These and a hundred similar expressions naeks among the
crowd; but many men insisted on nothing being done with-
out good cause. Cries of, “A speech! a speech! Allen!
Allen! Give us the evidence!” and such demands as seemed
to compel the young man into compliance, finally brought
him to the tavern steps, as a stand. Beginning back at the
cause of Carnes’ enmity to the Doctor, going over the whole
chain of circumstantial evidence, as he had once related it to
Flag, and adding what transpired the evening previous, he
presented an argument terribly eonvincing against the
wretched Carnes, which, taken in connection with his other
crimes, amounted to certainty of his guilt in the minds of the
listeners.

. : Se

 
   
 
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
   
   
  
 
 
        

THE LAND-CLAIM.

   

“That's enough! that’s enough! Let’s hang the rascal
right off!” shouted several voices together.

i “No, my friends,” said Allen, “that is not treating me
| right. You insisted on learning these facts from me, when I
ti felt that for some reasons I ought not yet to reveal them. I
wish to put this man in the hands of the law, to be tried by
it a jury—”

i “We are jury enough,” yelled some one in the crowd.

“T see some faces here,” continued Allen, “that were in ;
the mob last spring, and wanted to hang Newcome. Are }..
you not glad I saved you from that sin? or do you love the
hangman’s work so well that you are glad of ajob? You
talk of whipping all these horse-stealers—you talk worse
things; but I don’t think you will do them, while it would
be much better for yourselves if you should leave them to the
law, to be punished according to it. But if you will do these
things, let’ me entreat you to spare this one man to be tried,
in order that justice may be done to the memory of a man
who suffered much under a false accusation, and his name be
cleared of the stain that still must rest upon it, unless the
crime be proven to have been committed by some other
person.” 44

“We can’t know any more about it then than we do now,”
answered some one.

“Then you ought not to use violence; for strong as the
eyidence seems, it is not positive. None of you saw him
shoot Dr. Edwards.”

“T pip!” cried Jim, who had been so communicative the
night before.

The effect of these words was so electric that not a man
spoke for half a minute. Then a murmur rose, growing
louder and louder, until it was like. the growl of some mon-
strous wild beast. The crowd closed around the wagon in
which the prisoners were still lying, to look at the man now
so certainly doomed, or to question his new accuser.

Whatever were the motives of Jim—whether he hoped by
turning State’s evidence to procure some favor for himself, or
whether out of revenge for past injuries or present danger he
betrayed his late leader—his statement was clear and appar-

ently true. He said that, at the time of the shooting, Carnes

Lg nt

mt

 

Seq
  

 

  

109

 

JIM’s EVIDENCE.

was not the Captain of their band, but had newly been
initiated in it. On the evening previous to the murder, an
appointment had been made for himself and Carnes to meet
next morning in the woods, to lay plans for further operations.
He had seen Carnes shoot and afterward hide his gun, before
he (Carnes) perceived his approach through the trees. They
retired, on meeting, to a thicket in a ravine, where they must
have remained until Newcome was taken; after which they
went across the prairie over toward the Platte, to get some
ponies stolen from the Kansas Indians.

No one listened to this recital with more intense interest
than Flag and Allen, for it furnished the one missing link—
the one item of positive evidence which was lacking to make
every thing clear.

“Did you see Mr. Newcome at that time?’ asked: a
citizen.

“Yes; I was about halfway between Newcome and
Carnes. I was lookin’ for Carnes, and at first thought it was
him when I saw Newcome. He was going along, holding
his gun kind o’ careless, shakin’ his head and seemin’ to be
maa about something. His gun went off ’bout the same time
Carnes fired, and I reckon it was jist an accident from his
bein’ so careless. It’s likely Carnes knew who would be
arrested, for I heerd him say thar’ was an awful quarrel
atween the Doctor and Newcome ’bout the claim. An’ that’s
all I know to tell.”

“Why didn’t you come forward before, when you knew
an innocent man was to suffer for the murder?” asked
Allen.

“We don’t blow on one ’nother in owr band, ’cept we have
good reason,” answered Jim, gruffly. ‘What the man’s secret
spite against Carnes was he did not reveal.

The crowd, now swelled and degenerated ‘into a mob, was
growing more and more excited every moment. Apprehend-
ing violence, the most quiet and orderly citizens withdrew,
and returned to their homes. Allen, although he still remon-
strated against the abuse of the law, now saw that remonstrance
was in vain, and not wishing to witness the operations of
Judge Lynch, hastily extricated himself from the throng, and
escaped to his office, which he locked to prevent intrusion.

 

  
 

110 THE LAND-CLAIM.

Left entirely to their own devices—for public feeling forbade
any serious opposition to the mob—the patrons of speedy
justice were not long in putting their principles into execu-
tion, Amid cries of every imaginable description, a few more
authoritative commands could be distinguished, such as:
“Get a barber to shave their heads!” “Somebody find the
cowhides!” “ Who’s got the rope?” “Be sure it’s strong
enough!” etc. Some swore violently in their excitement,
others pressed their lips tightly together, and, with blanched
cheeks and burning eyes, worked more eagerly than the noisy
ones. All were carried away by a frenzy of rage against
their crime-stained but helpless fellow-men. A spot was

chosen, on the town square, in front of where the sheriff’s
house had stood, for the shaving and whipping. The wagon
containing the wretches was hauled into the square, and the
men lifted out upon the ground, still soaked with the heayy
rain of the night before. While their heads were being
shaved, the two comrades of Carnes maintained a composed,
if grave and anxious demeanor; but the chief criminal
betrayed more agitation. Whether they proceeded from fear,
pain or repentance, great tears coursed down his cheeks,
and his face was convulsed with sobs. These signs of weak-
ness provoked various expressions from the mob, few of
which were sympathizing, and even caused a contemptuous
remark from his fellow-sufferer, Jim.

When the barber’s work was finished, the men were stripped
to the waist of their clothing. The swollen condition of
Carnes’ broken arm made it necessary to cut away his coat-
sleeve, which called forth the remark from a bystander that it
was “no matter—he wouldn’t need it any more ;” upon which
the miserable man broke forth into lamentations.

“Coward!” muttered Jim. “Td like to use the whip on
you myself.” -

“Hurrah! that’s the talk!” yelled the crowd. “ Let that
feller use the cowhide—he'll do it up right!”

“Yes, let him warm himself up a little "fore Ads turn
comes!” yelled others.

“Gentlemen,” said Jim, “I ain’t a doin’ this to saye you
the trouble, but to settle a little private account of my own.”

Carnes was tied to the post, and the whip handed to Jim,

 

 
 

 

 

  

JUDGE LYNCH. 111

with orders to give him forty-nine lashes in twice as many
seconds. ‘Then arose the most horrible medley of cries,
shrieks, blows and groans, all mingled ‘in one appalling
discord. Presently there was a lull in the tempest. The
scarred and bleeding wretch was unbound and cast fainting
on the ground, and another took his place. This was the
one of the thieves who had not spoken a word since his cap-
ture. He was young, good-looking, and apparently in deep,
though silent distress. Some of the mob compassionated his
fate, and clamored for light punishment.

“Gentlemen,” said Jim, who was sweating profusely from
his exertions, “you are on the right tack now. He’s a poor
boy that Carnes sneaked away from his old mother, down in
Missouri; and he’s a right nice sort of a young feller, an’
not much up to our tricks. I reckon if you'd send him home
to his mother, he’d have a mind to quit this business forever
arterwards. That’s my ’pinion of him, an’ I know him
mighty well.” ;

A consultation was held, during which the boy’s white face
was turned imploringly from one to another in the crowd, to
catch, if might be, some shadow of hope. After some little
delay, no one was found willing to apply the whip to his
stripling shoulders, and he was released, upon taking an oath
never more to commit a theft, nor to return to the territory
of Nebraska.

This clemency visibly affected Jim, who looked at the boy
with tears in his eyes. But the sturdy villain asked no mercy
for himself. He received the twenty lashes, to which his
punishment was commuted by general consent, with a dogged
endurance worthy of a better cause, and was warned to leave
the country within two hours, never more to be caught west
of the Missouri, on peril of hanging.

As he threw his clothes loosely over his shoulders, pre-
paratory to starting for the ferry, he turned to the bystanders.

“You've done better by me than I deserve, for T’ve stole
lots of hosses in this country, an’ never was cotched before.
I ken tell you where Squire Allen’s han’som’ bay is hid; he’s
tied to a tree in the thickest of the woods over on the mill-
claim, an’ I reckon he’d like to see an ear of corn by this
time.”

 

  
   

 

 
   

THE LAND-CLAIM.

Having communicated this useful information, Jim left
rather hurriedly for the river, his boyish comrade lingering
far behind, as if not anxious to join company again.

The mob now turned their attention to the reviving
Carnes. A few were in favor of handing him over to the
law; others, and by far the greatest number, advocated
making short work of justice. What was the use, they
asked, of putting the matter off? Such a desperate villain
could not be kept long in confinement; the sooner he was
out of the way the better. Pacificatory speeches only inflamed
their rage, and hastened the doom of Carnes.

“Tt is a shame,” said a physician, who had forced himself
into the ring, “to worry any human creature in this condition.
Look at his arm! look at his back! You shall not hang a
man as helpless as this one, if I can prevent it.”

“Oh, he’ll die all the easier,” was the answer.

“Are you white men or Indians?” asked the physician,
scornfully.

“We are AVENGERS!” shouted the most hardy of the mob.

Some one who was on the side of mercy snatched the rope,
and made off with it through the crowd.

“Well, if he won’t hang he can drown. Water will feel
good to him now, I reckon.”

No sooner was the word given, than Carnes was seized
upon by a dozen stout “avengers,” and borne through the
assemblage toward the river. As soon as he was out of the
way of interference, he was set upon his feet and compelled
to walk, surrounded by his executioners, to the ferry. Here
shortly ended the appalling scene. Hurried into a small boat,
manned by two rowers, with two to hoist him overboard, the
miserable man was taken to the middle of the river, and then
thrown out, to struggle vainly with the deadly current. With
the last frantic cry of the drowning man mingled a shout of
triumph from the Iowa shore. It was Jim, who had witnessed
the end of his hated confederate from the other side.
 
 

ee

a

ee Sone

 

* be for me not to see you this one time more alone?”

READY FOR THE SACRIFICE.

OHAPTEHR.. XY,

THE LOST FOUND.

Tue appearance of Mrs. Wyman’s parlor betokened prepa-
rations for a journey. Since Mr. Mauvais’ return from St.
Louis, these preparations had been very active, and now they -
had come to a conclusion. Tfunks were strapped and
labeled, shawls laid ready, and all the little paraphernalia
of travel put in order for immediate departure when the
steam-whistle should announce that the packet was at the
landing on the next morning. Alicia’s few friends had
bidden her farewell, and the orphan girl, clad in mourning-
weeds, sat gazing at the mild October moon through the open
window. She was taking her last leave, in her thoughts, of
scenes and a country where she had suffered and grieved so
much—more than she could ever suffer or grieve again, for
grief seemed to her to have lost its sting, and pain of heart
was now only a dull-echo to which she was accustomed. j

Since her father’s funeral, the bitterness of grief had passed
away, and was succeeded by a sorrow so serene that it had
no occasion even for tears. “TI feel that 1 am reconciled with
my father,” she often said to Mrs. Wyman, who wanted to see
her less composed at times; “because,” she said, “it was not
natural for a young person to hide her feelings.” On this
last evening she had shrunk from conversing eyen with her
kind friend, who, finding how silent and sad she was, had
finally left her to herself, as Alicia evidently desired. Per-
haps she was thinking of one who had not yet taken leave of
her—thinking of him, and wondering if he would forget to
say farewell. He had not forgotten—he was only waiting to
be the last.

“ Alicia !”

“Oh, is that you, Frederick? I am so glad you have
come !” $

“Did you fear I had forgotten you, my love? I was wait-
ing for you to be alone. Do you realize how hard it woul¢

 
 

  
 

 

114 “HE LAND-CLATM.

She made no answer except to place her hands in his,
gazing with an eager, wistful look in his face. Did she feel
that it would have been hard for her, too?

“Ts your resolution still unaltered, Alicia ?”

“T must obey my father’s wishes.”

“What your father wished while ou earth you did obey.
How do you know, dearest, that he would not now disapprove
of the course which your submission forces you to follow? J
believe he would.”

“ Because I feel in my heart that he approves of me.”

Allen leaned his head on his hand, and sighed heavily.
He was trying to think she was right, but to him it could not
seem right, and he struggled against his fate and hers.

“Darling,” he said, at last, “I don’t like to use hard words
with you, but it does appear to me as if you had become a
sort of monomaniac on this subject. I do not wonder at it,
dear. The trials you have undergone, with your sensitive
organization, are sufficient cause. Nevertheless, I can not
bear to have it so—to see you made the victim of a morbid
and false conviction of duty. There is no one, Alicia, who
does not think as I do about the facts in the case; though
seeing you so devoted to your idea, excites their admiration
as well as their pity. Have I spoken too plainly, dear ?”

“No, Frederick,” replied Alicia, with “tears in her voice,”
“you have neither surprised nor offended me. I am quite
conscious of the opinions of others, and this is one of my
trials. I do not think it strange that people do not under.
stand me—they could not.”

“You think J do not understand you, then?’ asked Allen,
a little hurt.

“Dear Frederick,” said Alicia, placing her fair, slender
hand on his bowed head tenderly, “it is impossible you
should know all my feelings and motives, for, little girl as
you think me, I have motives not apparent to every one—not
even to yourself”

“Tell me your motives, young lady, for refusing this young
man; will you?” spoke a deep but pleasant voice at the door.

The young people started to their feet in surprise and some
confusion, to behold Mr. Mauyais and another gentleman,
whom Allen immediately remembered seeing once before.

 

 

 

 
   
 

—

Sage G

SIR DEMING CARLETON. 115

“ Pardon this intrusion, Miss Newcome ; I beg your pardon,
Mr. Allen—that is your name, I believe—but my errand was
one that required dispatch. Mr. Mauvais will tell you the
business I have come about—simply to take the guardianship
of this young lady away from him. What does my niece say
to taking her uncle for guardian?” said the stranger, advanc-
ing to Alicia and clasping her hand.

“Well, I do declare!’ murmured Mrs. Wyman, who,
hearing strange voices, came in with a lamp.

“How do you do, madam? ‘You have not forgotten me, I
see. I appear and disappear in very mysterious ways, for
which I have to ask your pardon. But, as this niece of mine
Says, one sometimes: has motives not apparent to every
one—ha! ha!”

“Take seats, gentlemen,” said Mrs. Wyman, to her visitors.
“JT don’t know your name, sir, but I am very glad to see you,
if you are a friend of Alicia’s.” ee

“My name is Carleton, madam—Sir Deming Carleton, at
home—Mr. Carleton, in the United States, I suppose. Thank
you, I will take a seat.”

“ Good-evening,” said Allen, in the doorway.

“No, I beg your pardon, I am not ready to say good-
evening to you yet, Mr. Allen,” Sir Deming said. hastily,
rising and bowing to the young man. “Pray remain, sir;
you need have no fears of intruding where your company is
so desirable,” he added, glancing at Alicia, close to whose side
he had drawn a chair. “ Now, Mr. Mauvais,” continued Sir
Deming, when Allen was seated, “ please tell this young lady
the errand we came upon.”

“This gentleman,” said the Frenchman, addressing himself
to Alicia, “has been able to convice me, however reluctantly,
that his right to the guardianship of your fair self is better
founded than my own. At all events, it is based on a legal
claim, while mine is not. He is undoubtedly your uncle, on
your mother’s side, and is able to do for you all which it
would have been my highest pleasure to have done. There-
fore, I resign you into his hands. I have already prepared
him to find in you all that is lovely and endearing, and I
wish you, dear Miss Alicia, all che happiness you so eminently —
deserve.” Cares

 
    

 
 

116 THE LAND-CLAIM.

Correct as was the Frenchman’s speech, there was some-
thing in the tones of his voice which betrayed his inward
disappointment and chagrin. Alicia’s quick sensibility per-
ceived it, and she hastened to reply :

“Whatever kindness my new-found relative may bestow
on me, Mr. Mauyais, it would be impossible I should ever
forget your own, or the great obligations I am under for long-
continued services. I trust you will believe I am not
ungrateful.”

“T know you are all that is good and beautiful,” returned
Mauvais, gallantly. “ But if you will excuse me, Sir Deming,
I will take leave, after having introduced you to your niece,
as I must return immediately to the post, to retract orders
referring to my contemplated voyage down the river to-
morrow.”

“We should be very glad to have your company the day
after.”

“Much obliged to you. Shall not have any business,
however. Good-night.”

“Thank God!” fervently ejaculated Allen, when the door.

closed on the trader.

Sir Deming laughed.

“What are you thanking God for, Mr. Allen ?”

“For answering the most earnest prayer of my heart, and
restoring your niece to proper guardianship.”

Sir Deming laughed more heartily than before.

“T hear you have desired to change her proprietorship,”
he said, smiling at Alicia; “and, by the way, she has not
yet given us her ‘ motives’ for refusing the change. Perhaps
my niece is mercenary, and preferred the rich old Frenchman ?”

Alicia blushed and looked down, while Mrs. Wyman came
to the rescue.

“She didn’t prefer him, sir; that wasn’t the way of it, at
all, She just thought she must do whatever her father said ;
and she wouldn’t give it up, sir, not even after he died.”

“My dear niece,’ said Sir Deming, in an altered voice,
“you did well. It was your constancy and obedience which
secured my affection for you—for I have not been ignorant
of what has occurred—and has restored you to your rights and
proper social position.” After a pause the baronet continued:

   

 

 
 
  

 

meets

et pt TAY

et

 

   

A DELICIOUS UNCLE. 117

“ Tcan tell you, Mr. Allen, the secret influence which ena-
bled this tender young girl to withstand your entreaties and
the impulse of her own feelings. It was the knowledge she
had of the fruits of disobedience in her mother. My sister,
the Lady Alicia Carleton, was the loveliest and sweetest-
souled creature alive when she was my sister. But, she fell
from her high estate. She disgraced her lineage by marrying
clandestinely with a gardener. She lived a life of poverty
and pain. Before she died, she wrote me, secretly, a confes-
sion of her fault, and told me that her daughter would not
resemble her in character. 1 have seen her severely tried, and
I find she has her mother’s grace without her mother’s faults.
I am satisfied with her. Embrace me, my dear child !”

When Alicia felt herself .enfolded in her uncle’s arms, a
weight of grief and care, whose heayiness she had not known
until she came to be freed from it, was lifted from her young

life. Here was natural affection—legitimate protection—friend-

ship, security and support. She shed some happy tears on
her uncle’s breast. F

“ And now, Mr. Allen,” said’ the baronet, as he held his
niece in one arm, “as this young lady’s guardian, I wish to
settle a question which is distressing you very much at this
moment, as I can see by your face. You are afraid since I
have got her, that I shall take her away from you, without
consulting either of you on the subject. No such thing. She
wouldn’t be run away with—you xee I know all about it—and
now I haye a mind to make her run away with you! What
do you say to that, sir?”

“Tsay, Sir Deming, that I should yield to such a propo-
sition much more readily than your niece was inclined to.”

“That’s what I presumed. Our sex never could refuse a
woman, from the days of Adam down to ourselves. Well
Alicia, ask Mr. Allen if he will marry you to-morrow.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Mrs. Wyman, overcome with surprise
But Alicia said nothing, and Allen blushed like a girl.

“ Yes, that is the way; said the baronet. “If I had told
you both you should not haye one another, you would have
nad enough to say. But haying told you you should, there is
perfect silence.”

“I should save Miss Newcome the embarrassment of

  
 
 

 

a

onmmeneye

“M8 THE LAND-CLAIM.

putting such a question, Sir Deming, did not a consciousness of
my own unworthiness tie my tongue,” said Allen.

“What's that, sir! Are you suddenly become some terrible
villain, who only a few hours ago thought yourself worthy of
my niece ?”

“Pardon me, Sir Deming, I think you understand that the
seeming equality of our circumstances has ceased to exist.
You do not believe in unequal marriages—and neither do I.”

“Well! well! well !—do you hear that, Alicia? This young
republican rejects an alliance with the English aristocracy !

Ms Pertisps he wishes you to resign your rights, in order that he
may pay his addresses to you ‘still or

“ Heaven knows,” said Allen, with emotion, “ that I demand
no sacrifice from her. It is myself—my loye—as pure and
ardent a love as man ever felt—that I propose to sacrifice to
her present and future good. IfI were rich, and could keep
her in the social position she is entitled to, the case would
then be different. As it is, I can not ask her to marry me.”
-. “By Jupiter, young man, I like your spirit! I like your
nation, too. Ihave seen much of Americans this summer,
and I like them. A good amount of brag—but they came
honestly by that—for there’s no greater boaster than John
Bull. That’s not the question, however. Alicia, will you
still ask this gentleman to marry you; or do you consider
yourself rejected beforehand ?”

“You have authority to give me to whom you choose,” she
answered, with a slight emphasis on the word give, and blush-
ing beautifully.

“Qh, the artfulness of woman!” cried the baronet, laughing.
“Who but a woman would have found so smooth a way out
of a difficulty ? I must give you away, must I? I have half
a mind not to humor the republican, to do that. But, if I
don’t, I shall have you so dull, that your company will quite
upset my enjoyment of our travel. Here, Mr. Allen, I give
her to you. She is yours, and I congratulate you both. Mrs.
Wyman does the same, I am sure.”

“The Lord be praised !” exclaimed Mrs. Wyman, as Allen

‘received his young bride in his arms. “If ever I wished any
thing in my life, I did wish for this!”
“Do you think you ean get these young people married

  
   
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
   
  
    
  
    
  
 
 

 

 

 
 
      
   
   
         
 
        
   
 

=v"

eeenstieenen

MARRYING AN HEIRESS. 119

to-morrow, Mrs. Wyman? I shall wish to have their company
down the river the day after.”

The good woman expressed her willingness to do her part
toward the wedding preparations. y

“This is giving you little time to prepare for a long tour,
Mr. Allen,” said Sir Deming, after some little time spent in
discussing the possibility of so hasty a marriage. “ But I have
engagements which I wish to meet, in several of the cities.
Perhaps your business may be left with a friend ?”

“T fear,” returned Allen, endeavoring to be composed, and
failing most signally, “that you will think me very captious.
I can not help suggesting that, as I am not rich, and Alicia is
yet young, it might be prudent to delay our marriage for two
or three years, while I am getting money, and she is going to
some educational institution suitable to her rank. Tn short, |
Sir Deming, I am not at present prepared to join you in your
extensive plans of travel, on account of my very moderate
means.”

“Soho! Republican pride again. When a young English
aristocrat marries an heiress, he is not so nice about these
matters. But, my dear Allen, let me answer both your sug-
gestions at once. As to Alicia’s education, it is my theory
that there are no better teachers than books and travel. From
these we learn every thing it is important to know, and in a
pleasanter manner than masters and governesses know how to
impart them. Yet, if masters are desirable, we can still have
them. Regarding an adequate supply of funds—I propose to
be purser on this voyage; and you need feel no delicacy in
accepting moneys which can well be spared from Alicia’s
ample income. Does that satisfy you?”

Allen was expressing his pleasure at the kindness which
was almost forced upon him, when the appearance of the
Constable, diverted the conversation.

“We have the whole matter settled, Wyman,” said Sir
Deming, grasping the constable’s hand. “Nothing now
remains but for you to give these young people your blessing ;
and to confess that, as my confidential correspondent, you
have played the part of spy upon them, since last spring.”

“ Yes, it’s a fact,” Wyman said, in answer to their wonder-
ing looks. “’Tain’t in my natur’, tho’, to be a spy, and it

 
   

 

 

120 THE LAND-CLAIM.

kinder went across the grain. But, bein’ every thing has
come out right, I reckon ye can forgive me.”
The forgiveness accorded was very hearty and sincere.
When Allen went home that night he found Flag waiting
for him at his office. What the young men talked about, it
is not relevant to relate; but the “ wee sma’ hours” of morn-
ing had passed before slumber descended upon their eyelids.

CHAPTER XVI.
HOME AGAIN!

Tr is seven years since the hasty and happy wedding at
Mrs. Wyman’s. Flag is rich, popular, married, and, what he
deserves to be—a Congressman. His wife is one of the fair
Western ladies in Washington, distinguished for good sense
and good taste. It is Christmas week ; and the “ distinguished
member” is promenading Pennsylvania Avenue of a fine
afternoon, with his wife upon his arm.

“What a handsome couple!” murmured the lady to her
husband, as they came nearly face to face with another gentle-
man and lady, bent, like themselves, on enjoying the beautiful
December weather.

Our Congressman had unconsciously fallen into a study
concerning the Territorial question, and did not observe the
strangers until the exclamation of his wife opened his eyes
to the present and visible world—the glance that followed was
one of immediate recognition on both sides.

“Flag, my old friend, ’m enraptured to meet you,” said
the gentleman, with warmth.

“And I you. Did Santa Claus drop you out of his basket ?
Where in the world have you come from ?”

f “T’ve come across the sea,
I’ve braved every danger,”
answered Allen, laughing. “ But let me introduce you to my
wife—and please make us acquainted with the lady on your
arm.”

 

  

ey

 

 
Nat

esceeenpainnnniar

 

 

ONE OF THE F. F, NS. 121

Flag introduced his wife. ‘After you departed territorial
life,” said he, “I found myself so low-spirited that I was
obliged to take a trip to the East. While on the rounds I fell
in with this lady, and made love to her. She was so kind as
to reciprocate my attachment, and accept a home in the old
claim-shanty, which, of course, I brightened up a little for her
reception—but, come home with us, where we can talk more
freely—I’vye got a very pleasant house here.”

“What are you doing here, if that is not an impertinent
question ?”

“ Attending to the interests of the Territory which I repre-
sent.”

“Not an M. C.?”

“Oh yes. You would have been Chief Justice if you had
remained ; or, more probably, Governor. ‘ First come, first
served’ in these new countries, We old settlers reckon our-
selves now F. F. N.’s.”

“T suppose so,” laughed Allen.

“Can you tell me any thing about the condition of the
Newcome claim?” asked the Lady Alicia Allen.

“T purchased it,” said Flag, “ when the land came in mar-

ket. It has at present a good house on it, and is under pretty

good cultivation. It is called the handsomest situation on
the upper Missouri.”

“Ts it for sale 2” asked Allen,

“Why ? do you want to buy ?”

“A Yankee answer! Mrs, Allen would like to own it.”

“ To oceupy it ?”

“ Occasionally, perhaps; for instance, next summer, when
I am off on a buffalo-hunt on the plains. What has become
of the Wymans?—we have quite lost the run of them, as
well as all the rest of the Fairview people.”

“Wyman has been unfortunate. He was laid up for a
year about the time the lands were being entered, from an
accident, and was not able to pay for what he had selected ;
so he lost it. They must be very poor.”

“But, Sir Deming left some money with him.”

“Well, he sent that to his daughter, whose husband was
in cae and the old couple are pretty badly strait-
ened. ss

7

 
 

 

122 THE LAND-CLAIM.

Flag’s wife noticed that tears were standing in Lady
Alicia’s eyes. Allen, too, saw it.

“You have not told me yet whether you would sell the
old Newcome claim.”

“Oh! certainly I will, if your lady wishes it. Morally
speaking, she has a sort of right to it—a right which I aw
disposed to regard. Besides, we shall be glad to have you in
Fairview once more, where we shall hope you can be per-
suaded to remain.”

“We can not promise; the condition of Sir Deming’s
health will determine that. At all events, we shall be there
for the coming summer.”

“Tt will be so pleasant,” remarked Alicia, “if we can get
the Wymans to take charge of our place—so much like
home for me.”

“Yes, dear, so it will.” Allen had not lost the habit of
calling her “ dear.” “Then you will let me go on the hunt,
for two months, I presume ?”

She only answered him with her eyes, but they hardly in-
dicated a willingness to consent to a two months’ separation.

“Tve never been away from her a day,” Allen said to
Flag, who was “ taking notes” of the lady’s appearance.

“Nor I from my wife; nor I don’t mean to be. It would
grieve us now to be parted for one week; and I have no
desire to get over that kind of feeling, as people must who
are used to separations.”

“Who would have believed we should haye made such
devoted husbands, when we used to torment the poor Doctor
on his reverence for the sex?’ laughed Allen. ‘“ Poor
Doctor! he had the kindest heart !”

“My wife can appreciate your encomium,” replied Flag,
looking at her significantly ; “the Doctor was her first love.
It was talking about our intimacy, I believe, that first made
her like me; though, of course, she never told me so.”

“By the way, Allen, talking about the Doctor naturally
suggests the remembrance of something I saw in Kansas,
two years ago. I happened to be at Leavenworth while
there was a great camp-meeting going on, and I saw there
’ the two fellows who were in company with Carnes when he
was taken. In what character, do you suppose ?”

 

 
 

REMINISCENCES OF FAIRVIEW. 128

“@o on with your story.”

“One—the youngest—was a Methodist minister, and a -
good, hard-working, earnest man he seemed to be. I don’t
think I should have known him if he had not related his
experience to the congregation—which he did with great
effect. While he was expatiating eloquently on the dangers
youth are exposed to from the influence of bad men of superior,
minds and powers of persuasion, he suddenly fixed his eye on
some one in the immense crowd, and called out: ‘Jim! I
see you! Will you not repent and be saved? ‘Yes,
answered a voice which I remembered, ‘I have repented—but
Tam not yet saved. I want you all to pray for me’ Here-
upon the minister made one of the most touching prayers I
ever heard, and the hardened villian wept like a child, while
the congregation shouted, sung, and responded to the prayer.
It was the strangest scene I ever witnessed.”

“T doubt if Jim was saved by all their prayers. What has
become of Mauvais—is he still trading with the Indians ?”

“No; he has pretty much shaken off the Omahas, who
were his last friends among the tribes. Any day you may see
the little Frenchman driving over the country, pell-mell, as if
the furies were aftcr him, never stopping for hill or bridge, or
any thing else. It’s a way he has of working off the extra vim of
his excitable French nature. He still lives at the old trading-
post, and when he is not driving is smoking cigars on the piazza.
He gets thinner and thinner, and one of these days must dry
up and blow away, if he don’t break his neck. He is never
without friends, and never without something to treat them
with ; and his eye twinkles as merrily as it used to, when he
utters his pious benediction, ‘the Lord be good to you, my
friend !” or, his still more familiar expression, ‘such is life on
the upper Missouri! But here we are at my door.”

Here we will leave them, reader; only pausing to assure
you that the constable and his wife are no longer straitened in
their circumstances, and that the Newcome claim has become

their property.

THE END.