Beadle's Half Dime Library (no. 1035) (1897 05 25)
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( Entered as Second Class Matte AX No. 1035. , $2.50 a Year. _ Ante it eV! Copyrighted 1897, by BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS. No. 92 WILLIAM STREET, NEW YORK, THE BOY GUIDE. CHAPTER I. A FERARFUL LEAP. The clear report of a rifle rung out on the still summer air, and rolled, in sharp reverberations, back through the forest hills,, followed by a wild wail, whose in- tonations announced the unmistakable presence of death. And hark! A yell tnat seemed to issue, in chorus, from the throats of a hundred demons, peals out again and again, ‘awakening the slum- bering echoes of wood and plain, for miles and miles around. A few minutes lat- er, a youthful horse- man, whose face was aglow with inward triumph, shot from the green aisles of the woods, and dashed away = over the great prairie at breakneck speed. Still a few seconds later, a score of painted and plumed Indian warriors gal- loped from the woods on the trail of the youth, and thunder- ed away in pursuit. ‘““Come.on, ye pack Oo maw-mouthed imps! "’ shouted the youth, shaking his clenched fist at the pursuing savages; ““come:. on, ‘and I'll give ye all a free check to brimstone- pit, bearin’ the ginu- Wine stamp of Ante- lope Abe—jist so! ”’ The young hunter checked the speed of his animal, turned partly in his saddle, raised his rifle, and fired. ANTELOPE ABE, - lope Abe, May %, 1dv%, ics. Vol, XL. BY OLL COOMES. The next instant a riderless pony was running wildly over the plain. Searcely had his rifle cracked, when the youth, with a shout of defianre, shot away like an arrow, while, - with wild yells of derision and vengeance, the pursuers pressed hard on the trail. To the youth it was plainly evident that the diminutive ponies of the redskins were no mateh in = speed for his clean-limbed animal, ue Scarcely eighteen years had passed over the head of An- telope Abe, and though light of form and lithe of limb, there were few, if any, that exceeded him in point of phys- ical strength. He was dressed in the buckskin garb of a hunter, everything, from the beaded moccasins to the fringed ‘cape about his shoulders, be- traying neatness and taste. The collar of his tunic and ‘shirt lay open, showing a strong neck and full, massive chest. His head was bare, hav- ing lost his cap dur-, ing his flight through the woods, and tress- es of dark brown hair were floating on the wind about his head and face. Aito- gether, Antelope Abe was a youth to he admired as well as feared, possessing all the nobler attrib~ utes and develop- ments of a “‘ model
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2 man,” as well as the elements requisite to the successful scout, hunter and guide. No better marksman, nor horseman on the border than he; and his swiftness on foot, grace and agility of movement, were only to be com- ared to those of the antelope—hence the so- riquet, Antelope Abe. The prairie over which he was riding was the extensive plain that stretched its length between the Des Moines and Checaque rivers. It was slightly undulating, and dotted here and there with small mottes of timber or shrubbery, and diversified with small streams meandering like tiny veins across its green, grassy bosom. ; the youth dashed on, he hastily reloaded his rifle, and then when he had gained the sum- mit of a little knoll, he checked his animal again —turned in his saddle and fired at his pursuers. t Without waiting to learn the effect of his shot, he pressed on, aiming to keep just beyond range of the inferior rifles with which the sav- ages were armed, Stung to rage by his repeated death-shots, the red-skins vigorously spurred their ponies for- ward in hopes of soon ending’ the chase. But the fugitive only laughed at their efforts as he continued to reload and fire upon them. In this manner the race continued, and in less than an hour, six riderless ponies were scat- tered over the plain, while far back upon the trail scores of buzzards were settling down to feast upon the slain, and yet others, with their naked eoral necks outstretched, hung over the. the fu- gitive and watched and waited, alas! for— what? On went the pursuers and pursued—on be- neath the hot noontide sun of a mid-Septem- ber day. The ponies of the former were white with foam and beginning to lag, while the beast of the youth showed no signs of exhaustion. ‘Wal, wal,” Antelope Abe finally ejaculated, “this thing is gittin’ to be tiresum—a leetle ole. I'll have to pass in their checks a leetle faster.” This he proceeded to carry out, and in a few minutes two more ponies were riderless. As he now proceeded to reload again, he suddenly dis- eovered that he was approaching a small clump af timber which hitherto had be from his view by a swellin the plain. This he Beadle’s Half-Dime Library. and helpless, a fearful oath burst from his lips, | : L | the further side of the ring, half-crowching, as if sold a as he said: ‘“This are a lucky haul for me, Injins; that very smoothed-faced Antelope Abe is Just what | I want ter git my claws onto,” ‘““You must fancy’ yerself a bear, Bodsford,” | said the captive, with a sarcastic smile. ‘“Cuss ye, boy! Not one word 0’ yer sass, ye impedint gal-thief! But, I want ye to tell me one thing, and that is whar that gal is ye stole from our cabin?” ‘* Don’t know enny thing Abe. ‘** Ye lie, ye young whelp! Ill tear ye to pieces!” The great, burly outlaw looked as though he were fully able to carry out this threat, so far as size, muscular power, and savage character were requisite. more than to close one eye, and regard the out- law with a smile of scorn. ‘“ Boy!” continued Bodsford, ‘‘ P'll give ye jist two minutes to tell whar ye took that gal to, and if ye don’t tell, I'll eat ye up!” 5 about her, and ‘less ye tell me, But Antelope Abe never moved | | again with fearful violence. * replied | | the lips of the savages, for it was a perform. t *“ Ho! ho!” laughed Abe, “yell have a big | job o’ that, for [Pm old piser But then yer | jist gassin’, Bodsford, for you’fe noted for lyin’, | stealin’ and other little ‘tricks too numerous to mention.” “*Tnjins!” exclaimed the outlaw, turning to the savages, over whom he exercised no little authority, ‘‘ form a ring here, an’ ll show ye a new way 0’ tearin’ up a enemy. That boy “ll never ’scape here alive! He’s done pokin’ his | nose into everybody’s bisnus, an’ stealin’ gals and shootin’ Ingins, Form a ring here! form a ring!” The savages, now numbering some fifty, form- ed a ring about the prisoner and outlaw, about fifteen feet in diameter. They stood just on the | edge of the prairie, where the ground was | and he thirsted for his destruction. en concealed | would have to pass directly through, or turn | either to the right or left. To change his course would give the pursuers some advantage, so, he resolved to dash on straight through the motte. And by the time he had reached its outskirts, he had his rifle reloaded, and before entering the woods he decided to fire upon the Indians ain. So he checked his animal and turned in s saddle, but before he could raise his rifle and fire, there was a crashing in. the undergrowth | before him; at the same instant his animal was jerked back upon his haunches, while he was thrown headlong to the earth, and before he could regain his feet he felt the coils of a lasso fall over his head and shoulders, and pinion his arms helplessly at his side! while, at every at- tempt to regain his feet, he was jerked violently to the earth again. He struggled desperately for freedom, but all in vain. His efforts only served to increase the ightness of the noose around him. He saw his situation in an instant. whose very clutches he had ridden! His situation was critical, but he permitted no word nor look to betray the least sign of fear or surprise; and. raising himself to a sit- ting Sear e he exclaimed: “What the thunder are you red hounds doin’ here? If ye want anything o’ me, say it; if not, don’t make a pack o’ fools 0’ yerselfs.” At this juncture the mounted Indians came and it was all the others could do to prevent z | | m from tomahawking the captive on the | | palms toward Bodsford. after the fury of his late pursuers had subsided, | ; spot. A ring was formed around him, and, he was permitted to rise to his feet. He then singled owt one of the pursuers, and in a tone of indifference, asked: “Say, you dandy, thar, with the flat nose and dirty face, whar’s the rest o’ the folks that come out o’ the timber with ye?” He a in the Indian dialect, and the say- age addressed fairly writhed with rage and At this juncture the voice of a new-comer was heard approaching. It was a voice speak- ing rig came and which sent a shudder to the g hunter’s heart, for he recognized it as hat of a desperate white outlaw whom he had every reason to fear. “Who've ye got hure?” the renegade asked, #4 he pushed his way through the crowd of say- ages; tien, as his eves fell upon our hero, bound 5 : He was a helpless pris- | ener in the midst of two score of Indians, into | | | same instant, Antelope Abe’s head smooth and level, and carpeted with a growth of short grass. The savage ferocity of the outlaw was aroused by the youth’s coolness and smiles of contempt, That he had other reasons, however, for disliking the youth, our story will show. Throwing aside his girdle, and rolling up his sleeves, the outlaw drew a long, murderous- looking knife, and then stood prepared to carry out his work of vengeance. Antelope Abe mentally acknowledged the | outlaw’s superior strength, and had not a doubt | but that he would execute his terrible threat. Still, he peer hg no look to betray his inward fears. Had his arms been free, he might have made some resistance, but, as it was, he was | wholly at the mercy of his enemy. However, he was not a little surprised when the outlaw suddenly commanded: “Release the young thief, Ingin, so that I may show you how inferior the strength of the White Antelope is to Tim Bodsford.” ‘You've a good opinion o’ yerself, Timothy!” said Abe, as the Indian, who held the énd of the lasso, proceeded to free him of the noose. Again he stood free, but disarmed “Now look sharp, red-skins, and I'll show you how to carve up a white thief,” said the outlaw, brandishing his knife above his head. About twelve feet of ground separated the outlaw and youth. For a moment the two stood glaring at each other—the great, burly outlaw and the slender, beardless youth—the eyes of the one glowing like a panther prepar- ing to spring, the eyes of the other burning with defiance and scorn, _“ Now for the White Antelope!” exclaimed Bodsford, drawing himself up and starting slow- ly toward the youth, “Oh, don’t!” exclaimed Abe, at the same time raising his hands—in apparent terror— above his head, as if to protect it, with the open “Coward!” hissed the outlaw, but, at the shot quickly downward toward the earth, and scarcely touching his hands upon the ground, he turned a complete hand-spring with the quickness of a flash, and, as his heels whirled through the air, he planted them, with all the force he could summon, directly in the face of the advancing para who was sent half-unconscious to the A savage yell followed this first defeat of the braggart outlaw, who, with the blood stream- ing from his nose, arose to his feet, cursing and rae. ** Where is the young cuss? where is he?’ he fairly yelled, almost blind with his ferecfous sion. ‘Here I am, Timothy,” responded Abe, with a mocking laugh. | ye The renegade turned and saw the youth at ‘ame with fear. ding | With a furious oath, the enraged human beast He shot toward the yeuth. When he was within df the two paces of him, the lithe figure of the boy >f wi shot upward into the air fully the hight of the *limb desperado, and again the feet of the young sloric gymnast were planted full in the face of the ‘ar d outlaw with a force that sent him to the earth sey : rOCKS ero | eh swing Another yell, deafening to the ear, burst from ance of no little pleasure to them; but in the midst of their rejoicing, Antelope Abe made tark another of his fearful leaps into the air, and He kicked a savage fully ten feet from the ring. yazed Through this opening in the circle, the youth (ace « shot like an arrow, and the next instant he was smoot sweeping like the wind over the prairie. i T It was fully a minute before the astonished said t savages could realize the turn of affairs, but neare when they did, they uttered a yell and bounded were away in pursuit of the youth, who by this time, Ag had got some distance away. hwith Bodsford regained his feet, not a little con- paces, fused, and when he saw that his victim had preci escaped, his fury knew no bounds. posite At every stride the fleet-footed fugitive But gained upon his pursuers, for in their haste and 24 ‘ excitement not one of them had taken the time Ng 4 to mount a pony. But when they saw that the} fouti youth, was leaving them far behind, they saw their mistake also: and those possessing ani- ®8©S § mals, turned and hurried back to the motte af- 5004, ter them. Was By the time he had run. a mile the fugitive discovered the outlaw, mounted upon his own animal, followed by half a score ef mounted In- dians, coming on in the pursuit. | There was little chance for the youth now. and ti Nevertheless he determined to put forth every admit effort to escape, if possible. He knew that if he om was retaken, the fury of the outlaw would not siete e stayed. er! All that gave him hope was the appearance, . of a belt of timber before him, about half a mile vO away. If he could only reach this, he might heise dodge them in the undergrowth, but as there} . sf was a gradual rise in the prairie all the way to me the timber, it would require extra efforts to a8 @) ac 4 ° |? overcome this obstruction, and go there wera ht little hopes after all. Brie]: However, the youth summoned every effort), and nerve to the work, and for a few moments, he almost held his ground with the mounted py net pursuers, ; upc a But these wonderful exertions of the bodythem could not last long, dtspite the encouraging fact Layne that the timber was growing nearer and nearettle cht at each bound. bea 0 However, he ran on, and finally glaticed back ¢jny j, at the pursuers and then forward at the timber. a Ag he did so, a ray of hope gleamed in his eyes,” « 4 for hig presetit situation convinced him that heyointi cotild reach the tititber, but, while looking for- Where ward to select the poinf where he should entetghonk the sought-for retreat,:a ery of despair burst «py from his lips, ; oe u have : ‘“My God! I am running iijte the Wolf’y «7 Mouth! I had not noticed it befére—théré is where no hope forme now! But, better hu#tl mysélfwhere into the abyss, than fall into the savages’ power great. again!” “O) He ran on, but all hopes of escape had vati-dian ished from his breast, The Wolf’s Mouth, théhostil object which had so suddenly destroyed thesewond hopes, was a fearful chasm over a mile in length be?—; and lying in the shape of a horse-shoe. It wassuppo one of those mighty freaks of nature so seldom The met with on the great prairies of the North- “Tt west, and always contiguous to some river. Ithis b was from thirty to fifty feet in width, and inwagor some places a hundred feet deep. A littleRnoc] stream, that had been busy for ages in cutting+ward this channel through the hill to find a level withwhite the river a mile away, poured its waters throughmoyi) the gorge. Thi: The stri of timber which had given the fu. two o gitive each bright hopes, lay on the opposite their side of the Wolf’s Mouth. And as he was noW axpar within the curve of the chasm, he could not But turn to either side without encountering the wher: same obstacle. So he ran on, and ih a few min: who } utes halted on the brink of the abyss. ised | He looked back. The pursuers were not overthem, three hundred Pde away. He glanced across As the chasm and measured its width with hisdaugh eyes. A cry of + burst from his es Itlake, was fully thirty feet from brink to brink ‘riding He ape down into the black depths be-+ The low. His head grew dizzy and his heart faint. the 1: The bottom of the gorge was lost in depth and unani darkness, while the sullen marmur of water .
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% Antelope Abe, the Boy Guide. | th at “2 me faintly up to his ears, and a current of there, and remain until the promised guide uth a ng, as if old air fanned his burning cheeks and throb- ding brow. in beast ] within >f the chasm was covered with a dense curtain he boy of wild grape-vines and parasites that were of the *limbing up from the depths below to meet the | young ¢lorious sunshine. How they had found root of the far down in that black rift was a mystery, for e earth Shey seemed to grow from the face of the solid | rocks! But the sight of these vines gave our st from sero hope; and he exclaimed: erform. “Oh, if this side is only so, I will try and ; in the swing myself down the face of the cliff into the e made larkness below.” uir, and He leaned over the edge of the precipice, and he ring. azed down, but started back with a cry. youth face of the wall, unlike the other, was barren, he was smooth and shelving. “The jig’s up with you, Antelope Abe,” he onished said to himself, as the yells of his pursuers grew irs, but nearer and nearer; “but why not try it? you ounded Were never beat at jumping—why not try it?” iis time Again he measured the width of the chasm vith his eyes, then, stepping backward a few tle con- paces, he shot forward again to the edge of the im had precipice and made a desperate leap for the op- posite brink, fugitive | But, Heavens! he missed it by nearly ten feet, ste and 20d with a wild cry, Antelope Abe went whirl- he time Ng down, down into the depths of the Wolf's | hat the Mouth. mi y bare ages approached the brink where the youth had otte af. ood, and gazed down into the chasm. But all was darkness and silence! ‘ugitive | his own” ited In- CHAPTER II. THE EMIGRANTS. “On, papa! isn’t that beautiful! beautiful!” h. now, dmiration as they swept the great, boundless rairie before her. : enoch Clarkson’s breast swelled with inward amotion, to see her so happy, and then he sighed saratine hen he thought of the dangers to which she a miles NOW exposed. * a iebt “Oh! isn’t it beautiful, papa?’ the maiden re- Be aha ated, turning her bright, langhing eyes upon he parent regarding her so tenderly. rs eg i sss ves, Ida, child: it is beautiful, yerv beauti- ors ful!” the father replied. ve were! The father and daughter were mounted upon > efles © sla rg) animals, and had just drawn rein F tgupon the summit of a little swell on the prai- cnated rie from whence a grand ocean of verdure wv, rst upon the view, rolling away for league pon league into the hazy distance. Before hem, but a single object broke the monotonous eness of that boundless plain. It was a lit- clump of trees—a mere island in that great va Of verdure, while at its side slumbered a iny lakelet resembling a silver star in a field of een cloth. ing fact | neare le ed bae timber. is eyes,” “ And there,” continued Enoch Clarkson, that hépointing toward the little grove and lake, “is ing for where our friend Dorlan promised that a guide d entet should meet us.” r burst “'Phen it is really necessary that we should ve a guide, is it, papa?” Wolf's “Tt is, Ida, for we are now in a country théré i8where the roads are very difficult to follow, and myself where dangers from the Indians are eminently ’ power great.” ‘Oh, dear! how I should like to see a wild In- ian, papa!” exclaimed Ida; “ but, if awe ostile, I don’t care anything about it. t I | onder what for a looking fellow our guide will eng t—a, great big mouth, savage-looking man, I w suppose. seldom) “Rho father smiled as he replied: ° ad viii ith, th d the North- ‘Tt’s immaterial, Ida, so.that he understands ver. Itthis business; but I believe I will motion the and ms to hurry up,” and as he concluded, A little'noch Clarkson’ turned his animal’s head east- —— ward and motioned, with uplifted hand, to three re ithwhite, canvas-covered wagons that were slowly hroughmoving toward them. the fu: nc ck “= f ts that ushin A h two of a ol emigran were i ypposite their way westward over the almost aration as ie ir ae without quae or compass. _ But af the little lake, which was Visibie from ing the where the father and daughter stood a friend, t+ who had preceded them to the West, had prom- he would send an efficient guidé to meet em, and conduct them to the land of | bing ao eg approached, the fa e, which they reached after half an hour's ound no guide awaiting their arrival at e, and when the train came vp it was y decided that they go into camp He suddenly discovered that the opposite side. that the father and daughter were The | A few moments later the outlaw and his sav- | b er and loped on over the plain toward the | arid | came, for already they had felt the want of a guide across those great prairies. | The train was composed of some ten persons | belonging to two families, those of Enoch Clark- | son and Abram Hammond. There were four of the Clarksons—father, son | and two daughters. And of the Hammonds | there were father and mother, and four sons, only one of whom had arrived at man’s estate. | The wagons were drawn into the grove, and while some were busy unharnéssing the wearied animals and tethering them to grass, others were engaged’! in pitching tents and otherwise | preparing the encampment. | Asit was just noon when the cam Was ar- ranged, the women at once set to work prepar- | ing dinner, And while they were thus engag- | ed, the elder Clarkson and Hammond seated _ themselves to talk over the future, while the _ boys strolled_ leisurely through the little ‘grove _ and around the lake in search of game. __ Finally dinner was announced and the little _ band gathered in. They all sat atone board. Mr. | Clarkson returned thanks to the great Giver, , and then all took hold with a keen appetite. And here let us glance hastily over the little arty. Enoch Clarkson and Abram Hammond ad been friends from early boyhood. They had grown up together and become men of good standing, morally and financially. Together they had embarked in a speculation that involv- ed their ruin, and now together, they were go- | ing West to retrieve that fortune. ‘Theirs was | but the old, old story cf lost fortunes and flight to the “new country.” Hammond’s eldest son was about five-and- twenty, rather prepossessing in appearance and a little conventional in manner. He had receiv- prosperity, had traveled a great deal and so laid claim to a well-stocked mind. But forall this, | there was something unfathomable in Fred Hammond, Roderic Clarkson, Enoch Clarkson’s eldest child, was about twenty years of age, with a | frank, open countenance, a kind disposition, and a wild, joyous spirit, Jennie Clarkson was some two years older than Ida, but unlike Ida and Roderic, she was of a more timid and delicate organization— nevertheless very handsome in form and fea- ture. After dinner had been dispatched, the young- er Hammeénd boys again plunged out into the woods in quest of sport. dians had not been mentioned since they had gone into camp, so this most important point was being overlooked at the very time that they should really have had guards posted. But this negligence was owing to the want of a knowledge of the crafty foe in whose very midst they now were. Suddenly, however, quite an excitement was raised. One of the boys came running in with the information that a drove of wild horses was galloping over the plain, not far away. t a are carey. Y gam rare: John,” said Fred Hammond, ‘for wild horse is not found so far north as this.” “* Yes, it’s wild horses,” insisted, John; ‘‘come and see, if you don’t believe me.’ The men hastily mounted an elevationand glanced out upon the prairie, where, true enough, they beheld about twenty bridleless and riderless horses galloping southward over the plain. There was ‘something strange about this, for it was well known that this northern ‘country was not the range of the wild horse, and so our friends could ue op Beinn themselves to be- pore that oe herd “ernie my — Me Sad ey appeared somew ja and sped for- ward with too much regularity. Roderic was in favor of going in pursuit of them for the sake of adventure, but the idea was overruled by his friends. _Mr. Clarkson determined to give the horses a closer scrutiny, so he procured his spy-glass and brought it to bear upon them. A ery of sur- prise burst from his lips as he did so, ‘What is it? what is it, Enoch?” asked Abram Hammond. “T tell you what, boys, we’ve got to look Ingin on every of those sharp! There's an horses |” : ‘Oh! impossible, Enoch.” — _ “Take the glass and look, Abram,” said Enoch; ‘‘you’ve heard that Indians are horsemen, id you'll now see it’s the truth. An Indian is lying on the further side of each can just: see back—” \ “True! true!” burst from Hammond’s lips, as he took the glass and itt .the supposed coming attack of the I | ed a liberal education in the days of his father’s | , and the dark eyes of the maiden sparkled with | é ony. You | his toes hooked over the animal’s | looked through it at the ! the sisters A Mey ve ; animals, which, by this time had gained a point directly west of the camp, and about two hun- dred rods away. “But there /”—the old em:- grant suddenly exclaimed—“ every toe has dis- appeared, and see how the horses are beginning to run! I tell you, boys, them Ingins have dropped themselves in the grass there, and let their horses go! We're in danger—imminent danger, and we’ve got to"look sharp, as friend Clarkson says!” Quite an excitement prevailed. Rifles and pistols were brought out, and every thing made ready to receive the savages in case they made an assault upon the camp. Guards were sta- tioned in the edge of the grove, but the horses were permitted to remain at grass outside, or beyond the guards, as the emigrants entertained no fear of their being stolen or stamipeded. In the use of the rifle, Ida Clarkson was ex- celled by none in that little party, and from the beginning of the excitement, she stood, like a young heroine, with her rifie in hand ready for jans, But when an hour had passed, and ho, Tiyfians ther of their danger was scen, she exclaimed, ap- parently with regret: **Oh, I’m so disappointed!” sf Why, Ida?’ pe 2 her sister Jennie. “ Because,” returned Ida, with a roguish laugh, “T thought we were going to have some fun. How jolly it would be to shoot an Indian!” “Oh, da! how foolish and thoughtless you are!” exclaimed Jennie, reprovingly; ‘‘ you should not talk so; danger will come soon enough.” : ‘Why, Jennie, we’re pioneer girls now, and we must not be cowardly and timid, We must be brave, and hunt, and fight Indians, and scalp them, too—just like the pioneer girls did in grandma’s days.” ss ‘*Tda, Ida! you reckless little rogue,” said the . father, gently, for he could not bear to speak harshly ‘to kis Ida, his living Ida, who grew i ty day to look more like his wife—his dead da. Every one in the party loved Ida. They could not help it. She was so wild and full of sun- shine and merriment that her smiles and rip- pling laughter kept sorrow and sadness from every heart. As nothing more of the Indians was seen, the emigrants came to the conclusion that there were no Indians, at all, about. However, they did not permit their vigilance to relax. A The day wore slowly away; still it wante about two hours of sunset when Jennie and Ida strolled leisurely through the little grove down by the edge of the lake. Ida’s tongue ran in- cessantly,,and she seemed ever on the eve of . bounding away, like a young colt, over the prai- rie. Jennie tried hard to convince her that she must mend her ways, subdue her wild and romp- ing spirit, or she would never be considered a woman; but the more Jennie talked, the more she became convinced that her task was a ho less one. It was Ida’snature to be light-hea and wild, and, in this case, it was simply impos- sible for nature to be thwarted. ; ‘* Oh, what a pretty little lake!” she exclaimed, as they paused upon the shdre, and gazed over the still, glimmering waters. beautiful,” responded Jennie. - like to take a boat-ride upon I wonder what the name of it is?” “Yes, it is vi * How I woul it! name at all,” replied Jennie. ° “Well, then, I'll name it Silver Basin,” said: Ida, and in speaking the Silver Basin. It for years afterward that lakelet was known by the name of Silver Basin. This small body of water did not exceed half a mile in diameter, and not over twenty rods — of its shore was skirted by the little grove. Its surface lay level of the prairie, and its low banks, absorb- ing moisture continually, had produced a dense growth of rank J Sigs which, skirting the water, suggested the of a in, and from which me tease A took of it afterward, called it the idea of the Silver Basin. e sisters wandered slowly along the shore, _ 3 bese water now and then to pluck a wild rose or y that grew at the water’s watch the lightning-like flashes of the they turned their silv gamboled through the cle ‘T have never heard it mentioned, if ithasa d from ip to lip, and but a few feet below the general — \ + Pe a fish, as sides to the sun and me, a && x
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aS zr aft ees > a te She =e wh a = hay Faas . Indian, however, being like all Indians—of an | inquisitive nature—resolved to know the cause of his animal’s affright, and turning, he rode , back near where the fugitive lay in the talk 44 ass. erThe animal was a spirited and mettlesome — é«, one, and its keen instinct soon detected the pres- gy ence of the form in the roe e geics again he be- | eame frightened and shee away; still his | rider could not tell the cause; and so, at last, he © dismounted, and taking the animal by the bits, with one hand, and his tomahawk in the other, { he again advanced toward the spot. : Antelope Abe could just see the outlines of the He | te position blended his form with the ro He . could easily have shot the savage, at the risk, | however, of the report of the rifle bringing other
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mer down upon him, But a happier idea {jm that of slaying the Indian suddenly en- = > pd the mind of the one boy-guide. : ions i idaving removed the leggings, moccasins anc pe i vordpying 3 that he had ta cen from the Indian is not here: arthe Wolf’s Mouth, from his person, the youth > “d them in the grass and then dragged himself rawn taut, and {@Y- About a rod from the discarded articles = between heay,p2used and watched the Indian’s movements. ising up, up alot be red-skin moved er eny forward, in- 0 the glow of&cting every little mound and tussock of grass the precipice a;th the edge of his tomahawk, his horse, in the avages, santime, keeping up an uneasy treading and land matted oy tful sniffing, which increased as they ap- t into a roar oached the deserted leggings and moccasins. his knees tonehAt last the ‘savage’s eyes fell upon the dark hen, with a quisects lying in the grass, and, with a low cry, id let go the roy reached forward to pick up the clothes. ee air of heaye At. this juncture, Antelope Abe glided up to his covering | Side of the animal—which was now between _ aS well as cre;;self and the Indian—and with the quickness 3 thought vaulted into the saddle. the vines awa/ This frightened the beast, which, plunging the opposite siprward, jerked the savage over, and breaking t a tree, was: })08¢ from him, it shot away over the prairie at horn hung oy ‘UTious speed, with Antelope Abe seated firm- dians had take’ and og eee astride of its back, ** Ha! ha! ho! ho!” laughed the fearless boy, e fire—took uS he turned the animal’s head ina south-east en tossed asig PUTS? ; ‘eye fur eye, tooth fur tooth,’ says | a_triumphar”° Holy Book, is a fair shake, and it means hoss larkness of ty" loss, jist_as well. And Abraham Smollet, y boy, yowll soon make the lake, now. Git azed gb» Tiger!” meee sed tor two hours the animal fairly flew over the ‘ified. “But t slains with unfailing speed; but, at last, a_cry ke so many e wf surprise burst from the rider’s lips, and he n the pursuit eV, rein upon the summit of a little swell and sued the an razed away before him, where, at a distance of d before hing'?°4 e ore ml rs 3 dull light glimmering ; Wague-like through the trees. i clear ceran *“ By the royal tigers!” he exclaimed, “ that k I pl ight is at the lake! The imegrants are there, Tell, Re od Sand Tl be there, too, purty soon. On, Tiger— | v on!” : a. pe «Again he dashed away, and, as he proceeded war escorted = 2"d, he kept his eyes fixed upon that dull i some deyiiight, which, strange to say, did not grow m imegran brighter as he advanced, but seemed to be nothin? goes: Muging into a grotesque shape. And there rnin’. Keen 23 something strange about it, for it seemed to be elevated in the air—too high, entirely, for rd, and soon °*™mp-fire. open prairie, 1 from a ge iS Course ac, ‘oss the great hid the light from his view, but, he soon gained the summit of the knoll, and he drew up so sud- denly on the reins that the animal was thrown 7 poeta on its haunches, t And why? . althougtt That light which had so attracted his atten- Was so well tion had assumed the shape of a human hand, the country all the fingers of which were, apparently, closed keeping hig @Pon the palm, excepting the index finger,which was pointing southward. It was about three hundred yards away, and was of the gize of a giant’s hand, and if must have been a giant, indeed, to have held that hand so high. jut what did it mean? than a hand of fire? one of great; 2and deten. € mishap to 0 make up xertions on, What was it more Was it the agentof human hands, or an atmospheric phenomenon? r ; ’ ; 8 posi ker These were the questions that Antelope Abe om Indi ~ asked himself, and puzzled his brain over for ll upon his several minutes. At last, he glanced in the di- imself into. rection indicated by the glowing finger, but he saw nothing. When he again looked ahead of him, the hand of fire was gone! There was a deep and unfathomable mystery il, when a. the other, they w in all this—a mystery that impressed Antelope lads ahora Abe strangely. He was not superstitious. as most bordermen are, and so he decided to ride w on and make some investigations, but, at this tot Mag uncture, he caught a glimpse of a number of © animate, 2orsemen riding slowly along a high ridge to his on ania righ t. > They were not over two hundred yards away, ons. He ' and from their outlines, dimly seen, bs ee they ither di¢ , Were Indians. . on. Th | To elude detection, he knew it would require 1s—_of ¢ | -extreme caution and silence, and to prevent his he ca: needs horse from making a noise he dismounted, and he foie was in the act of placing his hand over the ani- the tall | mal’s nostrils, when it reared its head and utter- ) eda shrill neigh. , ttlesome The mounted savages heard it, and the next epres- _Wstant they were ayeepins down upon the boy- in 1 he be. Suide at a breakneck speed. still his ast, he CHAPTER IV. the bi KEEN-KNIFE. dicmie *bA and Jennie Clarkson arose to their feet, s of the and running along the log sprung to the ground. - | Shey would instantly have fled to the camp, but ‘ostrate ? ss. He le risk, — g othey He rode on, and shortly a swell before him | Antelope Abe, the B | | oy Guide. the Indian calmly folded his arms across his breast, and stood directly in their path. Jennie’s screams had not been heard at the camp, so they were entirely at the mercy of the Indian, who, seeing the girls’ affright, smiled blandly, and said, in broken English: ** No need fear Me Keen-knife—friend to whites.” The maidens’ hearts beat easier, yet they Ingin ? ae 80 ee ee om 5 my A ip mg ‘Betrayed, friend Clarkson! betrayed!” ex- | claimed the elder Hammond; ‘‘I was afraid of it, all the time,” “And so was I,” replied Clarkson; ‘and I |-thought I was watching him so close that he | laughed Roderick Clarkson: doubted his words, for they had heard that the | Indians were treacherous, and. so Ida said: ‘* And why don’t you let us pass, if you’re a friend?” ‘*Didn’t know you wanted to pass,” said the Indian, stepping quickly to one side. The girls walked briskly forward until they had passed him, then they started away as fast as they could run, while the Indian turned and followed them. “Oh, papa!” exclaimed Ida, as she rushed in- to camp, ‘‘ here comes a wild Indian!” ‘** Heavens!’ éxclaimed Enoch Clarkson, seiz- ing his rifle and turning toward the advancing savage; “halt there! Indian, what do you want here?” “Come to meet young hunter. Me Keen- knife—me friendly Ingin,” replied the Indian, maintaining a calm and unflinching composure. The attention of the emigrants was now drawn toward this Indian. He was quite young—pos- sibly not over eighteen years of age—was of a | lithe figure, but handsomely developed in mus- | cular and physical proportions. He was naked to the waist, and his dripping leggings and loin- cloth at once suggested to the elder Clarkson the question: “What have you been doing in the lake?” Before the Indian could answer, Ida quickly spoke for him, and told her father where they had first discovered him. ‘‘ And,” said Mr. Clarkson to the Indian; “why did you take to the lake to get into our camp?’ “Could git in no udder way. Bad Ingins all g ) 3 could not possibly get away unseen.” ** Well, I reckon your looks evaporated him,” p ‘What do you think, little sister Ida?’ _ ‘I don’t believe Keen-knife, as he called him- self, is a traitor. He looked too honest,” re- turned Ida. ‘Oh, child, child,” said the father, “you do not know what treachery an Indian is capable of, and Iam afraid his remembrance of your young face will lead him to slay us all to cap- ture you.” ‘Oh, dear! he needn’t go to that trouble,” said Jda, langhing, “‘for, rather than see you all killed, I'd give myself up to him, for I’m sure he’s good-looking.” ’ ; “Talk of an Indian being good-looking! Ida da!” “Papa, you do Keen-knife injustice. I am sure he was not sneaking, and then he gave you good advice.” “That’s you, Ida, out and out. Believing in everything that’s new to your eyes. But, we'll see about Keen-knife. John, go tell the guards to keep a sharp look-out for the young traitor. There’s no telling now, what minute he’ll be down upon us with a whole pack of his friends.” The men resumed their work on the defense already begun, and soon had it completed. It was not a block-house by any means, but simp- ly an inclosure about fourteen feet square by six in hight. It was open at the top, and on the outside green brush and boughs were cut and | piled against it, so that it would be quite difii- | cult for an enemy to approach the walls, It was hastily constructed and lacked a great deal | of being complete, but would serve a good pur- ‘round on prairie waitin’ for night to come to | kill vale-face.” ‘* What!” exclaimed Clarkson, ‘‘do yon mean | to say that we’re surrounded by hostile In- dians?” ‘* Yes,” replied the red-skin youth, “Indian, what assurance have we got that yourre not a traitor, and are lying to us?’ asked Clarkson. ‘‘None but own word. If don’t believe that, tie me up till Boy-Guide comes. He come soon. But mus’ be careful or bad Ingins kill and scalp all,” There was something so impressive, so honest | : , and truth-sounding-in the young red-skin’s words, that every one was jnduced to believe him. And so he was at once taken into the con- fidence of our friends, and put through a rigor- ous cross-examination, which left no doubt but that he was a friendly Indian, and that his mo- tives, in coming there as he did, were good. But his report of their being surrounded by hostile Indians was fearful news, and threw them into a deep quandary as to the course they should yursue to guard against a surprise. At last, fr. Hammond turned to the Indian and said: “Then, if you are a friend to us, can’t you tell us how to guard against the bad Indians?” “Yes,” responded the youth, promptly; “cut down trees and build big wigwam, quick. Bad Ingins do nothin’ till night—mebby not then, if find you well fixed.” This was good advice, and the emigrants de- cided to act upon it at once. So the men and boys not on guard got out their axes and went vigorously to work, felling such trees in the lit- tle grove as could be easily handled; and it was not long until the foundation of the proposed defense was laid: The friendly Indian assisted them now and then in laying up a heavy log, but most of the time he busied himself in strolling cat-like through the grove and camp, and more than | once Enoch Clarkson caught his black eyes fixed with admiring glances upon Ida and Jennie. These actions aroused a spark of mistrust in Clarkson’s breast, and, although he said noth- ing to his friends, he kept a close watch upon the Indian’s movements, and so there was scarce- | ly amoment but what some of the emigrants’ eyes were A gai him. But, in spite of all this vigilance, it was suddenly discovered that the Indian was gone! This incident created general excitement. No one had seen him leave, yet every one had’ seen him standing, “right there a second ago,” They tried to track him and failed. They searched the grove, the wagons, tents, and in fact every thing and place within a hundred yards, but found no trace of him. | where objects could be seen for miles. pose in case of an attack, The horses were now brought in and tied up. Supper was prepared and eaten and arrange- ments made for the night. Roderic Clarkson, Fred and John Hammond were selected, or rather volunteered to stand guard the first half of the night. A general change was made in the location of the wagons, tents, and so forth, so that if Keen- knife should come back in the night, to steal and massacre, he would not find things as he had last seen them, and thereby be defeated, perhaps, The early twilight began to gather in the grove, while it still was light on the prairie, A deep silence reigned in the encampment, and the spirits of the emigrants grew gloomier as dark- ness approached, and their uneasiness and fore- bodings were all traceable to the appearance and disappearance of the Indian youth, Keen- knife. Suddenly, aroused to however, active this silent fear was excitement. A horseman | had been discovered approaching, at a rapid ’ | pace, pursued by a number of mounted Indians, who were yelling like fiends. The fugitive was coming from the west, and, with one accord, the emigrants decided that it was the looked-for guide, Every man seized his rifle ready to receive the Indians, but, to their happy disappointment, the savages turned back—gave up the pursuit, before they had got within rifle-range of the grove. The fugitive came on, entered the grove, and rode into the encampment. To the emigrants’ surprise, he proved to be another Indian, and as he drew rein, he ex- claimed: “ Ho !? He was a large, fierce-looking fellow, with long sealp-lock, small black eyes, and large, res pulsive mouth. He was armed to the teeth, and best rode a spirited, strong-limbed animal. ** Well, who are you?” asked Enoch Clarkson. “Me friendly Ingin—me Wild Deer,” replied the savage, “ Oh, the devil! there it is again!” exclaimed Roderic Clarkson; “more friends: it seems that the Indians are all friends to us, and yet traitors.” *“Waugh!” ejaculated the Indian: ‘‘me no traitor, me good Ingin-friend to guide that come to meet you here soon.” “Suffering Moses! the same old story! All friends to that guide,” returned Roderic, nudging Fred Hammond; “he’s an unfortunate fellow to have so many friends.” ‘* Bad Ingins chase Wild Deer,” continued the savage; have big race.”
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‘So we saw; but where is that guide you say is coming to meet us?” “Don’t know. He come soon. Deer meet him here at lake.” deceived by one Indian to-day, and we don’t know whether to believe you are friendly, and telling the truth, or not.” a “Ugh! me am friend. Me know your name ad mebby.” Ma “Weil, what is it?’ hs “ ffammond—Clarkyson,” replied the Indian, ae i with a grim smile; ‘‘ white settler, Dorlan, send | ‘eg guide to meet you—me friend to guide.” ie “Phat sounds something like it, Enoch,” said is Abram Hammond. ‘‘ That proves this Indian REY is all right.” Vig “Yes, his being chased by the ‘bad’ Indians iam oe that he is not their friend,” replied Bie noch. a ** Maybe they just chased hiza into our camp Ty to tell a pack of lies,” said Roderic, in an under- tone. “Well, Wild Deer, dismount, won’t you?” asked Abram. not understand the request, and said: ‘Yes, pale-faces in inuch danger.” “Ts that true?’ ejaculated Clarkson; “‘ are the Indians around avd about us{” ‘Yes. Look! see them now—there!” and he | pointed westward. Every eye was turned in the direction indi- | cated, and, at this juncture, the savage spurred | his horse toward Ida—who had mounted a camp-stool and was looking westward, also— | and, leaning: over on his animal, he threw his arm around Ler waist—lifted her to his animal’s a back befove him, and then, with’ a yell of cun- ning triumph, dashed away. Ida screamed wildly for help. The emigrants | turned quickly to see what was the matter, and were stricken speechless by what they saw. But, even as their eyes fell upon the treacher- ous red-skin flying away with the idol of their hearts—plucked from their very midst—the clear report of a rifle rung sharply out in the grove behind them, and, at the same instant, a | _ery of mortal agony pealed from the lips of the | traitorous, savage abductor; he was seen to reel br his horse, then, with his fair burden, rolled | ifeless to the earth, while the now riderless pony galloped wildly away over the plain. Enoch Clarkson rushed excitedly to the assis- tance of his darling, while the others turned to see who it was that had fired the lucky shot. To their surprise they saw the lithe figure of an Indian glide from behind a clump of bushes and advance toward them, with the white smoke still curling from the muzzle of the rifle which he bore. A beautiful spotted jaguar-skin was thrown, around his shoulders, and a white plume ornamented his head. And, judge of our friends’ ) } craft, the emigrants felt greatly relieved of the | burden of fear that had been imposed upon them. Told Wild | er J | would not be up before midnight, and the star- “Well,” said Enoch Clarkson, ‘‘ we’ve been | The night fell, dark and gloomy. The moon light was hidden by dark clouds that were drift- ing across the sky. ‘he beat of the three guards was divided in- to three sections, which, together, constituted the circuit of the encampment. They kept just within the edge of the- grove, and had it so ar- ranged that two of them would meet at intervals on the end of their beats. The night wore slowly on without the sign of an Indian to be seen. But, presently, the atten- tion of Roderic Clarkson was attracted by a dull red light on the plain, a few hundred yards west of him. He stopped and gazed steadily at it and was not a little surprised when he saw tha light gradually assume the shape of a human hand, with the index finger pointing to the south. It was elevated several feet above the | plain, and seemed to be floating upon the air. What did it mean? What was it? Roderic | became greatly puzzled as to the nature of it, | and would have called counsel in the matter, The Indian did not hear him, or else he did | still greater surprise, when they discovered, as the red-skin approached, that it was the wrong- fully-mistrusted young fndian, Keen-knife. CHAPTER V. THE GUIDE AT LAST. By the time that Enoch Clarkson reached the fallen savage, [da was upon her feet, gazing around her in great excitement and confusion, And when she saw her father approaching, she uttered a cry of 1% and, running to meet him, she threw herself into his arms and wept with mingled affright and joy. ‘The fall had not injured her, but she was greatly terrified, and it was some time before she recovered her usual composure. | Mr. Clarkson conducted her back to the camp, and when he had learned whoit was that fired the shot which saved her from captivity, he seized the young Indian by the hand and poured thanks and blessings upon him. He felt angry at him- self for having mistrusted the youth, who in- formed him that he had left the camp simply to obtain his rifle and jaguar-skin that he had left, “around the lake, when he had taken to the water to reach the camp unobserved. ; _¢ The body of the fallen savage was interred - where it lay, and it now became a great wonder to the party how tle red-skin had learned their names, and knew that Dorlan had promised to send a guide to meet them. In fact there was a papery. about it which they could not unravel. he guards were now posted for the first watch, which was to last till midnight, Roderic Clarkson took what was considered the most ex- : a Keen-knife was to act as scout, of duty being confined to no particular nd since he had so cleverly defeated Wild i lisplayed, without ostentation, nowleslae of 1 dian trickery and wo a | had the strange, mysterious hand not disappear- ed as suddenly as it came. He moved on until he met Fred Hammond, and then asked: “Fred, did you see that hand of fire out yon- der, just now?” “No, of course I didn’t. You’re joking now for the sake of excitement,” was Fred’s re- sponse. “True as gospel, Fred. I saw a large hand of fire, with one finger pointing southward. It ' seemed to be floating on theair. I tell you it’s strange!” ““Some atmospheric phenomenon,” replied Fred, ‘‘or else some signal of the Indians pre- pene to attack us. Let us not tarry, Roder- ick. The two turned about and moved away on their beats. : Another hour passed. The sky cleared off, and the moon finally arose, flooding, with its soft, mellow light, the great ocean of verdure ae melted into the distance like the vision of a ream. Objects of the size of a person could be seen for half a mile away. Our friends felt jubilant over this, for while they were protected by the shadows of the grove, they could command a fair view of the plain around them. Roderic was movirg back toward the point where he usually met Fred Hammond, when he was suddenly startled by seeing an object mov- ing, or rather floating over the grass directly toward the grove. careful glance showed him that it was the figure of a woman, clad in dark garments, excepting the crimson shawl that was thrown hoodlike over her shoulders. There was something very singular in this. Surely it could not be Ida nor Jennie, and what woman wonld dare be abroad on the great prai- rie at that hour of the night? He watched her closely as she approached the grove. “ Halt!” It was Fred whom Roderic heard utter this quick command, and, as the woman seopped he saw the form of Fred emerge from the shadows the grove into the moonlight and confront er, ‘* Who are you?” he heard Fred ask. _ The woman threw back her shawl upon her Shoulders, and as she lifted her eyes to those of young Hammond, Roderic heard him exclaim: ‘Great God!? And as the words fell from his lips, he stag- gered raphe turned and fled into the grove as if from a phantom. ; ‘““What in the name of heaven does that mean?’ Roderic asked himself, as, moving for- ward, he stepped from the grove and confronted the woman, who still stood as motionless as though she were an inanimate object. : As his eyes fell upon her face, Roderic fairly staggered. She was a young woman barely twenty years of age, with a small, lithe figure and features that were decidedly lovely, yet childlike in their simplicity. er eyes were large, black and lustrous—mild and innocent in expression, Ripples of luxuriant, dark-brown | hair flowed over her beautifully rounded shoul- ders, almost to her waist. er features were delicate yet bronzed by exposure to the winds, and, as he; gazed upon them, he saw that she was pale as a,corpse and terribly agitated, but she recovered her composure by the time Rod- . . eric had gain , and gave expression to his thoughts in the ex ation: » tion: Ma Te) irie nymph!” The maiden, sintied sddly; but in a voice that at, rota) Le - / ri ‘ og Sew ok ts Os SM iw: As wea +k | OPE ARS oe ue al % ee Seb eye R | that the ears of the little party were grected ae are. ha eaten pr. la LS 4 ee sounded musical *o the ears of Roderic Clar no e she said: ee cl ‘You are mistalen, sir; Iam but a woman.” — “But who are you? and why ere you here, v4 tr alone and unprotected, on this great prairie, — hs that is alive with Indians?” * “Tam a pioneer girl,” she replied, ‘‘andam | a used to its dangers. I know the Indians are bi about, and that is why I am_here—to warn Enoch Clarkson and Abram Hammond that re their families are in imminent danger.” rr “A guardian angel!” exclaimed Roderic, “or how would you know who was encemped here?” ‘“‘T learned it through those who would de- & stroy them, and carry the daughters of Clarkson t into captivity.” “Thank God for this warning! “Come with = me to camp; you must not go back alone from h here to-night.” , “No; I can not go to your camp,” she replied ;. » i a “T must away, or my life w y for this. ny . hight’s adventure. Be warned, and guard well t your camp, is my farewell advice.” fy 8 “Stay! stay! fair maiden! Tell me to whottyg, “=-4 c I am indebted for this warning, and if we shall ¢ —shall ever meet again?” “Call me Myrtle, if we should ever meet: r again,” she replied, then turning, glided away. ** Gone!” exclaimed Roderic, like one starting h up from a dream, ‘gone, and taken my heart fi with her! Oh, Myrtle! Myrtle! 1 must—I will: » meet you again if I have to travel the world Oe : over. Love! Heavens and earth! Roderic hig! BAL. Clarkson, aged twenty, in love with a wildigirl ~*~ wr ' of the prairie! Yes, even—” wi “Hullo, Roderic, what are you growling about?” } It was his father who hailed him. He had come to relieve him from duty as guard. “Why, father, is it midnight?” Roderic asked. : f “Yes, one o'clock. Fred came in, an hour : -ago, without waiting for his relief.” ‘“Did he see any thing?” } “He said not, though we all supposed he had, for he was pale as a ghost. Have you secn any j thing?” “4 rson ‘was here a minute ago, who said yt that Enoch Clarkson and Abram mond’s: 1 el families were in imminent danger. It seems that everybody, Ingins and all, know that the Clarksons and Hammonds are in the country.” ‘“‘ Did he tell you his name?’ asked the father “Tt was a young girl.” A girl?” ‘“-Yes, some old hunter or settler’s daughter more daring and romantic than wise,” said Ro deric, evasively, as he started to the cane When he reached it, he found that none cf the party had gone to bed, but Mrs. Hammond,. hey were all seated around a glowing fire im side of the little fort—as we will call it—pass~ ing the hours as pleasantly as possible in conver- sation. ; Fred Hammond looked a little excited, and started slightly when Roderic entered the fort, but hinted in no way of what he had seen. This» _ factimpressed young Clarkson strangely. There- ye was an air of my about it to him,else why © did Fred ery out with alarm, and then flee from the presence of that innocent, harmless. j girl? Surely he was not a coward, as the maiden. said he was! a) ak It vee uite evident from his — caraky = su eric had not seen the girl, and Ro eric resolved to keep what he had seen and heard, a secret. ghey eae a He could not, or at least, did not like to think wrong of Fred. He had always been his mogt.) "> oP Mae) intimate friend; they always.except when Fred. was away at school, had been together. And Or See of late, he had noticed that Fred’s attentions to, a ae Ida were constant and Hep with more t a common interest, although Id with a friendly indifference. was not a doubt in his mind bu had always considered him wo a eC sa be man's love. But, since his «trange conduct on the prairie, he had set Fred down as a cow- re ard, or else he was in some a mystery, with which Myrtle f 5 Fe it Adit : q } . es J v Hah ae ae ‘ Sey. at i! iy) 4 N wk Bley a Sed IPN od
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Fn — = me / . - a far-off savage yell, followed by the prolonged | sides, their hearts were so infused with the spir- | = lash of fire-arms. -- | it of sweetness, that hung like a dream around | Keen-knife sprung to his feet, and with con- | Silver Basin, that they all longed to tarry there, | tracted brows bent his head in the attitude of |"that glorious Sabbath day. E pA listening. So, when breakfast was over, and the horses | ge For fully ten minutes no one scarcely breath- | had been watered and tethered out to grass, the | ed, but, suddenly, the distant bark of a wolf broke dismall y out upon the silence. The eyes of Keen-knife lit up with a glow of recognition, and, bounding from the fort he hur- ried away. **J wonder what’s up now?” asked Fred. { “No telling,” replied Roderic; ‘‘ but Pll guar- antee that youth will let no danger come to us, this night.” *“ Oh, dear, I hope not!” replied Ida. ‘‘ I can | see no romance in wild Indians any more. But Keen-knife is a fine fellow!” ri ‘Yes, he is doing us a great favor,” said the elder Mr. Hammond. - / Thus the conversation was interrupted by the reappearance of Keen-knife, and, to the surprise of the party, they saw that he was ac- ~- companied by a young stranger, clad in the garb of a hunter. ; .| mond so sullen, to-day ?”’ } ‘* Hello, Keen-knife!” exclaimed Abram Ham- “T have dared to guess at the cause,” Ida re- mond, ‘‘ who have you got here?” plied. ‘He is jealous of the young hunter, I ** Young hunter—the guide,” responded Keen- | don’t like Fred. He isn’t a bit like your John.” | knife. Jennie blushed at Ida’s last remark, and asked: j “The guide at last!” exclaimed Roderic, ad- ‘“* Ida, hasn’t Fred reason to be jealous of Ante- young folks strolled out into the grove and along the lake to enjoy the beauty spread out around them, Toward daybreak, the Indians had withdrawn from the immediate vicinity of the lake; but | eould be seen, hovering like vultures, at differ- ent points on the prairie. But Keen-knife kept a constant watch upon their movements, per- | mitting his young companion, Antelope Abe, to | mingle with the emigrants. | The day wore slowly away, and was one of extreme pleasure to the young people, Fred Hammond excepted. unsociable. } Toward the close of the day, when Jennie and | Ida found themselves seated alone sin the grove, | Jennie asked: | ‘‘Tda, do you know what makes Fred Ham- | He alone was moody and | | | vaneing and grasping the young stranger’s ex- | lope Abe?’ ; ; tended hand, ‘Glad to meet you, young man! ‘Tf I choose to like the young guide it’s none By what name are we to know you?” | of Mr. Fred’s affairs,” replied Ida, with a little * Antelope Abe!” responded the youth, for he | angry toss of the head. it was. “Then you admit, Ida, that you do like Ante- ** Antelope Abe!” exclaimed Roderic; ‘‘is it sone Abe?” ssible that we are to have that renowed young araisea her face, that was a little flushed, | unter for a guide?” and looking straight into Jennie’s eyes, asked; | ti “Wal, ’m the boy that Ezra Dorlan sent to ‘** Would there be anything improper about it | i guide Clarkson and Hammond to the settle- | if I did love him, Jennie?” } ment,” the youth replied, without ostentation, as his black, flashing eyes wandered ‘rom face to face of the little party. ‘I had a paper that ! sed I war the chap, but, as I walked part o’ the a way here on my head, i accidently lost it.” ~ “No, dear sister; though Antelope Abe is a guide, he is a man, or will make a man, that | any woman might be proud of. That is plain | to be seen.” : ‘*Oh, Jennie, I—but there comes John!” ) : Never mind, the paper; the name is a suffi- It was John Hammond whom Ida saw ap- | ‘ae cient guarantee, and your face is still a better | proaching them from the direction of the camp. it one. ow long since you left the settlement?” ewas the accepted lover of Jennie, and in | if ‘Two days ago, but the pesky red-skins pre- | every respect worthy of her love. He was a | ee vented me from making the lake sooner, The | youth of some twenty years, tall and manly to ay + red imps are swarmin’ all over the perairy. I | a fault, with dark-blue eyes and firm, pleasant b’lieve they grow up outen the ground jest like | features; a round full voice, and gentleand kind : very nasty weeds.” : disposition. Ey .T hope,” said Roderic, ‘‘ that none will grow nowing that John was Jennie’s lover, as he up within gunshot of us.” _ ere approached, Ida arose and tripped away, while | The young guide stood leaning on his rifle while | John seated himself by his sweetheart, for a lov- he talked, and gazing around, he regarded the | er’s chat. | ay ae faces about him and the walls of the little fort | Ida moved on until she came to the trunk of a itp with the air of a charitable critic, or inspector; | fallen tree, upon which she seated herself, and i" but no difference which way he turned his spark- | at once became absorbed in deep thought, to eyes, they would mechanically wander back to the sweet, pretty face of Ida Clarkson, with a light of admiration beaming from their depths. o one noticed this more particularly than did Fred Hammond, and when he saw Ida’s dark eyes droop and her face flush almost crim- son under the youth’s gaze, he saw that he had a formidable rival in the handsome young guide, Antelope Abe, ' / ; iyi £5) ae _ CHAPTER VI. Py: nee LOVE’S YOUNG DREAM, ‘a _ Wrra the addition of Antelope Abe to the lit- oe tle party of emigrants, the moments now passed pleasan: ly, despite the dangers that lurked around the camp. The young guide mingled with them as free as though he were one of the family, and conversed in his pleasant, impulsive manner of talking as though he had always | —when I could be alone with you, and'tell you | known them. It was his nature, developed | how I have long regarded you—to tell you that | through force of habit, to make himself at ease | I—” . _.and at home wherever he happened tobe; and | ‘‘ Why, Fred,” exclaimed Ida, evasively, for | there was an irresistible fascination about his | she saw what was coming; ‘‘I always knew tLat | dashing freedom of manner, and the expression | you were one of my best friends.” of his handsome young face and brilliant eyes, ** But, Ida, my regard for you is far more en- that made a lasting impression upon every | during than friendship; it is—” heart. It was true, he lacked the polish of “There comes the young gaits !” exclaimed society and intellectual culture, but he was not | Ida, as she caught sight of the youth approach- anting in any of those elements of genuine | ing; “ isn’t he a handsome fellow, Fred? A scowl swept over Fred Hammond’s face, young knight of the border that he was. _| and, risin his feet, he moved away, mutter- e ing at tv, Bie Ida could not hear. which she gave emphasis occasionally by ner- vously lucking to pieces one of the wild roses which she held in her hand. ae Suddenly a shadow fell across her path, and | looking wp, she saw Fred Hammond standing before her. ; “Why, how you scared me!” she exclaimed. ‘From a pleasant day-dream, Ida?” he asked, seating himself by her side. ‘Wo, I never dream,” she replied. ‘I was hinking.” t ‘ “Of what?” “Where I’d be to-day if that Indian had car- ried me off last night,” added Ida. Fred attempted to,smile; and after a momen- tary silence, he said, affecting a tone of deep se- riousness: ““Tda, I have longed for this moment to come aly ut of the savages. Day dawned, bright | Antelope Abe advanced, and stopping before aia: Las ibe It was rsa Sabbath day, and the | Ida, said: : * Me and atmosphere seemed pervaded | ‘I hope, Miss Ida, that my presence wern’t per- | the cause o’ yer friend leavin’ ye.” wy “Oh, not at all, Mr. Smollet. _I Pe ag he ed went to seek better company,” replied Ida. ‘He must be hard to please,” responded Abe; “but call me Antelope Abe, or jist Abe. Mr. Smollet sounds too stiff to my ears, Miss Ida.” Ida smiled, begged his pardon, and invited him to aseat on the log beside her, which he ac- r long days of travel and nights had becomné irksome. Be- | cepted with manif % ; | : . = y Antelope Abe, the Boy Guide. | was returned, I’ Antelope Abe now felt a thrill of keen joy. It was the happiest moment of his life to be seated by that sweet, pretty girl—within the sunshine of her eyes, and the music of her ri pling voice—and feel that he loved her with all his soul. And he would have given the world, had he possessed it, to know that his love was returned. But already he had convinced him. | self that so fair a maiden as Ida could never love a rude borderman like him, with his rough, inelegant speech, bronzed face, and large, clum- sy hands, that were forever in the way when im her presence. ; They talked about the prairies, the lake, the Indians and their danger, and a litt.e nonsense; and finally Ida asked: “Do you live at the settlement to which we are going, Abe?” ‘No. I live nowhere and everywhere. LI have no home in particular, Miss Ida.” ‘**No home?” exclaimed Ida: “No home, Ida, nor relations, in the worl that I know of. My parents have been di this ten years.” ~ “You must be very lonely and sad, Abe. £ am sure I would die without parents or friends to love me, or to love.” “ve many friends, Ida, but I don’t know es thar’s a liyin’ soul that ra’aly loves me. [ma alone in the world. Every boy has his sweet- heart, but me. I’m a lost sheep, Ida.” ‘* Perhaps you do not want a sweetheart, Aba. Your heart may be love-proof.” : “Not a bit of it, Ida. There was a time . when I thought so, but it’s not now. Thar’s one in the world that I love with all my heart and | soul,” ** And perhaps, then, your love is reciprocat- ed, Abe?” said the girl. ‘Tt mought be, but *’ve little hopes. How- ever, you can answer, Ida, for it’s you that I Inva 7 s0Ve, ° ‘Abe! oh, Abe! you are jesting,” Ida ex- claimed, her dark eyes glowing with a sweet, | tender light and her face flushing almost scarlet. “Tm not, Ida,” he replied: “although it has | been but a few hours since I first met you, I loved you from that very moment, and that love has grown on me ever since. Don’t git mad at _me, Ida, for tellin’ ye of it, for I can’t help it. I can hardly expect one so fair and bright as ou, would fall in love with a green, awkward unter-boy. But, if I only knowed my love be the happiest hoy in the territory o’ Iowa, and mebbe could yet unlearn some of my rough ways.” , ‘“‘ Abe,” ‘said Ida, her pretty lips quivering with emotion, and a mist of tears gathering im her eyes, “‘ would you believe me if I should telf ou that your.love is returned?” “Bilieve it, sweet Ida! Those lips couldn't utter a falsehood, Then you do love me?’ he asked, drawing near her, and permitting his arm to steal about her young form, “Yes, Abe, [love you,” she breathed softly, and her little hand crept softly into the hard paim of her boy-lover, and for fully five min- _ utes there was a blissful silence, broken only by tne wildly-throbbing hearts of the two lovers; then Abe bent down, and imprinted upon Ida’s retty red lips, the first seal of a pure and holy ove. The next hour was one of the sweetest bliss te’ these young people. By the most sacred prom- ises they pledged their hands and hearts to each other, and spoke of the future—the day when | _tature man and womanhood would qualify — them for wedded life. Their cup of joy seemed | ow and with brighter hopes'to look forwaru te, they p , « went out on the prairie, where Keen-kniie was Pkg for him to join in a scout around ‘he Me z : Scarcely were the lovers out of sight, when ! Fred Hammond a ak from behind a clump of — ey. is bushes near where they had sat, his face black with jealous rage. betrothal. - ari When Antelope Abe and Keen-knife returned to camp, they brought the discouraging news: He had heard their confession of love ond { that not less than a hundred Indians were out- 3 . lying on the prairie; and their opinion was that the night would not pass without trouble. Upon receipt of this news, the emigrants began strengthening every point of thedr defenses — They rocket oa é i diligently for some time, Jennie and Ida wa admiration, and their presence made Ante} Abe and kind-hearted John Hammond fool ea ugh they had something far more dear te work for arid protect than their own lives. Ida went back to the camp, feeling that a new life had dawned for her, while her “over — ed their friends with
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i - { + 1 : beet - y 4, % t F 5 J } a4 e § oF _ * rf we 6) iP {i n chk mY il if — ? a! Re a hl Fred Hammond seemed unusually cheerful, though at times he was thoughtful and silent. Roderic noticed it, and wondered what had brought such a sudden spell of sunshine—with its occasional cloud—over his young friend’s | héart. When brought in and tie yards south of the camp. the edge of the grove, Fred Hammond was sta- tioned on guard, while his younger brother, fom Hammozd, Roderic, and Antelope Abe, were stationed at other points about tho grove —Keen-knife acting as scout. The old folks and Jennie and Ida and John Hammond and his youngest brother, Howard, went early to bed, and it was not long before the place was wrapt in profound silence. As the hours stole on, the other guards finally received the startling news through Keen-knife, that Fred Hammond was missing from his post, and that no trace of him could be found. Fears that the Indians had slain him and con- night oe fell, the horses were t up in the grove about fifty | Just beyond thena in | eealed his body for a while were entertained, although no signs of violence were visible where he had stood. A search was made through thé grove, but not a trace of him could be found. it seemed very strange that he should leave the grove, if not slain or captured, knowing that it was sur- rounded with savages. An hour or more of anxious searching passed, when, to the surprise and joy of the searchers, Fred made his appearance. He came from the wrairie south of ths grove, and carried in his nands an Indian bow and a quiver filed with arrows. He accounted for his disappearance in this manner: He had seen some suspicious object moving over the prairie, some few rods away, and, in order to investi,ate its nature, he crept toward it, and as he continued to advance, ie object receded, and finally he found that he was quite a distance from camp. On turning about to retrace. his footsteps, he discovered a party ef Indians near him. To elude discovery he was compelled to lie in the grass for over an hour. After they went away, he resumed his return to the grove, finding the bow and quiver | on the way. ¥ : r ” * . * So quietude was once more restored, and however, thought it was singular that Fred would follow an unknown object amid un- knowm dangers so fearlessly, when the night 9 duty, sought theirs. But Fred seated himself before the little watch-fire, that burned just Beadle’s Half-Dime Library. = Peres Era . . able to sit up and have his wound dressed an,! | bandaged as wellas the surgical skiil of his outside of the little fort, and became silent and | thoughtful. By his side lay the bow and quiver of arrows that he had found on the prairie. For an hour he sat and gazed into the fire; some deep emotion was struggling within his breast. Finally he picked up the quiver that lay at his side, and, drawing therefrom three arrows, thrust their barbed points into the fire. He then laid aside the quiver and took up the bow. As he did so, he glanced mechanically around him, and then at the tent in which Jennie and | Ida lay asleep. In amoment the shafts of three arrows were ablaze, and plucking one of them from the fire, Fred arcse to his feet, and applying it to the bow, shotit far up into the air. The blazing mis- | sile went high above the treetops, described a beautiful curve, and then shot downward, and | with a spiteful hiss, fell into the lake a few rods away. A’ grim smile of satisfaction overspread the face of Fred Hammend at the success of his | amusement, and he turned and was about to pluck another arrow from the fire, when a dark object caine whirling through the air and struck him a blow upon the head that felled him, half | unconscious, to the earth. Fred did not cry out, but, regaining his feet, he gazed around him. No one was visible. He stood alone in the dim glow of the watch-fire. Wasit reality? Had something struck him? | deavor to recover their horses. “No, by heavens, it is not!” Fred suddenly | exclaimed; ‘‘the bow and quiver are both gone, but I will not be defeated! crossed my path! he shall never have the girl! he shall die!” Drawing a pistol from his pocket, he strode away into the darknegs, the demon of evil now ruling his heart. Several minutes passed. A deep silence reign- | camp at once was prevented by the presénce of \ Antelope Abe has | ed. But, suddenly, the report of a fire-arm rung | out on the still night-air, followed by a cry of mortal agony. ‘‘Had Fred Hammond executed his threat? Had he slain Antelope Abe? Alas! the crack of the weapon and that cry of agony told a fearful tale. fred took his post as guard again. , Roderic, | before he had fled from the presence of a harm- | less girl. Surely there was something singular in the affair. The hours wore slowly away. approaching midnight. It was just The moon was just | thrusting its long beams of light above the west- | ern horizon. It would soon be up, then a new set of guards would be posted. Roderic had entertained a strong hope that Myrtle would come back again, He could not drive her sweet, fair image from his heart. In fact, he did not want to, but fostered it in his breast, with the hope that they would meet sleeping and dreaming of him. j But hark! The dull thud of horses’ hoofs is heard, in the very heart of the little grove! The next moment eight savages burst from its | shadows with a triumphant yell, and gallop | away over the plain, upon the emigrants’ horses ! Careful investigations made by Antelope Abe revealed the fact that the Indians had entered the grove within ten feet of where Fred Ham- mond stood guard. From this it was naturally supposed that they had effected that. entrance while-he was absent; so Fred manfully took the blame upon his own shoulders, expressing the deepest regrets for his negligence. The yell of the savages aroused the sleepers, and for several minutes confusion reigned. When it was known that the horses were stolen, the elder Clarkson and Hammond groaned in spirit, and a pall settled over every face. There was no telling when, or whether, this misfor- tune would ever be repaired, and they be en- abled to resume their journey. cae ominous cloud seemed gathering over them. ; New rds were nuw posted. They were John and Howard Hammond, their father and Enoch Clarkson, assisted by Antelope Abe and the Indian, who concluded their services could not be dispensed with, for they expected an at- tack every minute from the Indians. The women again retired to their tents, while Roderic and Tom Hammond, just reiieved from | CHAPTER VII. THE FLOATING ISLAND. THE report of the weapon, and the cry of hu- man agony that followed it, awoke Tom Ham- mond and Roderic from their sleep. Rising from their pallet, they rushed from the tent to ascer- tain the cause of the alarm. But all was silent now. In a moment, how- ever, footsteps were heard approaching, and | then Antelope Abe and Fred Hammond emerged | from the grove, bearing something between them. Advancing to the fire, they laid their burden down upon,the ground. The light streaming over it, showed Tom and | again. | Roderic that it was the lifeless body of John Antelope Abe was extremely happy in his | thoughts of pretty little Ida, who~then lay | Hammond. ‘‘Oh, heavens! what is the meaning of this?’ cried Tom. “A lurking foe has slain poor John,” returned | Fred. A ery burst from Tont’s lips, and in a minute the whole camp was aataeck and a general ex- citement prevailed. When the father and moth- er learned that their boy was shot their sorrow became heartrendiig. fered more at heart than Jennie Clarkson, when the news came to her that John was dead, Abram Hammond knelt over the prostrate form of his son and burst into a wail of sorrow, but, suddenly, it became changed into a cry of hope and joy, for he discovered that John was not dead. ‘Heaven be thanked! my boy still lives! John is not dead—he breathes! ‘Tom, bring me that brandy from the wagon—quick, for God’s sake!” The brandy was brought and a portion of it ‘administered, and if was soon discovered that John was far from being dead. Grief was now changed to gladness, On ex- amination, it was found that John had sustain- ed asevere and painful wound. He had been shot in the back of the shoulder, and the bullet strik- ing the shoulder-blade, glanced downward and d out a few inches below. So far as could ascertained, no bones were broken, but the shock had been so sudden and severe that it had completely alyzed his body, and rendered him seg fh emg In this state he was, at first, mistaken for dead. ‘But none of them suf- | father and Enoch Clarkson would admit, When John gazed around him, and saw ths tearful eyes of Jennie fixed so sympathetically upon him, his heart gave a bound of joy, Her presence and silent appeals of love and sympa- thy did more to alleviate bis suffering, than all the rest could possibly do for him. Presently the father inquired how it was that he happened to get shot? ““T was standing,” John replied, “in a little clump of bushes gazing out upon the prairie. when suddenly a rifle cracked behind mein the grove—” ‘Behind you in the grove? father. ‘* Yes,” “Then, by heavens!” exclaimed Fred, “the foe must be lurking in the grove yet! Come, boys!” and, followed by Roderic and Tou, he rushed away in search of the hidden foe. Keen-knife stood by with a grim smile upon his face, and, to the surprise of the emigrants, took vo part in the search, For the rest of that night, sleep was banished from every eye, and, after what seemed an age, day dawned bright and pleasant. Buliies ut it found the little party of emigrants in a precarious and helpless situation, Their ani- mals were all stolen, and one of theix number lay seriously wounded, The first thing to be done, however, was to en- } To Antelope Abe and Keen-knife this duty fell, or rather they took it upon themselves. at departure from 7 exclaimed the a number of Indians at different points upon the plain, and fears were entertained that they would not get away before night set in. The day was attended, with many cares, anxieties, and some moments of joy, while the young guide and his red companion were wait- ing an opportunity to leave camp unseen by the vigilant foe. Jennie Clarkson never jeft her wounded lover, and so Ida was alone in her rambles through the grove, save when Antelope Abe found a few minutes’ relief from dut; now and then, to walk with her, and breathe words of love and joy into her ear. During one of these occasional meetings, Ida asked: ** Abe, do you think the Indians are likely to attack us?” “‘T hardly know. If they had only known it, tliar’s been several times that they could have ‘ay tered the hull ea- | boodle o’ us. I’m afraid they’ / break louse soon, and then may God pertect my /ittle 1da.” “Oh, dear Abe, you are so good and kind,” returned Ida, joyfully; **but Ido hope the In- dians will leave soon.” ** They’re arter sumthin’, which they’re detar~ mined to have without pokin’ their own noses into danger. Ye and Jennie must keep clus to camp, little un, fur I feel almost sartain that it’s you and her they’re arter. An Ingin hag great patience, and to accomplish their object, they'd lay out thar in the grass till the buzzards packed ’em off, They’re cunnin’ and cowardly.” “They must be very cunning and sly, that they could get into our camp last. night, and steal the horses and shoot John Hammond in the cowardly manner they did.” ‘‘Tda,” and her lover's voice fell almost toa whisper, “John wasn’t shot by an Ingin. Thar’s suthin’ wrong in camp, Fred Hammond is actin’ strange. He'll bear watchin’. Keen- knife says it war him that shot John, through a mistake, He thought John war me!” “You, Abe? Fred shot John thinking it was you? Oh, impossible, dear Abe! Why should Fred wish to slay you?” ‘*Tiullo! there goes Keen-knife’s call. I must see what he wants. Ill answer your question when we meet again. Good-by, ttle vun,” He kissed her, and turning hurried away. Ida watched him with a light of love and admira- tion beaming in her dark eyes, until he was out of sight, then she turned’ and walked slowly down the lake-shore, repeating in her mind the words that her lover had spoken about Fred. Was he jealous of the young guide? The thought pamed Ida, although she could not be- lieve that Fred was such a man as to permit himself to do violence for so trivial an affair. She Sonent there was some mistake in what Keen-knife had seen and said, Thus \meditating, she walked leisurely along the lake-shore a few rods beyond the falling tree where she and Jennie first discovered n- knife. She might have gone on further, but The youth soon recovered sufficiently to be | her footsteps were suddenly grrested by sight of They’re actin’ so curious. “ / i i
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- @ bunch of water-lilies, which she at once re- solved to procure. The fiowers grew at the further extremity of | a@ narrow strip, or point of land that was thrust | out into the lake like a tiny peninsula, and was about six feet wide by ten long. It rose buta few inches above the surface of the water, and was completely covered with a dense mat of | moss that trailed in the water all around its edges, while, here and there, around its sides, grew bunches of long-bladed flags, whose spear- like tips drooped until. they touched the surface | of the lake. At the point where the peninsula touched the | mainland, the banks of the latter were fully a | foot higher than the surface of the former. But without hesitation or fear, Ida sprung down the little bank onto the peninsula, and as she did so, she felt it quiver under her weight, and saw little wavelets circle out from its edges, and the flags dip their points into the water. ‘But she paid no attention to these, and, trip- ping along to where the lilies were, she stooped | and plucked them. They were very beautiful with their velvet throats and gold-dusted petals, and she stood and admired tem with a maiden- ly enthusiasm. While thus occupied, she heard a light plash in the water, such as would be made by a small fish fluttering to the surface of the water for a fly or bug. This she supposed it to be, and re- membering the beautiful sights that she and Jennie had seen from the fallen log, she seated herself upon the little moss-festooned peninsula and gazed down into the water. But she saw no troops of fish with their silvery sides nor beautiful moss of variegated colors, | However, she could see the bottom of the lake not over five feet below the surface of the water, and on that bottom, which was either stone or clay—she could not tell which, she was not a little surprised to see the imprint of a human foot. It was of a gigantic size, or the water was pos- sessed of a magnifying power and made it ap- pear larger than it really was. But, in either case, how had it come there? was it a freak of nature, or the imprint of an actual human foot? Ida sat and gazed for several moments at this mysterious track, then she suddenly covered her jeyes with her hand and exclaimed: | “Oh, how it makes my head swim; gazing down into the water!” She started up, and turning around was in the act of springing to the mainland, when a low ery escaped her lips, and her face turned deadly | pale, while, with wildly staring eyes, she gazed about her. She discovered that she was upon an island, instead of a peninsula, and was fully twenty | yards from. shore, and still drifting away. The maiden’s first impulse was to scream, but the novelty of her situation enlisted her curiosi- ty so deeply, that she succeeded in overcoming | her sudden emotions of fear, and proceeded to make an examination of her floating island. She saw at once that it was simply a wooden raft dexterously covered with flakes of water- | moss that hung over the edges and trailed in the water; while the flags and aquatic plants that were fixed about it, aided the delusion to a won- derful extent; yet one more observing and cau- | tious than Ida would~have discovered the de- | ception, the moment the eye fell upon it, jut from whence did the raft receive its motive power? As Ida asked herself this question, a terrible suspicion rushed across her was about to cry out for he moss that trailed over the edge of the raft sud- denly parted, and the tufted skull, the low, re- treating forehead, the black gleaming eyes and | the evil cunning face of an Indian warrior rise quickly to view, followed by another, and still another, until six pairs of gleaming eyes were fixed upon her from around the edge of the raft. Terror seized upon the maiden’s mind, and scream after scream pealed from her lips. , At this juncture the savages threw their half- nude forms upon the raft, and while one seized the terrified girl and stifled her cries, the others drew out from under the moss and plants an oar and four rifles, and while one drove the raft rapidly toward the middle of the lake, the other four stood ready to shoot down the first one who attempted to approach them. Alas! poor little Ida was a captive at last! CHAPTER VIIL. A CHANGE OF LOCATION. **Ox, save me! help! help! help!” ‘Great Heaven!” exclaimed Enoch Clarkson, as these imploring words fell upon his ears, ““what does that mean?” young mind, and she | p, when she saw the | Antelope Abe, the Boy Guide. | | Oh, father!” cried Jennie, “it|/was Ida’s | voice! She is in trouble!” The half-distracted father seized his. rifle and saw his idolized gir] standing on a raft far’ out in the lake. “Oh, my child! my child!” he groaned, ‘where is Antelope Abe, and—” **T’'m here.” It was the young hunter who spoke. He had heard Ida’s cries, also, and had rushed to the. lake close behind Mr. Clarkson. ** Young man, can you not save my child?” the father asked. ‘** Not now. Look!” responded Antelope Abe. He yointed toward Ida, and at this juncture they saw six half-naked Indians rise from around the edge of the raft and leap upon it. But they were now beyond rifle-range, and still fleeing rapidly toward the opposite shore, where a score of mounted warriors were waiting for them. | A groan burst from the father’s lips, and was echoed from the young lover's heart. ‘What shall we do—what can we do, Abe?” asked Clarkson. | “Defend yer camp!” exclaimed the youth, as the crack of a rifle, followed by a savage yell, | was heard to peal out on the west side of the grove: ‘‘come, Clarkson, the red devils are | chargin’ on ‘the camp from the t’other side!” They turned and ran through the grove to the west side, where they found the rest of the men had already taken their posts with cocked rifles, ready to receive a band of mounted Indians that were coming ‘like a whirlwind down to- ward the camp. For a moment a fearful scene was threatened, and was only averted by the savages seeing that the emigrants were ready to receive them: so, whirling their horses abruptly to the left, they galloped away. Just as the savages wheeled their animals, a rifle-shot pealed out, and a red-skin was seen to throw u » hig arms and roll to the earth, The aim of Antelope Abe was unerring. The cowardly red-skins did not attempt to recover their fallen oe peck er body but swept away toward the north, and were soon out of | sight. |* Leaving Keen-knife to watch that side of the grove, Antelope: Abe, followed by several oth- ers, hurried back to the Jake only to see the captive burried ashore, mounted upon a pony and carried away toward the north. ‘*Lost! Lost!” groaned the father, and his words smote like a dagger. “Take it easy, Mr. Clarkson,” said Antelope | Abe; *they’re not likely to harm yer gal, and es long es me and Keen-knife wear our hair over a warm skull, we’ll not give up till she is res- cued. But there is one thing wuss than that. You’re all in imminent danger, and thar’s but | one way that I can see fur ye to escape.” | ** And how is that?” asked Abram | “Ruildaraft and take to the lake,” replied | our hero; ‘‘ there you can guard ag’in’ surprise. the logs in the fort; and if ye say it’s a whack, V’ll show, and he’p ye to build one, that’d make | Noah open his eyes.” 5 | There was not a dissenting voice to the young huntér’s suggestion, and in less than ten min- | utes the little fort was. torn down. Then its | logs were conveyed to the lake, where, under | the supervision of Antelope Abe, the raft quick- | ly took shape. All worked diligently, in silence and sad- | ness, though Antelope Abe noticed that Fred |Hammond seemed inwardly pleased about something, and occasionally caught his eve fixed upon him. By sunset the raft was completed and afloat. It was about twenty feet long and twelve-wide, and was capable of bearing nearly two tons’ burden. The tents were removed from the grove and pitched upon the four corners of the Sahatasltlalsatinn structure. All their goods were taken from the wagons and placed on the | craft. The wagons were then run by hand as | far into the lake as possible, to prevent the say- ages from burning them. Sand was thrown into the center of the raft, on which to build a fire when necessary for cooking purposes. The women and the wounded youth were now assisted aboard the float, when it was an- nounced that all was ready to embark. By means of long pe the cumbersome atform was pushed out into the center of the ake, where it was anchored by means of the same poles. Before the departure of the raft from shore, Antelope Abe had suggested that Keen-knife should remain with the emigrants, on account ran down to the lake-shore, and to his horror he | ammond. | | | of his superior knowledge of water-craft, and | that Roderic should accompany him in his pro-~ posed pursuit of Ida’s captors. The suggestion met with approval, and when the ratt floated off, Roderic and -Antelope Abe watched the float until it safely anchored; then they shouldered their rifles and pushed north- ward over the plain. Keen-knife went around the lake to where Ida’s captors had left their cunningly covered raft, eee: boarding it, ran it over to the large raft, thus destroying all means of any evil-dis- posed savages reaching them, | In their new situation, the emigrants felt less exposed, yet they were far from feeling safe, while the absence of Ida threw a vail of dark- | ness and sadness over each heart. They did not forego the precaution of-guards, notwithstanding their situation. Soafter night had fairly set in, Keen-knife, and Fred Ham- mond were put upon guard. Keen-knife would much rather have stood guard alone, for he was not only obliged to watch out for the Indians, but to watch Fred, | also. : By midnight the emigrants were in bed, try- ing to get the sleep and rest that their worn bodies and troubled minds so much needed. Just before the moon came up, Keen-knife crept to the opposite end of the raft where Fred was on guard, and to his surprise found him sound asleep. He did not waken him, for he felt only too glad that he was asleep, and took the whole re- sponsibility of watch upon himself. But, Fred was not asleep, and scarcely had the Indian turned his back upon him, than he arose and began to divest himself of his clothing. , Keen-knife walked back to his end of the raft, and while there his attention was.attract- ed by that mysterious hand of fire, which had so elicited the wonder and surprise of Autelope Abe and Roderic before. The hand.was on the west shore of the lake, pointing, and at the same time floating northward, apparently ten feet above the sur- face of the plain. It remained several minutes within sight, but when it finally faded away, the Indian walked | back to the further end -of the raft, and to his surprise, found that Fred was gone! His clothes and-rifle were lying on the deck, which convinced the Indian that-he had taken to the water. But, why had he done so? What had induced him to leave the raft in such a silent manner? Was it a good or evil motive? The Indian shook his, head ominously, and ‘continued his watch. He was silent for a moment; then he sudden! started up, and with his eyes glowing like balls of fire, his emotions found expression in the mut- tered words: ‘*Me know now who he is! Me seen him he- Ugh! White Fox, the great Sioux chief, | fore! D not dead yit!” It'll take but a leetle while to build a raft outen | CHAPTER IX. : A MYSTERY. THE night was beautiful! The air was warm and filled with the delicious fragrance of budding flowers. The moon was up, and its mellow ra- diance fell like a curtain of ethereal lace-work over the forest and river—the Checaque river, which seemed a mere thread of silver, coursing | its way eastward through the great belt of tim- | ber bordering its shores. Not a sound could be heard save the light rip- | ple of the water chafing the shore, as it circled | outward in little waves from the prow of a tiny | canoe that was drifting down the river at the will of the current. - There was an occupant in the little craft, and | she sat in the attitude of one watching and lis- | tening intently. It was Myrtle—the vision that | had appeared to Roderic Clarkson on the prai- | rie, the night he stood guard over the camp— the same before whom Fred Hammond fled with terror. As she. continued to drift slowly down the river, she arose to her feet and steadied herself by means of the rifle of which she was possessed. 1¢ moonbeams streaming full upon her made her rer a queen of wild beauty. Her hair was gathered back and permitted to flow in golden ripples down her back. Her head was surmounted with a little red cap ornament- ed with a single white plume which was fastened over the crown, and its end falling down be- hind, lay like a snow-flake upon her luxuriant hair. er frock, which reached knees, was of some dark-green material, and fit- ted her form neatly, being confined to the waist by means of a beautiful belt of just to her~
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10 Tf to Roderic she appeared a girl of gentile, child-like loveliness, she now appeared more like the vision of a dream than of stern reali- ty. For several minutes she maintained her up- right position in the little craft, gazing around her like the shy gazelle, with every faculty on the alert. Suddenly her sensitive ears caught the far-off dip of an oar, but it was so very faint | that she could not determine the direction from whence it came. So she seated herself, and lay- ing aside her rifle, grasped the paddle and lis- tened. A ery escaped her lips, for now the quick plash o sndien fell plainly upon her ears, and rlancing back, she saw a canoe containing three ndians and a white man, coming rapidly to- vard her. The white man was the outlaw, Tim Bodsford! ‘‘Ha! ha!” laughed Myrtle, “they are after | me again!” She plied the paddle with all her strength, and sent the tiny craft fairly skimming. over the water, all the time keeping within the rib- bon of moonlight in the center of the stream. The current was in her favor, but this advan- tage was also possessed by the enemy, who no sooner discovered her alarm than they bent to their paddles with renewed exertions. Myrtle being about forty rods in advance, might have eluded them by taking to_the shore. The banks were stcep, rugged and wooded, and afforded many places of concealment among | their shadowy nooks, but she passed on. From the manner in which she labored at the paddle, and the hopeful glances she cast ahead, it was evident that she hoped to escape by distancing her pursuers on the water. It was an exciting chase—those four savages pursuing that wild-eyed, beautiful and mysteri- ous girl! But, after the race had continued for several minutes it became evident that the strength of the fair fugitive was failing. This she saw herself, but uttering no word of fear, she pressed onward. Suddenly, however, she was startled by see- ing a canoe shoot out from the shadows of the right bank into the middle of the stream, then turn and move directly toward her. Its occu- pant was an Indian, and it was quite evident that he was there to head her off from her hoped- for point of safety. A firm light of determination flashed in the maiden’s eyes, and dropping the paddle, she seized her rifle, and taking aim at the savage, fired. As the report of the rifle rung out, the savage was seen to leap wildly upward, and, with a wail of agony, fall back into the canoe, which at once began drifting away. Myrtle again seated herself and seized the paddle, though the delay just occasioned gave the four pursuers several rods the advantage. But she pressed on, and soon came up with the drifting canoe “of the savage. She cast a hasty glance into it, and saw the motionless form lying there, and with a shudder, turn- ed her eyes away. But scarcely had the stern of the canoe passed the ee of the red-skin’s craft, when the supposec arose to his feet, and leaping quickly forward, Janded in Myrtie’s canoe! fe bent forward, and was in the act of seizing her, »vhen a sy a like a sharp clap of thunder, burst over their heads, and, with a wild scream, the Indian stag- gered, and, with the hot blood spurting from a wound in his naked breast, fell overboard, dead. This second delay brought the pursuers within a few rods of the fugitive, but she pressed on- ward a few paces further, then, quicker . than thought almost, she turned her canoe and shot it shoreward under the shadow of a high, pro- jecting rock, and was lost to view. The savages followed on, certain of her cap- ture, but now, to their disappointment, she was nowhere to be found. She had vanished, as if be- neath the very waves! The outlaw was provided, as if for that very aig cng with a dark-lantern, whose strong light enow permitted to stream out through the shadows. They saw that there was no possible chance for the girl to have escaped, either up or down the river, after running under the rock, without their seeing her. But, where was she? . She was not under the rock, nor had she left its shadows. ‘© Cuss the luck; she’s vanished again!” growl- ed the outlaw, Bodsford. ‘‘She’s a bein’ not 0’ earth.” “The pale-face speaks seg CM replied one of r the savages, ‘‘for when our friend sprung into her tance, ¥ i Bd id ue ‘ dead savage | Beadle’s Half-Dime Library. from the solid face of the spirit-rock and strike him dead?” “Ugh!” exclaimed the other savages, with superstitious terror; ‘‘ the great Medicine speaks truly.” The vivid glare of the outlaw’s lantern show- ed thatthe rock rose about four feet straight up from the water’s edge, then shot out over the river about ten feet, leaving plenty room for the defeated pursuers to sit erect in their canoe under the gigantic rock: They examined the rock at the side ~nd even overhead, for the mouth cf a cavern wherein the girl might have escaped, but its faces were solid and worn smooth by the friction of high waters, and the relentless hand of time. They beat upon the walls with their toma- hawks, but only ithe clear, solid ring of the | metal was given back. They listened, but all was silent as the grave, save the beating of their own cowardly hearts. They lingered under the rock for nearly an hour, and at last becoming convinced that they were treading upon an enchanted spot, they headed their canoe down the river and sped rapay away. 3ut, scarcely were they out of sight, before | that tiny canoe, with its fair young occupant, shot out from the shadows of that very rock, into the moonlit current, turned and followed down the river in the wake of the outlaw and his Indians. CHAPTER X. A DEFEATED -VILLAIN. ON a small island in the center of the lake, a glowing camp-fire was burning, and although it x “By crash!” he exclaimed, ‘she’s a angel. But, w’ar’s the othern? The scout said thar war two o’ ’em.” ‘“Couldn’t git her,’ responded the Jndian. ‘* White Fox meet us, and—” “White Fox!” exclaimed the outlaw; ‘‘da ye mean to say that White Fox hes turned up agin?” ‘¢- Yes: he come back. He fix to git other white squaw; we promise to meet to-night on prairie—meet White Fox.” “Wal, this beats me blind! White Fox hack and alive! Wal, we come durned nigh cot«:hin’} his gal, Murtle, ter-nite!” ‘How near?” asked the Indian, with a guizzi- cal grin, ‘So nigh that we seen her, an’ got one o’ our Ingins killed.” A boisterous laugh followed this reply. ‘** Does the chief want one o’ the gals?’ Bods- ford asked. “Yes: he want this one,” replied a savage, pointing to the bower. ‘He make her his wife,” This news sent a chill to Ida’s heart—she, to be made the wife of a savage! The red-skins and the outlaw conversed for some time, then followed a general movement. Ida saw them pushing their canoes into the wa- ter, and knew from this that they were about to leave the island. ; Where they would take her to next, she had not the slightest idea, but she was not a little | surprised when she saw the savages all depart was now past midnight, a score of savages were | grouped around it. little bower made of vines and bushes twined around poles set in the shape of a pyramid, all of which must have been brought A veda for that purpose, for the island was simply a low, bar- ren sand-bar. Within the little bower, seated upon a couch of furs and blankets, sat Ida Clarkson, a help- less captive, though she was not bound, had wept till her eyes were red and _ swollen, but, finding that her tears had no effect upon the cruel hearts of her captors—that they only smiled at her weakness and humble petitions to be restored to her friends—she became silent and resigned; yet aspirit of indignation and courage grew continually in her young heart, and more than once she was tempted to try to escape. She | In the background stood a | She was now some twelve miles from her | friends. The long ride from the lake had been very tiresome to her in her sad spirits, and she felt greatly relieved when her captors drew rein upon the banks of the Checaque river, But when she was taken to the island and placed in the little bower erected for her, she felt that | there was little hope of escape. herself with the happy thought that her lover would come to her rescue, she became soméwhat reconciled to her new situation. After she had been in the bower some time, she parted the bushes and peered out upon the group of savages, but their repulsive forms and faces caused, her to turn away with disgust. She looked out on the other side and saw the moonlit waters sweeping wildly around the is!- and, and the dark-green woodland beyond. She then glanced up the stream and discovered a canoe coming down toward the island; Her heart gave a bound of joy, for she thought it But, cheering | from the island, and leave her alone with the renegade, She felt more uneasy now than ever, for she feared the white desperado more than the sav- age red-men. However, all her natural courage had come back to her, and she began to think | about outwitting the villain in some way or other, and of escaping. The savages had left but one canoe, a large, cumbersome craft, that was drawn entirely out of the water onto the island, and whether the outlaw intended to take her away in it at once, or await the return of the Indians, she could not tell, When the Indians were out of sight, the out- law turned, and going, to the bower, looked in. As before, Ida saw him approaching, and feign- ed sleep. When he went away, she watched him closely. He put out the fire by tossing the brands into the river. Still, the moonlight made it almost ligit as day. He now took a blanket from the canoe andywrapped it around him, and then seated himself close up against, the bower, at the same time drawing his revolv er from his belt, and laying it at his right side ready for instant use. Ida observed this, and smiled at the idea it suggested to her. Tho outlaw retained his position by the bow- er for some time, when he finally began nodding, and Ida saw that he was growing drowsy with slumber, Our heroine's courage gained strength. She | began to think of escape more strongly than might contain Antelope Abo and some of her | friends coming to her rescue, never dreaming of the fearful odds which there awaited them. But her hopes were soon blasted, for, as the canoe approached, a yell fromits occupants told that they were Indians. Her captors answered their shout, and in a few moments they had reached the island and landed. Ida heard a voice speaking English among them, and parting the foliage, she again peered out upon the crowd. She saw a white man among the new-comers, but his bearded face was more savage and brutal- looking than the Indians, and she sunk with a shudder when she saw him fix his leering eyes upon the bower, and exclaim: “That bower tells me, Ingins, that ye’ve got the gals.” “One of ’em, only got,” Ida heard an Indian | reply. ** Only one /” exclaimed the outlaw, Tim Bods- ford, for he it was; ‘‘ wal, mus’ have a sicht 0’ her.” Turning, he advanced to the bower, and part- ing the foliage peered in, ‘To conceal his hate- ful face from her eyes, Ida feigned sleep. The desperado gazed admiringly on her for a mo- d not a lightning’s bolt shoot out | ment, then turned away. ever. Buthow? There was a canoe, but it wes so large that it would take the strength of the outlaw himself to launch it. She could ncs swim; so she was defeated thus far in her plans. But she kept her mind actively at work, and. finally she asked herself if the outlaw wasn’t ‘ coward, and what she could accomplish by working upon his fears, Had she been a woman of a more mature mind, she would not have entertained, for a moment, the rash design that she mecitatec'. But the impulsiveness of youth seldom porde: + over and weighs the probabilities of success i such matters, and so Ida carefully pushed kr hand through the bower and possessed herself c} the outlaw’s revolver. She now held the life of the villain in her power, for she was no novice in handling weapon of that kind. But she did not want t commit murder; she would rather remain a captive. Even if she had slain him, she could not have escaped from the island, for she knew she could never launch the canoe. Sie would compel him to launch it for her! With revolver in hand, she glided from the bower. ‘The outlaw heard her and svarted up, gazing around him confusedly; and when his eyes fell upon Ida Clarkson standing a few paces away, with the revolver leveled ‘fc-l at_ his breast, they dilated with abject terror, and his face blanched with deadly fear, “Advance one step and yowre a dead man!” exclaimed Ida, in a slow, firm, and fearless tone, that sounded like the voice of doom to the shrinking miscreant. Tt was fully a minute—during whjch time he kept backing away—before the villain could comprehend his situation and gain breath to | /!
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reak, / exclaiming: *€ See here, my little lassie, two can play—” He did not finish the sentence, for he found that his revolver was gone. The discovery shocked him with terror. “JT have your revolver pointed at your heart,” said Ida. ‘‘ Advance one step and I fire!” “Be careful, little girl,” the fellow gasped, attempting to appear indifferent, ‘‘ that’s a dan- gerous weapon to fool with.” “T know it,” replied Ida, with unflinching courage, ‘‘and I will give you five minutes to do one thing.” ‘ “ Happy to do’t,” the villain said, hoping that by humoring her, he might catch her oif her guard and disarm her; ‘“‘ what will ye have me to do, sissy?” «Launch that canoe!” returned Ida. The villain hesitated. He saw through her whole intention, and cursed himself for his stu- pidity, in letting her get possession of the wea- pon. He had never thought of such a thing— such courage in a young girl. He was a coward at heart, and although he hated to lose the little pases he would rather that, than lose his own e “Will you, or will you not, launch that ca- noe?’ Ida asked, seeing that he hesitated. ‘* Qh, certainly,” he replied, backing toward the canoe, but all the time keeping his eyes fixed upon the dark tube in the maiden’s hand. With a powerful effort the outlaw pushed the canoe into the water, and scarcely had its stern eft the beach, when he made a quick leap and threw himself into it, face downward; and the nas =. - - a > - “ iain) taints an * ee ‘ Ss = me ~” ae ae “ wf a . d : z impetus of the leap, and the force of the water, bi which here swept swiftly around the island, car- : ried the canoe and the outlaw far down the ‘ stream in a second’s time. ; da fired twice at the cunning villain, but his | b body was protected by the thick side of the ca- b noe, and in a few minutes he had drifted beyond S danger of the weapon. 4 “Great heaven!” cried Ida, ‘‘ he has defeated me, after all. How can I get away from this island?! He is gone with the canoe, and will i bring the Indians all back upon me?” ‘ * “Ha! ha! ha!” laughed the villain, raising him- 7 self inthe canoe. “I war a leetle. too sharp fur a 9 ye, missey, and now git erway frum thar, if ye od can, afore I send a pack o’ red-skins to fetch ut ye away.” , . Ida felt like sinking down with despair, but at id this juncture she heard the dip of an oar be- st - hind her, and t’ning she saw a little canoe, ibe with a female occupant, approaching the island. e It was that strange, wild beauty, Myrtle, D In a minute the sharp prow of the little craft touched upon the island, and then its fair young oe occupant said, in a hurried tone: , i “Dear miss, you are in danger! Come; flee t with me!” ; : With a cry of joy, she ran to the edge of the he island, and leaped into the little canoe. aL “Oh, who are you,” she cried, “that has BS come to help me?? ~~ ine ‘‘T am Myrtle, and are you not one of Enoch ACG Clarkson’s daughters?” nS. ,_ Yes; I am Ida Clarkson; but you are a sad ‘stranger, and how do you know that I am oo Enoch Clarkson’s daughter?” by «J merely judged so,” replied Myrtle. ‘“ But inleee I will tell you more if we escape. Hear, the ure, || outlaw is calling for his Indians! We must flee!” r a if Myrtle grasped the paddle, and sent the little eC. 6 craft flying out into the stream, then turned lo: 3 Ba * and moved up its course. had fore J toward the north shore, and in a minute more y. they were landed. Ty olan carne i Give aut your hand, Ida, and let us run,” urless rasped each other’s hand, and with othe earts, darted. away through the. pec Sh aisles, ey had not gone far when a sound fell up- eir ears \deck f edrcages! appearance and an air tone, ‘‘he isa It was the baying of Death-Trail’s blood- | hounds that were upon their track, and now, may God help them! CHAPTER XI. THE FOR IN THE DARK. WE will now follow the adventurous footsteps of Antelope Abe and Roderic Clarkson, After leaving the lake, they pressed rapidly forward on the trail of Ida’s captors; but darkness found them some distance from the timber bordering the Checaque river. The trail was broad and plain. The grass, trodden down by so many hoofed feet, would require some time to straighten up again, and to the practiced eyes of the young hunter, this track was as plain as a road. When the timber was reached, it was far in the night. They were now about five miles from the river, and as there was no moon yet they found more difficulty in following the trail through the forest-shadows. No time, however, was to be lost, so they pressed on in silence, as fast as possible; put they soon found that un- 7 a obstacles were likely to beset their path. Antelope Abe had caught the outlines of a shadowy form flitting from tree to tree before them; and he knew at once the savages had an- ticipated pursuit, and were ambushing their trail. After they had journeyed a short distance in- to the woods, Antelope Abe suddenly halted and said: “We're goin’ to have trouble, Roderic. Thar’s Ingins layin’ along this trail; and we’ve got to wait for daylight, or leave the trail and foller the red-skins at random.” { “Do that which you think the safest and most expedient,” said Roderic; “ anything so we res- cue poor little Ida.” ‘Well, let’s make a wide detour from this point, and strike the trail half a mile further north. Then by repeatin’ the detowr, we can keep the course o’ the trail without follerin’ “Tead the way, and I’m with you,” replied Roderic. ‘ -Antelope Abe struck to the right and moved quickly away, followed by his companion. Halt an hour’s journeying brought them back to the trail again, and here they stopped to lis- ten. To the north of them a few paces, they heard backsavage voices quite distinctly, and ia ages into the shadows, they awaited the approach of the party. But they soon discovered that the savages had either encamped, or made a tem- porary halt, and, thinking it might be the party they were pursuing, our two friends concluded to reconnoiter their situation; so, creeping si- lently forward, they soon found themselves on the edge of a moonlit glade, in which they dis- covered a score of mounted savages sitting and reclining eeag: Oh jute their beasts, talking and laughing in a boisterous manner. But Ida was not among them, and our friends thought it more than probable that they had been follow- ing the wrong party. F Antelope Abe soon learned from their con- versation that they were waiting for their chief, and turning to Roderic, he whispered: “They’re waitin’ fur their chief, White Fox, I hear ’emi say, Roderic; and that’s durned curi- ous, too, for White Fox was reported killed *bout six month’s agone, At least, he disap- peared, and I hain’t heard o’ him till this min ute. 3: . “Been away on a mischief-making ‘spree, I suppose,” said Roderic; ‘‘but have they said anything of a captive?” ‘Nothin’ yit; p’r’aps they will—listen! Hark! Thar comes their chief.” . The clatter of hoofs were heard approaching from the south, and in a few moments more, three Indians rode into the opening on panting a aE One of them was the chief, ell gr eeted their arrival, and the name, White Fox, was shouted from every mouth, as the warriors spurred their ponies around him. He (the chief) was a Indian, gaudily be- in flashy ornaments and jeweled gar- ments of a fantastic pattern. A rich head-dress of red and white feathers, and small silver stars glittering in the crimson peg rave him a ignity. orm was erect and commanding, and his face, although bedaubed with paint, was decidedly handsome for an Indian’s. “By Jove!” exclaimed Roderic, in an under- fine fellow.” “Yas, he’s a remarkable & Abe, the Boy Guide, .| deuce he’s been,” chief—cruel as hand- 11 For some time we've been rejoicin’ over I’d like to know whar the some. his supposed death. “Wark!” exclaimed Roderic, ‘he is speak- 4 ing!” The Indians having become quiet around him, ; the chief exclaimed: 4 ‘‘ Braves of the Sioux, and followers of White Fox,’your chief is very glad to meet you again. You have wondered at his long absence; yor supposed he had gone to the happy hunting: grounds; but he went away secretly on a secret mission, because the great Manitou whispered te: him in the winds and told him to go, and go se- by cretly.’ By Although Roderic did not understand a word he said, only as Antelope Abe interpreted it, he started as though he had been shot, and grasp- ing his companion by the aray, exclaimed: “My God, that voice!” ‘What ’bout it?’ asked Abe. . “Tf it wasn’t for his being an Indian, I would a swear it was Fred Hammonds voice |” Abe made no reply, but enjoined silence, in hopes of catching the rest of the chief’s remarks. In this he was disappointed ; for the conversa— tion was now carried on in anundertone,andim | a moment the whole party turned and proceed ie ed northward. : Our friends followed, but soon discovered that they were being followed, also, and were com— ay pelled to drop from the, trail of the chief and his. i party. But the shadows that were doggin a their footsteps now vanished. This vexed a. Abe, for, in his anxiety to rescue his little sweet- heart, he had grown sorely impatient. But cau- tion and prudence were predominant traits in a the character of the young borderman, and so a Sig yee he resulved to know what it was that was fol- ya lowing them. en “Roderic,” he said, ‘jist wait right here a | 4 minit, and Pll reconnoiter our situation inthe "| rear, ar’s Ingins about, and they’re bound. “Ae to give us trubble.” ve Antelope Abe moved away with such secrecy that to Roderic he seemed to float off on the air. A deep and painful silence now ensued. The minutes stole by on leaden feet. An hour had passed. Roderic began to chafe in spirit at = Abe’s protracted absence. He could not. think 1 Se any danger had befallen him, for he had not = heard a sound of any kind since he had left. But with the impatience of an unskilled border-> man, he finally moved from his covert and ut- A€ i: tered a low whistle which he hoped would be Be. the means of recalling hisfriend. But several ar minutes more and Abe did not come, so he ventured to whistle a little louder. { Simultaneous with the sound, something came. heap 2 through the foliage and striking Rode- ric on the arm, almost mg kr his whole body. A low ery escaped his lips when he discovered that he had been severely wounded by a barbed arrow. . Hearing eg approaching, he turned and glided away, but he at once became aware that _ he was being pursued. ; With the blood trickling from his wound, and a sharp pain thrifling: every nerve, he exerted _ himself to his utmost, and ran on and on, But at last, overcome with exhaustion and weak — from loss of blood, he sunk fainting tothe earth! The moon had just risen when Antelope Abe . — —after an hour's absence— came back to where __ he had left Roderic, but was not a little sur-_ Pek prised to find that he was gone. ‘‘Humph!” ejaculated the young hunter, “‘ tired waitin’ for me, and followed on af White Fox, I reckon.” ‘> However, he waited, and then searched, but ~ all in vain. He wastooprudent tocall him, but the re Nair na that he had grown gy wry and moved on after White Fox gained favor in his mind, and so he at once set off in the same di- | rection. : y i eo An hour’s walk brought him to the river-bank, but he saw nothing of Roderic, White Fox and Le pp on reaching the river, he found, had turned down-stream with the intention, proba- ply, of crossing at a ford some distance below. — Antelope Abe paused on the river-bank to po der over his misfortune in getting’ separated |— from Roderic. Just before him la oe little — island was ¢ over and inqui conical structure. st ia ‘Without spending time in searching for
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ae 56. noe, he constructed a raft of driftwood in a few minutes, and then proceeded to the island. He first examined the bower. He saw that it had been recently erected, and within it he found a couch of blankets and skins, Why they had been left there he could not tell. On the island he saw innumerable moccasin- tracks, and among them he discovered the im- print of a small shoe, which left not a single doubt in his mind but Ida had been a prisoner there, and had not long been gone. While pondering over the situation, the yells of Indians, mingled with the baying of hounds, fell upon his ears. CHAPTER XII. AN ANGEL OF MERCY. Tue terror of Ida Clarkson and the wild beauty, Myrtle, when they found that they were being pursued by two kinds of blood- hounds, can better be imagined than described. Their hearts almost ceased to beat, and although they were running swiftly, it seemed as_ though a terrible weight clung to their feet, and an un- | seen obstacle obstructed their way. Death-Trail was a brother of the outlaw, Tim Bodsford, and he had rendered himself as ter- rible as his name implied, by means of his blood-hounds, from which no fugitive had ever escaped, either being torn to pieces or trailed to his or her covert. For some time these outlaw brothers had followed the nefarious work of stealing women and children from the emi- grants and settlers, and selling them to the ‘chiefs of the different. Indian tribes, or hold- ing them for ransom, and yet never had been caught. The fugitives ran on arid soon entered a beat- en deer-path leading from the river back into the forest. This they were enabled to follow with greater speed and ease, but it gave an equal advantaye ‘to the pursuers. da still retained the outlaw’s revolver and Myrtle her rifle, but these would avail them little if overtaken. After entering the deer-path, Myrtle took the ead, and while they were flitting from shadow to shadow, and through thicket and. glade, she suddenly stopped with a low cry of sudden alarm. ‘“Oh, mercy, look there, Ida!” Ida looked as directed, and saw a large black sast seated on its haunches in a little moonlit glade before them directly in their path. “Oh, dear! what is it, Myrtle?’ Ida asked. “A bear,” replied Myrtle, ‘‘and I’m going to shoot it. It might be the means of saving our lives.” As she concluled, the wild beauty raised. her rifle and fired. But, her arms were nervous and trembling with excitement and exhaustion, and her aim. was untrue. The bullet only #vounded the bear, who, with a roar of pain, arose tc his feet and went lumbering toward the itives. Vith a cry of terror, the girls turned and fled intc the woods, and the bear following along the path a short distance was about to turn out after them, when the hounds of the outlaws were heard on the trail, and in a few moments bear and dogs were engaged in a fierce combat. “Oh, Ida! isn’t that fortunate for us?” ex- claimed Myrtle, when some distance to the right of the path. There was no response, and Myrtle be pee the question, but not until this moment did she notice that Ida was not present! She listened, and to x horror she heard a scream, which she knew to be Ida’s, peal out above the noise of the struggling bear and hounds Then she knew that, in fleeing from the bear, they must have become separated when they turned from the path, and poor Ida had been captured again. Nc time was to be lost, so Myrtle hurried *back toward the river, and when she reached its banks, she was almost exhausted. She found her canoe where they had deserted it, and, hastily embarking, she soon put the river be- tween her and the savages. On the south side of the river, about a mile above the little island where Ida was confined; she ran hét canoe into a little cove where the drooping willows and foliage of the trees on the bank would almost defy detection even in daylight, There.she decided to remain con- achat until she had rested her almost exhausted body. ~ At this juncture she was sure she heard a as of human agony coming from out in e woods. But as it was not repeated, she con- cluded it was an echo from her own heart, and relapsed into thought again. Beadle’s Half-Dim | faculty on the alert, moved The minutes stole by—even lengthened into hours, and ere Myrtle was scarcely aware of it, it was daylight—the sun was shining over the forest and river, and the woods were vocal with | the songs of birds. Arousing from her mental stupor, Myrtle gazed around her with an air of precaution that is born of backwoods life and danger. Having thus interrogated her situation, she glanced up- ward through the foliage and saw a number of | buzzards sailing, above the tree-tops a short dis- tance south of her. She knew at once that they were attracted there by something dead or wounded. And somehow or other, that groan which she thought she heard in the night, in- stantly became associated with the presence of the birds. Probably a human being, either dead or wounded, lay in the woods not far away, and she resolved to investigate the mat- ter at once. With her rifle resting in the hollow of her left arm, she stepped from her canoe, and with every away through the woods. She had traveled some forty rods when she stopped in a little opening to watch the buz- zards. Some of them were sailing in the air al- most directly over her, while others were perch- ed in the tog of a tree a few rods south of her, their keen eyes fixed on a little thicket of un- dergrowth directly beneath them, For a moment she stood undecided whether to advance or not; then she stole noiselessly for- | ward. zards arose from their perch and soared away, At the edge of the thicket the maiden stopped and listened, but all was silence. Parting the bushes she moved forward a few paces and again stopped. Her form became motionless and her eyes fixed like one entranced as they fell up- on the prostrate form of a white.man lying in the thicket before her. He was not dead, but aslecp; this she saw at a, glance. His left arm was bare and bloody, showing a deep wound upon it. The face seemed familiar to Myrtle, although it was pale and wore an expression of great pain. A low ery of surprise and. sorrow escaped her lips when ‘she recognized the face as that of Roderic Clarkson! She saw that he had_ been wounded, and was suffering great pain, and that a delirious fever had set in. She stole softly forward, and bending over the sleeper, was in the act of awakening him, when she saw his lips open, and heard him mut- ter: ‘Oh! Heaven! am I to die. here?—with this fever burning me up? Oh, if she would come; come to me and give me a cupeof water, water, water!” ** Roderic! Roderic!” ‘rouse up; [ am—” Roderic started from his delirious sleep, and rising to a sitting posture, gazed wildly up into the face of the vision of his troubled dream. “Ts it reality?” the wounded youth exclaim- ed, ‘is it possible that it isdaylight/ I dreamed that I called for you, and here youare! Where am I? Where is Antelope Abe?’ ‘*T know not,” replied Myrtle, ‘“‘ but you are wounded and suffering.” “T am burning up with fever and pain. Oh, Myrtle! is there no water near?” *« The river is not far away. I will bring you some water in your hat,” ‘*¥ can walk, Myrtle; I will go to the river..” With the assistance of Myrtle, Roderic arose to his feet, and, after several minutes’ slow walk- ing, they came to the river. [yrtle formed a cup of a broad-leafed plant, and .gave the wounded youth water to drink, It quenched the internal fever at once, and then with the assiStance of the gentle girl, he washéd and dressed his wound, which had become great- ly swollen and inflamed, While thus engaged, Roderic related the dis- aster that had brought him there, how he had become separated from Antelope Abe, how he head been wounded and then fled from his un- known enemy until he fell’ from exhaustion. Myrtle did not tell him of her meeting and subsequent separation with Ida, for fear the exclaimed Myrtle, news would bring on undue excitement and ag- | gravate his wound. But after he had become somewhat rested and his pain alleviated, she said: ‘We are in danger here, Mr. Clarkson. here, and you must go with me there, for you are unable to go back to the lake alone,” Rodevie expressed the warmest thanks for her kindness, and most joyfully accepted her invi- tation. In a few minute: they were both seated in the | As she approached the thicket, the buz- . CE Library. a My | home is but a few minutes’ travel by water from | | little canoe, and moving slowly and silently up | the river, chatting as though no danger was near. But in the midst of their love-dream the keen eyes of Myrtie discovered a canoe containing | four Indians, in pursuit of them! * We are being pursued, Roderic,” said Myr- | tle, calmly, plying the paddle with all her strength; ‘‘ but a few minutes will place us be- yond all danger.” The savages were yet a considerable distance away, but Bed hr mp a rapidly. Roderic’s wound rendered his arm stiff and usesess, and when he found he was unable to assist the maid- en, he fairly groaned with regret. : The savages gained upon them at every stroke, and were within easy range of the fugitives when the little craft of the latter turned and shot into the shadows of a projecting rock on the north shore. It was the same rock where- under Myrtle had disappeared from the rene- gade and Indians, the night before. In a few minutes the savages’ craft glided un- der the rock after the fugitives, but to their sur- prise and superstitious wonder, the whites were nowhere to be seen. They had vanished, as if swallowed up in the river. They searched for the mouth of a cavern in which they might have escaped, but all was rock —solid rock! iy CHAPTER XIII. THE HUMAN BRUTR. Wuen Ida Clarkson turned to flee from the wounded bear, she became separated from Myr- tle in the darkness. She had turned to the left instead of the right, as Myrtle had done, and be- fore she had noticed the mistake, it was too late to rectify it. Myrtle was gone, and the hounds, with the outlaws and savages at their heels, had come up and attacked the wounded hear, With a low cry of terror Ida fled she knew not whither, to find herself, the next moment, seized by a pair of strong arms. It was then that she uttered the scream which reachcd the ears of Myrtle. ‘“Ye needn't waste yer breath screamin’, mis- sey,” a voice hissed in her ear, which Ida recog- nized as that of Tim Bodsford, the outlaw; “Til take my revolver now, and then take ve back to the island whar ye'll occupy that little bower till mornin’y Ye see, ’m mawster o’ ther situ- ation now, Miss Wildfire.” She was taken back to where the hounds and bear were fighting. The conflict lasted but a few minutes. The bear killed one of the hounds and wounded the other sériously, when the say- ages came to the rescue and slew the forest beast. The parry now began retracing their footsteps toward the river, the outlaw, Death-Trail, curs- ing with impotent rage over the loss of his hound, while his brother Tim was fairly dancing with joy over the recapture of the maiden, The whole party at once embarked in their | canoes, and ina few minutes were back upon the island from whence Ida had escaped. The little bower still remained just as she had left it, with its couch of blankets and buffalo-robes within, | Having tied her hands together, Bodsford led | Ida to the bower, and, pulling the foliage over the door, said: “Go in thar, missey, and when ‘ye steal an- other revolver or come out o’ thar, let me know | it, won’t ye? I perpose to clear a cool thousand dollars out o’ ye, to Mister White Fox, Esq., chief o’ the Sioux.” Sad at heart, [da seated herself upon the couch and burst into tears. It was several minutes be- fore she regained her composure, and then, in changing her position, she suddenly became con- | scious of a slight movement under the couch be- | neath her! Her first impulse was to ery, but the cry was suppressed, “Ida!” was called in a low tone beneath the | blanket’s folds, It was dark as midnight within the bower, but the next momenta human hand touched her own! “Silence, Ida; it is Antelope Abe.” for a moment, she feared its fluttering would be- tray her emotions. Leaning forward, she whis- ered to her lover, who had now uncovered his read: | “Oh, Abe! your life isin imminent perfil! A ) dozen Indians are here, besides two white out- laws.” ant Be careful and cautious, Ida. I will reseuo you or die in the attempt,” replied Abe, uncov- | ering his shoulders and rising upen his elbows, The savages end cutlaws without were busily Tda’s heart seemed to rise into her throat, and, '
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J . engaged in striking a fire and bandaging the wounds of a hound which had escaped the fury of the bear, and whose doleful howls drowned even the voices of the savages. The circumstances under which Antelope Abe | came to be concealed in the bower are these: after visiting the island, as previously recorded, and the bay of the bloodhounds had fallen upon his ears, he hastened ashore and set off to follow the hounds, and when Bodsford recaptured Ida, he heard the villain remark that she should spend the remainder of the night in the bower on the island from which she had just escaped. He would have attempted the maiden’s rescue thenand there, but the darkness prevented him from gaining any knowledge of the situation and number of the savages. So he hastened back to the river, and divesting himself of his outer clothing, and concealing them with his rifie and accouterments, with no weapon but his knife and a small Indian tomahawk, he swam to the island and concealed himself in the bower. Creeping from beneath the couch, Abe pro- ceeded toexamine the situation. Hesaw that the canoes were beached on one side of the island, while the savages were encamped on the other side. The bower stood between, and its shadow covered one of the canoes. After Death-Trail had bandaged his dog’s wounds, the party seated themselves around the fire of driftwood. It was now the hour before dawn. The air was growing damp and chilly; so the savages, who were naked to the waists, took their blankets and threw them, hoodlike, over their heads. Antelope, Abe listened, and heard them talk- ing about the captive and White Fox; and pre- sently he heard Tim Bodsford say: ““T b’lieve Ill take the captive down to the hut and keep her thar till White Fox comes erround. One o’ ye Ingins can go with me, and the others can look out fur persuers, If that cussed Antelope Abe war at the lake, Pll guar’n- tee he’ll be pokin’ his nose erbout arter the gal, and one to two he'll git her, if we hain’t keerful. Durn him, I don’t b’lieve he can be killed.” Abe could not repress a smile at the villain’s remarks, but the outlaw’sintention of taking Ida away would frustrate his plans, and without a doubt endanger his own life. Presently Bodsford arose, and having select- ed the Indian whom he wanted to accompany him, said; ‘*Swift-foot, you bring the gal out and Pil launch the canoe.” The Indian, a small, lithe fellow, with a long red blanket thrown over his head and shoulders, and drawn closely around his face, advanced to the bower for the maiden, while Bodsford pro- ceeded to launch the canoe. There was a general stir among the savages now, and during the hurry and confusion, one of the savages stepped on Death-Trail’s wound- ed dog, which at once set up a fearful howl of pain, that was followed by an outburst of laugh- ter from the savages. 4 t this juncture, and during the confusion, Swift-foot entered the bower. Bodsford half launched the canoe, and, hay- ing seated himself therein, took up the paddle and awaited the coming of Swift-foot with the captive. ; *Durn thé Ingin, what’s keepin’ him?” the outlaw exclaimed, as his red servant did not aes pear on the instant. ‘‘Thunder! the girl could cut his throat, and nobody’d know it for that cussed hound’s bellerin’, Come, Swift-f6ot, drag her erlong—that’s it!” The last words were directed to the indish, | who, with his long blanket still over his heac > and concealing his face and his form to his heels, " emergedfrom the bower, half-dragging the cap- tive at his side. “Right in here, ye little muless!” exclaimed Bodsford, as, in the darkness, he seized Ida and pulled her into the canoe, and forced her to a seat in the bottom of the craft. The renegade, seating himself in the further end of the canoe, said: “‘ Now push her off, Swift-foot, an’ we'll be off afore daylight comes.” > Giving the canoe a shove out in the stream, the Indian leaped in and took his station in the end that now esau tos prow, while Ida lay on the canoe bottom between the two men, Bodsford plied the paddle vigorously. «7 guess yer goin’ now, my little lady,” said the outlaw, when some distance from the island, “ whar dg not git erway soon, unless a thou- sand dollars from White Fox takes ye.” ture, and in the dark- the Indian. the Indian. Then, reach- over the captive, he unceremoni- Ida rose to a sitting nes® somethin “ Ugh!” ejacula ing forw: Antelope Abo, the Boy Guide, } SE ee ee a ane face, as, in plain English, he exclaimed: ‘* One word above a whisper and you're a dead nun, Tim Bodsford !” The blanket was thrown back from the head and face of the supposed Swift-foot; and the young guide, Antelope Abe, stood before the de- feated, qombiomnded outlaw ! The outlaw sat like one transfixed. He pos- sessed no weapon now, for the deft hand of Ida had, under cover of the gloom, taken from the ruffian’s belt his only weapon, a revolver, that, by the motion of paddling, was almost ready to fall from its fastening. Tt was this which she had passed to the supposed Indian. Abe had not anticipated this brave act, and expressed his surprise by a hearty “ Ugh!” Bodsford was now wholly in the power of the young guide. ‘‘T know you're surprised to see me here,” said Abe. ‘ But the fact is, your friend, Swift-foot, is quiet enough in the little bower on the island, where I was concealed. I induced the Indian to change places with me by a blow on the head with a tomahawk. You'd ’a’ heerd the blow if it hadn’t been fur yer brother outlaw’s hound, who set up a very pleasant yellin’. I then took yer friend’s blanket and dressed myself up into it, and herelam:. Now if you want to save your miserable self from bein’ shot, jist take hold 0’ the paddle and turn this canoe to’ard the north shore. And, work lively, or I plug ye assure as my name is Abe.” "he great, burly outlaw saw that there was no alternative but to obey. He knew the youth in whose power he was, and, like a whipped cur, he did as commanded. When the shore was reached, Abe, with Ida’s help, gagged the outlaw, and then removing the paddles from the canoe, sent the villain adrift. ‘“‘There, I hope we're rid o’ that villain fur awhile,” said Antelope Abe, ashe watched the canoe with its burden drifting away down the river. The youth and his fair charge now moved up the river. Soon they came to where he had left his rifle and outer clothing when he swam to the island. , Donning the clothes, he took the Indian’s blanket, which he had worn up to this time, and wrapped it around Ida, for the air was growing chilly. They continued ona short distance further, when, from sounds heard in the distance, they had every reason to believe the outlaw had es- caped from bonds and gag, or else the body of the Indian had been discovered. They moved on up the river a mile or more, then, as a steep and rigged bluff appeared be- fore them, they kept to the right with the inten- tion of passing around the hills. They had not gone far when Antelope Abe dis- covered that they were being followed by a number of Indians, He said nothing to Ida of this startling discoy- ery, for fegr of undue excitement, but turning abruptly to the left, he led her up a narrow de- file between two towering bluffs. The Indians, he knew, had not seen them yet but were trail- ing them by the tracks upon the dew-wet leaves and grass. By taking to the stony defile where no dew fell, he hoped to elude them. As they continued up the gorge it grew so nar- row that they could not walk side by side. Pre- sently, however, this narrow passage ended in a little opening, walled in on all sides by high, perpendicular rocks. There was no escape from this place but by the way they had entered it. In looking about for some other outlet, or place of concealment, Antelope Abe discovered the mouth of a cavern leading straight down into the ground. It was shaped like a funnel, wide at the top and narrowing off as it went down until if was so small that a person larger than Antelope Abe could not pass through it. Be- yond this narrow throat all was darkness, yet Abe believed from its appearance that it wid- ened out again, and for a last resort, in case the Indians tracked them into the gorge, he re- solved to descend into the hole, explore its ad- vantages, if any, as a place of safety. He had no difficulty in passing down the slop- ing, ragged sideseof the opening, and by the sound of small stones that became displaced and rolled down the funnel-throat, he knew there was a bottom to the pit within reach, and by epee the muzzle of his rifle down, he verified fact. Carefully letting himself down, he soon found that he was standing on firm rock, while a cay- ern of unknown dimensions spread out around him. . But all was total darkness within, except- ing a small circle of light around the entrance, and while our hero stood contemplating the strange place, even this bit of light was sud- 13: PA ) : ats | ously thrust a revolver into the ruffian’s very | denly shut off by something appearing in the | narrow funnel-throat above. But it lasted for | only a moment, and to the surprise of the youth, he found it was occasioned by Ida following him intw the cavern, and who now stood at his side. Before he could speak she grasped him by the arm and said; “‘Oh, dear Abe! there is a number of Indians coming up the defile!” Abe was in the act of looking up when a shower of small stones came rattling down the funnel-throat. This was followed by a dull crumbling noise, and a crash like a dull clap of thunder. Every ray of light was excluded trom the passage, and a cloud of dirt and dust sent drifting through the cavern, almost suffocating the two young lovers. Stone after stone was mallee into the mouth of the pit till it was quite illed. When all had become quiet above, our hero attempted to remove the stone from the gel sage, but he could not move it. He tried to push it up, but the weight of the stones on the top held it there like a wedge—as firm as the walls around it. Antelope Abe turned to his fair companion, and in a tone in which there was a tinge of de- spair, exclaimed: Sue “Ida, my darlin’ girl, we’re buried aligy CHAPTER XIV. THE DOUBLE BLOW. . LET us now return to the lake and the be 1 ered emigrants, 2e night, with them, wore slowly away, after Abe’s and Roderic’s departure, and Fr Hammond did not return; but Keen-knife con- tinued his watch until morning, saying nothing to the emigrants of Fred’s disappearance. How- ever, when daylight dawned and Fred was or missing, inquiry was at once made about “He gone. Go off in the night—don’t know where,” replied the Indian, and that was all they could get out of him. But finally Mr. Hammond, taking the Indiar to one side, questioned him closely, and learned that which caused him no little surprise. When he returned to his tent, Mr. Ham- mond found his wife there alone,.and seating himself, said: ‘“Mary, I’m afraid we have been terribly de- ceived in Fred, or else Keen-knife is not just right.” ‘Why so, Abram?’ asked the wife. **The Indian says he has seen Fred among the Sioux Indians in this country, many times prior to the last six months.” “Great mercy!” exclaimed Mrs. Hammond, “can it be possible that, when we sent him away to travel, he came West and leagued him- self with the Indians?” ‘“*T have suspected as much, Mary. But per- haps that little brass-bound trunk of his may give us some light on the matter. You know we've wondered what he kept guarded and locked so closely in it, and would never let & living soul look iside of it.” ‘“‘Abram, I have often thought Tred acted rather curious since he returned home from his two years’ traveling. He always evaded talk- OB bout the country in which he says he trav | e1rea, “Jt must be, Mary, that he has been deceiv- ing us all along, and instead of traveling’in the South, as we supposed, he has been out here among the Indians. Keen-knife says he is a chief, and goes by the name of White Fox. About six months ago, he says White Fox dis appeared, and all supposed him dead.” “Six monthsago!” exclaimed Mrs. Hammond. “That was just about the time Fred came home from his travels.” ‘* Well, there is this about it, Mary, we have done our duty by Fred, as a father and mother, but if he ignores our advice and training, we will have some consolation in knowing that he is not our child by birth.” “True, Abram, he is only a son by adoption, but when we adopted him and promised hi dying mother that we would give him the name of Hammond, and know him only as a son, I knew the blood of the Georges was in his veins, and that no Christian influence could purify it. Still, let us hope, Abram, that Fred is not de- ceiving us, and will return and give a proper explanation of his disappearance. I know he loves Ida Clarkson, and perhaps his regard for her has something to do with his absence.” Mrs. Hammond was sorely grieved by what seemed a base desertion of the’ pes love, They had educated him—given every at~ tention witnin their power, sent him abroad, and lavished unsparingly upon him in the days
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i4 ae ee — of their prosperity. And now, in the moment of their adversity, he had deserted them. He was no relation to them; only a son™by adop- tion. His mother had been a good and pious woman, but his father came of a bad stock, and when the Hammonds adopted him, they had a fear that Fred would inherit the wickedness and bad disposition of his parent. Still, Mr. Hammond entertained a hope that | nll would come right yet. He thought Keen- knife had acted rather strange since Ida Clark- son’s capture, and a suspicion arose in his mind that the Friendly was not just right, and may have dealt foully with Fred during the night. Mr. Clarkson was taken into Abram’s confi- dence, and told all that Keen-knife had said about Fred. Mr. Hammond also spoke of his suspicions of the Indian, and so they resolved to | keep an eye upon his movements. he day wore slowly away. The emigrants watched in high hopes of seeing Antelope Abe and Roderic returning with Ida. But they were doomed to disappointment. Night fell and the looked-for ones came not, Keen-knife could not be induced to quit guard and seek rest and sleep, but took his post on the raft as night-watch, assisted by Tom Ham- mond. Shortly after dark he wrapped his jaguar- skin around him, and, taking fis rifle, he step- ped upon the little raft—which had been instru- | mental in Ida’s capture—and in a moment more | he was moving toward the eastern shore of the lake, ““ What’ are you going ashore for, Keen-knife?” Mr, Wisecncnt ented to the Friendly. “To scout. See if bad Ingins are ’bout,” re- plied Keen-knife, as he plied the pole quite vig- orously. “T tell you, friends, that youth will bear watching,” said Hammond, turning to his friends, And so they all thought. A new. danger seemed gathering around them. Ida, Roderic and Antelope Abe were gone, and there was no telling whether they would ever return. Fred ‘was missing, either through foul or treacherous means. John Hammond was wounded, and now Keen-knife, upon whom they had placed great reliance, was acting very strange. But the Indian had been gone but a few min- utes, when the emigrants became somewhat re- lieved by seeing him coming back, He was standing 6n the raft with his jaguar-skin drawn ce cemnary Ps throat, and plying the pole leisurely. He came alongside of the emigrants’ raft, but he did not move from his own position. It was now quite dark, and seeing he did not move, | | covered by an enemy. ,This entrance over the Mr. Clarkson asked: “Did you see any Indians about, Keen-knife?” | “«No,” returned the Indian, and to Mr, Clark- son his voice sounded a little harsh and strange. The Indian still remained upon the small raft, keeping his eyes fixed upon the emigrants, or oc- easionally glancing uneasily toward the shore. The emigrants kept moving about upon the raft; and finally, wondering why the Indian re- mained upon the little craft, Jennie Clarkson advanced near him, and asked: *‘ Keen-knife, why don’t you come aboard éhis raft?” The Indian made no reply, but, drawing a small lasso from.under his jaguar-skin, threw it forward with such accuracy that its noose fell over the head and shoulders of the maiden, and pinioned her arms to her side. With a quick pull the Indian jerked her upon his own raft and then, seizing the pole, drove his craft rapidly shoreward with the maiden a captive. ennie’s screams aroused her friends, but they dared not fire upon the savage, for he screened his form with that of the maiden. There were no means by which they could ursue the traitorous villain, and the half-dis- leatted father was forced to stand and see his second daughter’ carried away into captivity. CHAPTER XV. THE HIDDEN CAVERN. Tar moment that Myrtle drove their canoe under the pecs rock, where they so mys- teriously disappeared from view of the pursuing savages, Roderic saw a section of the ledge di- rectly over their heads move upward, revealing a round opening, bape e into the projecting rock, which he saw was hollow. By command of Myrtle, he sprung from the canoe, up into the cavern, and was closely fol- lowed by the maiden. The little canoe was then drawn up into the cavern by a third person— the same who had opened the secret door—and the ge closed before the sav came up. As he stood within this secret cavern, and gazed around him, Roderic saw that he and | | Beadle’s Half-Dime Library. | Myrtle were not alone. An aged negro and | negress stood before him. This,” said Myrtle, turning to the negro, a | man of some fifty years, and whose head was white as snow, ‘‘is my friend, protector, and the master of this hidden cavern, Jupiter Keito, and this”—turning to the negress—“* is his wife, Chloe.” “ Lor’ bress ye, Myrtle, child,.who’s ye been findin’ dis time?’ exclaimed the negress. ‘Why, Aunt Chloe, I found this young man, | wounded and almost dead.” ‘“Bress ye’s little heart, you is an angel, | shuab.” Myrtle smiled, and turning to Roderic, said: “T hope you will make yourself at ease here, Mr. Clarkson, if it is possible for you to do so.” ‘Ts this your home, Myrtle?’ asked Roderic. ‘* Yes,” replied the maiden, in a tone of sad- | ness. “Then I will be content to remain here for- | ever, if you are with me,” with a smile. The maiden blushed and hung her head. “Come into de parlor, childrens,” Chloe, ‘‘and sot down. I jis’ knows you’s mos’ awful tired.” They followed the negress into another apart- ment, that was comfortably furnished, in the backwoods view of comfort. There were some rude stools, a table, anda few pots and kettles. returned Roderic, said old | { | the hand of Myrtle. ) Through two or three small rifts in the side | of the rock overhanging the river, the sunshine »oured into the apartment, flooding it with ight. And right here I will say, that from one , compel Myrtle to marry him. of these small windows old Jupiter had fired the | shot which saved Myrtle from the power of the | Indian that had leaped into the canoe the night before, Roderic seated himself and entered into con- versation with Jupiter, while Myrtle, assisted by old Chloe, set to work to prepare herself and | protege some breakfast. The youth found the old darky was possessed of much intelligence, and soon gained an au- thentic history of his past life. It seemed that Jupiter and his wife had been slaves in Kentucky, and had suffered greatly at | | the hands of a heartless master. this master put into old ny ane head to run | An enemy of off, and gave him three hunc cure ah outfit. ment, he shaped his course for the West, where he became a successful hunter and trapper. red dollars to pro- To evade capture and punish- | He had lived some five years in the cavern | where we now find him, and through the me- | chanical precision with which the stone barred the mouth of the retreat, it had never been dis- water, however, the negro had hewn out him- self, through the floor of the cavern, when he first discovered the cave by a passage far back among the bluffs. This passage he blocked up, | and used only when high waters prevented an | | exit through the floor of the cavern over the riven After a sumptuous breakfast of such meats and fruits as the country afforded, Roderic and Myrtle found themselves alone, the old black folks having retired to another apartment. “ How do you like my home, Roderic?” asked Myrtle, with childlike familiarity. ‘Tt has its charms, I must admit; but I know ou were not born and bred here, Myrtle. And can not believe one so young, fair and intelli- gent as you, can be vara ' happy here.” ‘“But, Roderic, it is all the home I have, and these two old colored people are all that I have that care for me.” ‘‘Nay, nay, Myrtle!” exclaimed Roderic. ‘‘J care for you! love you, Myrtle, with all my heart—I loved you from the moment I first met you -on the prairie, near the lake, and it would 92 a joy forever to know that my love was re- turned by you.” ‘* Roderic, it is. I love you,” replied Myrtle, with tearful eyes ee hs lips. ‘* Heaven be thanked! Then you will go with me to the settlement, and become my wife, will you not, dear Myrtle?” “Oh, Roderic! perhaps if you knew some- thing of oy past life, you would not ask me to be your wife.” “Andif I do not object*to your past life, which I know has been one of persecutions, in- nocence and purity; then will you promise to be my wife, some day?” ‘yrtle hung her head and replied in the affirm- ative, and, after a few minutes of silent love communion, she narrated the story of her past life. It was long and sad, and, as incident is crowding us, we will narrate it to the reader in substance. ™ Her parents both died when she was quite | grown to manhood. young, and then she was adopted into the fami- y of her mother’s sister, Martha Bodsford, a widow with two children of her own, both boys , Shortly after her adoption into the Bodsford family, they all moved to the great West. Here the two sons of the widow became leagued with the Indians and notorious outlaws, To the reader they are known as Tim Bods- -ford and Death-Trail. The widow was a kind, Christian mother and tried every means within her power. to in- duce her boys to lead a Christian life, but all in vain. When Myrtle reached the age of eighteen few boys of her years on the border, Antelope Abe excepted, could equal her in wood or wa- tercraft, or in trailing a deer, or in the use of the rifle. 4 One day while hunting in the woods, near the widow’s hut, she met a young man who intro- duced himself as Guy Parkerson, and whom she conducted to the cabin, where he was treated with much hospitable kindness. Guy Parkerson came often after this to the cabin of the Bodsfords, ‘and finally he made known the object of his visits by proposing for His love not being return ed, he was rejected. Through the widow Bodsford, Myrtle subse- quently learned that Guy Parkerson was none other than the renegade chief, White Fox. And after his rejection by Myrtle, he offered the outlaw brothers a small fortune if they would This offer the. “~~ f~* villains accepted, but Myrtle learned of their nefarious bargain and fled into the woods, where she remained concealed for a lorfg time. Her aunt Martha carried her provisions and cloth- ing when her sons were away. But, at last, the outlaws got upon her track, by watching their mother, and the maiden was compelled to flee. In her flight she came across Jupiter Keito, who took her to his hidden home, where she had remained in perfect security ever since. But every few days she left the cavern, and managed to leave for or receive a note from her aunt Martha, by placing a note at an appoint- ed place, which was changed every few days. By this means Myrtle was kept posted as to the movements of White Fox and the outlaw brothers. The latter believed that Antelope Abe had spirited Myrtle away, and swore a terrible ie | te J | vengeance upon him. Time passed on, and finally the report camie that White Fox had mysteriously disappeared, and it was believed he was killed; and so Myrtle had that much less to fear. Still, she would never venture back to the cabin of the Bods- fords, who were now making a business of kid- | napping women from the emigrant trains and selling them tothe Indians. She remained with the black hunter and his wife, and assisted him about his traps, and was company for old Chloe when Jupiter went to the settlement for su we ‘ hen Roderic had listened; to this tale of trials and wrongs, he asked; ““How did you learn, Myrtle, that the fami- lies encamped at the lake were those of Enoch Clarkson and Abram Hammond? You know you mentioned their names the night you warn- ed me of their being in danger.” *T learned the names through aunt Martha. Tim Bodsford had found a paper near a place called the Wolf’s Mouth, and supposed Antelope Abe had Jost it. It was with a Mr. Dorlan to Enoch Clarkson and Abram Hammond and directed to the care of Antelope Abe, whom Mr. Dorlan was sending to guide them to the setile- ment,” When Myrtle had concluded, Roderic took her little brown hand in his, and said: aig “Myrtle, if you have been unfortunate and persecuted, itis a just reason that I should love you all the more, and ask that you place your future life in my care.” | ‘** Roderic,” replied Myrtle, ‘‘we have known ug each other but a short time, and perhaps when a you have had time for reflection, you will 3 chan e your mind.” ry ever, Myrtle! never!” “‘T hope it will prove so, Roderic.” s iat ay my love will never change. Besides, you will be in great danger again here, for White ox has turned up alive, andno doubt as bad as ever. “Yes, I knew he was about, for I met Guy Parkerson the night I first met you.” “Met Guy Purbavnins Wise Fox!” exclaimed Roderic, as a dark suspicion flashed into his mind; ‘‘ where did yout meet him, Myrtle?” ‘‘On guard at your camp, and when he saw me he turned and fled like a coward!”
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—_—_———_ = aaened ————— “Then, by heavens!” cried Roderic, ‘‘Guy Par- kerson, White Fox and Fred Hammond are one and the samé person!” — a by —— CHAPTER XVI. A JOYOUS MEETING, ‘‘¥es, I have suspected as much already,” re- peated Roderic. **Fred Hammond is White Fox.” “Ts he still at the lake?’ inquired Myrtle. “le was there when we left; but I have reason to believe he has left siace. Antelope Abe and I saw White Fox, and when he spoke to his savages I would have’sworn it was Fred’s voice ” “Then I will keep close to the cavern, for he is to be feared. The outlaws know I am about, and only last night pursued me on the river.” ‘** You must go away from here with me, Myrtle, I will not leave without you.” “Tt will be with much regret that I leave old Ju- iter and Chloe. They have beeu so kind to me., erhaps Ican induce them to go to the settlement, i too.” { *5is is a wonderful cavern, Myrtle. Does it ex- tend back into the bluffs?” ‘ “Yos, the hills are honeycombed with caverns. Wouldn’t you like a walk through them, Roderic?” ** Yes, with you, Myrtle,” Roderic returned. Turning. she called Jupiter to show them through the cavern. ees The oid negro procured a lamp and litit. He first conduct d Roderie to the entrance and showed him “the manner of opening it. A huge block of stone, fitting the opening cl ‘sely, was raisedand lowered ; by a lever power, and braced so that no human power could fore is upward from below. From the opening they turned away and started off through the cavern ... They wandered from chamber to chamber, as per- haps did ancient feet in countless ages gone by; and ee they came to where the passage became ow and narrow, ad was finally terminated by the appearance of a large rock before them that was braced with a bar of wood. Jupiter hauded the light to Myrtle, and removing the brace, he applied his massive shoulder to ths rock, which he succeeded in rolling into a niché in the wall. 25 The passage was now opened, and with some diffi- eulty they crept through it and fornd themselves in a spacious chamber with a stalactited dome, fluted walis and grim stalagmites, rising upward from the ground like massive pillars on every side. Just then a low cry, as if from human lips, through the grim old vault. *‘ Golly Caesars!” exclaimed Jupiter, ,‘‘dar’s sum- thin’ in dis eave!” They listened. The quick tread of feet was heard - approaching, and the next moment two figurés emerged from the darkness into the glare of the Jamplight. A cry of wise and joy burst from Roderie’s lips; the two persons before them were Antelope Abe and his sister Ida, ‘Saved, Ida! saved!” cried Abe, as he recognized the group. : “Oh, brother Roderic!” cried Ida, as she sprung forward and clasped her ‘brother about @be neck, ‘it 2s you—you and Myrtle! Oh,tam so glad! We thought that we were buried alive, and that you were dead.” , “‘ How long have you been in here, sister?” “Forty years, Roderic,’ returned Ida. “Am I mot gray-headed?”’ and she laughed and wept with sjoy. “It seems so very, very long.” “We have been here since shortly after sunrise,” ‘said Antelope Abe, and then he narrated’the story ‘of their escape from the island, and their sub- sequen'ly being entrapped in the cavern, which the supposed had no other outlet than the one through which they had entered. ; t once ended ration of the cavern a f adventurers fehoed a hack +a oi s all been recovered— pe Abe's favorite horse. which he had of his adventure at the Wolf’s Mouth. _ Preparations were at ones made for departure. | Myrtle was going with them, and now came the 4) parting with old Jupiter and Chloe, who could not an | Getinaticed to leave their home in the rock overhang- BR the river. Jupiter,” where Iam gone, ' ou . If ever re - eg Mii 5a Ene shall never forget to pray for her.’ and that f romised to comply with h Kreg , then ee ned, and two canoes beneat pin which the party at ~h alge tint southwa Antelope Abe, should meet aunt Martha Bodsford, JENNIE IS_ RESCUED. THERE was great excitement on the raft at Silver Basin over the capture of Jennie Clarkson, The balf-distracted father uttered fearful maledictions against the Indian, and it was all his friends could do to restrain bim from swimming ashore in pursuit of the savage abductor. Nene This act convinced the emizrants that Keen-knife had been instrumental in the capture of Ida and in spiriting Fred Hammond away. While they stood upon the raft pouring censure upon their own heads for permitting themselves to be deceived, they were startled by the crack of a rifle and a savage death-wail on the east shore of the lake. This was followed by a scream which they knew to be Jennie’s. The darkness prevented them from seeing what was going on, Enoch Clarkson groaned in spirit. A silence now ensued, but it was soon broken by the rippling waters chafing the sides of the raft. Every eye was fixed on the surrounding waters, and through the gloom a small raft had suddenly come to view, It was approaching from the eas shore. * Halt!’ cried Clarkson; ‘“ who comes there?” “Tt is I, father—Keen-knife and I.” It was the voice of Jennie, aud her words filled every one on the raft with surprise and astonish- ment, and before they had recovered their com- posure, the little raft came alongside the large one, and Jennie sprung into the arms of her father. ‘““What is the meaning of all this?’ cried the father, as he saw Keen-knife follow Jennie from the small raft. : ‘*Father,” criéd Jennie, “you have wronged Keen-knife again. It-was a bad Indian who captur- edime, Keen-knife rescued me.” ‘* How is that?” the father cried; ‘the Indian was wrapped in Keen-knife’s jaguar-skin.” ‘Yes, f ther; when Keen-knife went ushore, he says.he took off his jaguar-skin and laid it in the grass. The bad Indian must have scen him, and | when Keen-knife went away, he took it, and puttiog it on, came over here to pass himself off as the Friendly. Keen-knife told me this, and I know it is true, father, for it was he who slew the Indian and saved me ”’ , “By heavens!” exclaimed Clarkson, ‘‘I see through it all! I thought the Indian’s voice sounded a little harsh and strange. Butit was an Indian, and the Friendly’s spotted robe, and to me all Indians look alike,and so I was sure it was Keen-knife. But if I mistrust you again, Keen-knife, I hope somebody will shoot me.” een-knife laughed in a low, pleasant manner, and turned away, This explanation made matters somewhat quieter on board the raft. Ard the Indian was perinitted to continue on duty, without being suspected or watched. The night passed quietly away, and just as the sun came up, Keen-knife descried a party of horse- men approaching from the north. Wich the assist- ance cf his spy-glass, Mr. Clarkson was enabled to see that it was Antelope Abe and Roderic, return- ing, with not only his darliag little Ida, but their horses and a strange young female. But Fred Hammond was not among them, Shout upon shout went up from the raft. and was answered back from the approaching party, that soon drew rein on the bank of the lake. The raft was at once poled over to the shore, when a joyqus meeting took place between Ida and her friends. Myrtle was introduced to the company, and when | the part she had taken in the interest of the emi- grants became known, blessings were poured upon her head. And all were pleased when it was an- nounced that she was going to accompany them to the settlement. “Myrtle’s story in regard to Fred Hammond's treachery confirmed that of Keen-knife. Abel mmond then made it openly known that Tred was net his son, and spoke of the secret of the brass-bound trunk. The secret of the hand of fire which had so mystified some of our friends, was ex- plained by Myrtle. It was a signal-board covered | with phosphorus, and used by genes brothers in directing the movements of darkness. - Antelope Abe re drawn from the 1 onthe emigrants to make all haste in conunuing gir saneney. } m os epee ‘ 0 preparations were at once made for leavin Silver Basin, _ - eir allies in the rted that the Indians had with- CHAPTER XVIII. AT LAST. THE sun was dropping slowly westward on its diurnal course, yet it found our little band of emi- grants, under the guidance cf Antelope Abe, several miles from Silver Basin. Their course lay due westward ‘over an unbroken waste of prairie, and along a bigh and level divide from which the plain swept away toward the Che- cage river on the right, and the Des Moines on the t. ; : The keen eyes of the young hunter guide get incessantly over the ie on all sides as he rode forward at the head ng tryin. , Sudderly, however, in the midst of their "sabe | journeying, Antelope Abe whecled his horse about and shouted: he ; : + . Ingins! A score of mounted devils ave comin’ : & bo ae eo: 4} ‘ | down upon us! Prepare to meet’em. Git every cinity of the lake, and urged up-— ; ‘gave him cause to rgret the hour she came to him eS ee ee ee ee ne ee ~ 4 S 15 rifle ieady and we'll give ’em thunder!” The greatest excitement prevailed, but the young guide managed to get the teams secured against a stampede, and every man and woman able’to bandle a rifle was placed in position behind the wagons, ready to receive the Inaians. : As the savages approached, Antelope Abe saw that they were led by the chief, White Fox, but he said nothing of his discovery to the emigrants. Waiting until the yelling demons had come with- - close range, the young guide gave the order to fire. Nearly a dozen rifles cracked as one, and half a dozen Indian ponies were made riderless. White Fox was among the fallen. Wita a yell of dismay, the 1emaining savages wheeled their animals and fled. Antelope Abe and Keen-knife went to see about the fallen, and in a few minutes returned. bearing be ween them the form of White Fox. They laid him upon a blanket near the wagons, and then An- telope Abe said: - = ‘hat is White Fox, the Sioux chief, and he is yin. “Yes,” responded the chief, ‘Tam White Fox— better known to you all as Fred Hammond,” ‘Great Heaven! Fred, is this true?” cried Abram al garn dropping on bis knees by the prostrate orm, - ‘Yes, father, itis. I have deceived you. Tam an outlaw anda renegade chief, but lam about—nay, I hare received the penalty of my crime. I am dy- ing. I: wasnot the intention to harm any of you. We werely intended to carry off the girls. We hoped to surprise you, and thus avoid bloodshed on either side, The two years I was away from home I spent rae mostly among the Indians, and became a noted chief. I would never bave rejoined them but for one thing. I loved Ida Clarkson, and my love was rejected. [had a rival, and attempting to slay him, Ishot John Hammond through mistake.” A cry of surprise burst frorh every lip. “In'a moment of jealous rage,’ eontinued the dying man, ‘I resolved to rejoin the Incians, carry Ida away, and compel her to be my wife. 1 essayed to place the camp in the pcwer of the Incians who Were already besieging it. The night I left the camp, I went to meet the savages. It was then that I arranged for the capture cf the camp, though I gave orders, as_their chief, that none of you should be slain or retained in captivity, excepting Jennie and Ida. Three blazing arrows shot M4 into the air were to be the signal for the attack, but I was watched by some one and defeated in giving the signal. kam certain it was Antelope Abe And TI know that the little brass-bound trunk of mine has caused you te wonder many times what its contents were. itcontained the disguise which J n w have n. “This is all my story. Ask all whom I have wronged to forgive me, if they can. Isee many persons sianding around me, but. they are so far away. and itis growing so dark, that I cannot dis- tinzuish their faces, and—” j Here his voice fell into an inecherent muttering, which lasted several minutes; then he fell into a deep slumber, from which be never awoke. ' A grave was hollowed out on the plain, and the body, wrapped in a blanket, was placed in it and covered from the view of the world forever. Th train now moved on, and after two days’ traveling, reached their destination without further trouble from the Indians. And herea new life began to the characters of our story, and I have but little more to add. : Mr. Clarkson offered to pay Antelope Abe for his invaluable services as guide, but he refused it, say- ng: *"'Thar's but one thing I ask in lieu of my services, Mr. Clarkson, and that is the hand of your daughter Ida.” : . Enoch Clarkson was startled with surprise. Fora — moment he seemed dumfounded; then, as a smile avcpt over his face, he said: : * Well, well, young man, you surprise me. You > have asked for the brightest treasure I possess. But = you are worthy of any woman’s love, and if you and Ida can make it all right, why-+-why, take her, and may God bless you both. , Some three years later, the marriage of Abram Smollet, or Antelope Abe, and Ida Clarkson was consummated at the house of the bride’s father. At that time John Hammond énd Jenny Clarkson, and Roderic and Myrtle had‘been married over a ear. 4. MA F Antelope Abe finally became a pepularn man—as he had been a boy—in the great West, and Lis bright little Ida made hini a dutiful wife and gentle mother, Keen-knife remained with his boyhood friend, and grew old in the seryice of the whites. Sie. Myrtlc made Roderic a noble wife, and she never _ on the prairie near the lake, “like the vision of a ream.” | b She never heard more of the outlaw brothers and their poor old mother. A military post had been established at the papene ct the Raccoon and Des — Moines Rivers, and all the outlaws and robbers were — driven to soma other quarter. ere ied ase Old Jupiter and Chloe, finally tiring of their cay- — ern home, came to the settlement and took up their residence. ice And now, what more need J say? With reluc- © tance, I mu: wid adieu to “ characters whom I have learned to love during the short time we have been together I sincerely hope my readers and ¢ ritable critics have found an erest in the story — | Sufficient to induce them al it to . . | rf : fd THE y oo 7 2 a 7 ia! hy, - yet r i
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Published j Every, vy Esai / 1 Deadwood Dick, the Prince of the Road. 20 Deadwood Dick’s Defiance; or, Double Daggers. | 28 Deadwood Dick in Disguise; or, Buffel» Ben 85 Deadwood Dick in His Castle. 42 Deadwood Dick's Bonanza; or, The Phantom Miner. 49 Deadwood Dick in Danger; or, Omaha Oll. 57 Deadwood Dick's Eagles; or, The Pards of Flood Bar. 78 Deadwood Dick on Deck: or, Calamity 2 ine, the Heroine 77 Deadwood Dick’s Last Acti or, Corduroy Charlie, 100 Deadwood Dick tn Leadville. 104 Deadwood Dick's Device: or, The Double Cross Sign. 109 Deadwood Dick as Detective. 129 Deadwood Dick’s Double: or, The Gorgon’s Gulch Ghost. 188 Deadwood Dick’s liome Hase; or, Blonds Bill. 149 Deadwood Dick's Big Strike; or, A Game of Gold. 156 Pcadwood Dick otf Deadwood: or, The Picked Party. 195 Deadwood Dick’s Prenamy or, The Rivals of the Road. 201 Deadwood Dick’a Ward: or, The Black Hill’s Jezebel. 05 Deadwood Dick’s Doom: or, Calamity Jane’s Adventure, 217 Dendwood Dick’s Dead Decal. 221 Deadwood Dick’sa Death-Plant. 282 Gold-Duat Diek. A Romance of Roughs and Toughs, 268 Deadwood Dick’s Divide; or, The Spirit of Swamp Lake. 268 Deadwood Dick’s Death Trall. 809 Deadwood Dick’« Deals or, The Gold Brick of Oregon. 821 Deadwood Dick’sa Dozen; or, The Fakir of Phantom Flats 847 Deadwood Dick’s Ducata; or, Days in the Diggings. B51 Deadwoed Diek Remtaneee } or, The Terrible Vendetta, £62 Deadwood Dick's Claim, 405 Deadwood Pick in Dead City. 410 Deadwood Dick’s Diamonda, 421 Deadwood Dick in New York} or, A “Cute Case.” 480 Deadwood Dick’« Dust or, The Chained Hand. 448 Deadwood Dick, Jr.; or, The Crimson Crescent Sign, 445 Deadwood Dick, Jr.'s, Defiance. 45% Deadwood Dick, Jr.’a Full Hand, 459 Deadwood Dick, Jr.’s, Big Kound-Up. 405 Deadwood Dick Jr.« Racket at Claim 10, 471 Deadwood Dick, Jr.’ Corral; or, Bozeman Bill. A476 Deadwood Dick, Jr.’«, Dog Detective. 451 Deadwood Dick, Jr., In Deadwood. 491 Deadwood Dick, Jr.’«a, Compact. 496 Deadwood Dick dr.’s, Inheritance, 600 Deadwood Dick, Jr.'s Diggings. 5608 Deadwood Dick, Jr.’a, Deliverance. 515 Dendwood Dick Jr.'s Protegee. 522 Deadwood Dick, Jr.’ "By Three. 629 Veadwood Dic “4 Jdr.’a, Danger Ducka, 534 Deadwood Dick, Jr.’« Death Hunt, 539 Beadwood Dick, Jr., in Texas. 544 Deadwood Dick, Jr., the Wild West Vidoog 549 Deadwooa Dick, Jr., on Ni« Mettle. 5654 Deadwood Dick, Jr., in Gotham, 561 Deadwood Dick, Jr., in Boaton. 567 Deadwood Dick, Jr., in Philadelphia, 572 Deadwood Dick, Jr., in Chicago. 578 Deadwood Dick. Jr.. Afloat. 5S2 Deadwood Dick. vr.. in Denver. 690 Beadwood Dick, Jr.t#, Decree, 595 Deadwood Dick Jr., In Beelzebub’s Basin.) 600 Deadwood Dick, Jr., at Coney Island. 606 Deadwood Dick, drs, Leadville Lay. 612 Deadwood Dick, Jr., in Detroit. 618 Deadwood Dick. Jr. in Clucinnatl, 624 Deadwood Dick, Jr., in Nevada, 680 Deadwood Dick, Jr., tn No Man’s Land, 686 Deadwood Dick, Jr., After the Queer. 642 Deadwood Diek Jr.. in Buffalo. 648 Deadwood Dick, Jr.’s, Chase Acroas the Continent 654 Deadwood Dick, Jr. “ Among the Smugglers. 660 Deadwood Dick, dr.’s, Lnaurance Case. 666 Deadwood Dick, dr., Back in the Mines. 672 Deadwood Dick, dr., tn Durango; or, “ Gathered In.” 678 Deadwood Dick, Jr.’« Discovery; or, Found a Fortune, 684 Deadwood Dick, dr’. Dazzle. 690 Dendwood Dick, Jr.’«, Dollars. 695 Deadwood Dick, J rey at Danger Divide, 700 Deadwood Dick, Jr.’*, Drop. 704 Deadwood Dic Ks Jr., at Jack-Pot. 710 Deadwood Dick Jr., in San_lranciseo. ) 716 Deadwood Dick, Jr« Still Munt. J 722 Deadwood Dick, Jr.’« Dominoes, T28 Deadwood Dick, Jr.’s Disgulae, 784 Deadwood Dick, rs, Double Deal, 740 Deadwood Dick Jr.'s. Deathwatch, T4147 Deadwood Dick, Jr.’*, Voublet. T5z Dead wood Dick, Jr.’*, Deathblow. 758 Deadwood Dick, dr.’s Desperate Strait, 764 Deadwood Diek, Ir.’n, Lone Hand. 770 Deadwood Dick, Jr’« Detleat. Z76 Deadwood Dic > Ir.’ "Hy Resurrection. TS2 Dead wooa Dick. Jr.’s Dark Daya. IST Deadwood Dick Jr., Defled. T92 Deadwood Dick, Jr.'s, Double Device. 797 Deadwood Dick, Ir’.«, Desperate Venture, 802 Deadwood Dick; Jr.’s, Diamond Dice, 807 Deadwood Dick Jr.'s, Royal Flush. 812 Deadwood Dick, Jr.’s Head-off 816 Deadwood Dick, Jr.’ Rival. 822 Deadwood Dick, Jr.’s, Boom. 828 Deadwood Dick, Jr.'s. Scoop. S84 Deadwood Dick, dr.’*, Proxy. $40 Deadwood Dick, Jr’a, Clute 845 DPendwood Dick, Jriv’s, Nigh Iforae. 852 Deadwood Dick Jr., at Devil's Guich. 858 Deadwood Dick, JIr.’a, Reath-Hole Hustle 868 Dendwood Dick, Jr.’ Bormbahell. 870 Deadwood Dick, Jr., in Mexico. 876 Deadwood Dick, Jr’a Decoy Duck. 882 Deadwood Dick, Jr. in Silver Pocket. S91 Deadwood Dick, Jr.’s, Dead-Sure Game, 898 Deadwood Dick, Jr.’ Double Drive. 904 Deadwood Dick, Jr’s, Paneeaeh: 910 Deadwood Dick, Jr., at dl eb sp. 916 Deadwood Diek, Jr.’s Double-Decker. 928 Deadwood Dick, Jr. at Dollaryille. $84 Deadwood Dick, Jr., at Flush Flats. 940 Dendwood Dick, Jr. Bhakerup. 946 Deadwood Dick, Jr.’s, Double Drop. 95 Deadwood Dick, Jr.’s, Right Bower. 957 Deadwood Dick, Jr.’a, Ten-Strike. 965 Deadwood Dick, Jr.’«, Gold-Dust. 971 Deadwood Dick, Jr.’a, Oath, 9TT Deadwood Dick, Jr. Death-Doom. 986 Deadwood Dick, Jr.’s, Best Card, 992 Deadwoot Dick, dr., at Gold Dust. 998 Deadwood Diek, Jr.'s, Big Play. 1005 Deadwood Dick, Ir. Branded. 1014 Dend ©o-d Dick, Je.’s, Dutch Pard. 1014 Deadwood Dick. Jr.s, Big Four. BY T. J. FLANAGAN. 909 Midshipman Dare, the Pirate Catcher. 925 The Voung Cowboy Captain. 9838 Fhe Two Midshipmen; or, The Corsair-Chaser’s First Craise. 949 The Three Lieutenants 959 The Mascot Middy K or, The Four Commanders, 966 Fighting Jack Shubrick. 972 Fighting Jack’s Middles ; or, Dandy Dick’s Dash. 999 Jack Lang, the Privateer Rover, 1014 Middy Ned, tke Runaway. ea sr BY EDWARD L. WHEELER. Other Novels by E. L. Wheeler, Deadwood Dick Novels. 80 Rosebud Rob; or, Nugget Ne ed, the Knight. S4 Rosebad Rob on Hand; or, Idy!, the Girl Miner, 88 Rosebud Rob’s Rea euvanees or, Phe Rosebud Rob’s C hatle nge; or, Cinnar , 277 Denver Doll, the Detective Queen; or, The Yankee s Surround 281 Denver Doll’s Victory; or, Skul! and Crossbones 255 Denver Doll's Decoy ; or, Little Bill’s Bonanza, 296 Denver Doll’s Drift; or. The Road Queen. 868 Yreka Jim, the Gold-esherers or, The Life Lottery, 873 Yreka dim’s Prize; or, The Wolves of Wake-Up. 885 Yreka Jim's Jokers or, The Rivals of Red Nese. 894 Yreka Jim of Yuba Dam, 209 Fritz, the Bound-Boy Detective; or, Dot Leetle Game, 218 Fritz to the Fronts; or, The Ventrilo iquist Hunter 244 Slerra Sam, the Frontier Ferret; or, A Sister’s Devotion, 248 Sierra Sama Secret; or, The Bloody Footprints. 258 Sierra Sam’s Pardy; or, The Ange! ot Big Vista. 2558 Sterra Sam’as Sevens or, The Stolen Bride. 884 Kangaroo Kit; or, The Mysterious Miner. 889 Kangaroo Kit'’s Rac ket; or, The Pride of Played-Out. +4 Death-Face, Detective; or, , Life in New York, 6 Watch-Eye, the Detect ve; or, Arabs and Angels, Lit Git Edged Dick, the Sp-rt Detective 14,5 Oaptain Ferret, the New York Detective, 161 New York Nell, the Boy-Girl Detective. 226 The Arab Detective ¢ or, Snodzer, the Boy Sharp. 291 Turk the Boy Ferret. $25 Kelley, Mickey & Co.,, the Detectives of Philadelphia, 848 Manhattan Mike, the Bowery Detective. 400 Wrinkles, the Night-Watch Detective. 416 High Mat larry, the Base Ball Detective, 426 Sam Slabsldes, the Beggar-Boy Detective. 484 Jim Beak and Pal, Private Detectives. 26 Cloven Iloof, the Buffalo Demon; or, The Border Vultures, 82 Bob Woolf or, The Girl Dead-Shot 45 Old Avalanche; or, Wild Edna, the Girl Brigand, 58 Jim Bludsoe, Jr., the Boy Phenix. 61 Buckhorn Bill; or, The Red Rifle Team 92 Canada Chet ; or, Old’ Anaconda in Sitting Bull’s Camp. 118 Jack Moyle the Young Bnecalat ir. et Bonanza Bill, Miner; or, Madam Mystery, the Forger. 1 1 1 2 » 8 Bossa Bob the King of Baothi lacks, 1 Solid Sam, the Boy Road-Agent; or, The Branded Brows, 7 Nobby Nick of Nevaday or, The Sierras Sc AM ps. 1 ‘rank the Buckskin Bravo; or, Lady Lily’s Love. 6 Apollo Bill, the Trail Tornado; or, Ro wdy Knte. 240 Cyclone Kit, the Young Gladiator; or, The Locked Valley. 278 Jumbo Joe, the Boy Patrol; or. The Rival Heirs. 880 Little Qu!ck-Shot; or, The Dead Face of Daggersville, 858 Firat-Class Fred, the Gent from Gopher. 878 Nabob Neds} or, The Secret of Slab City. BS2 Cool Kit, the King of Kids; or, A Villain’s Vengeance, 488 Santa Fe Sal, the Slasher; or, A Son’s Vengeance 426 Sealakin Sam, the Sparkler; or The Tribunal of Ten. 918 Kit Keith, t e Revenne Spotter. 922 Sol Sharpe, the New York Night-Hawk. 948 Old Hayseed Among Bunco Men. 1001 Banty, the Denver Bootblack. BY J. C. COWDRICK, 490 Broadway Billy, the Bootblack Bravo. Broadway Billy’s Boodle; or, Clearing a Strange Case 6 Broadway Billy’s ‘ Difikilty.” EBT Broadway Billy’s Peath Rac “hae, B79 Broadway Billy’s Surprise Pa rty; 605 Broadway ily; or, The Boy Detective’ wr proba 3 628 Broadway Buiiky’s Dead Acts or, The League of Seven 669 Broadway Billy, Abroad: or, The Bootblack in Frisco. 675 Broadway Billy’s Beats or, Beating San Francisco's Finest, 687 Broadway Billy In Clover. 696 Broadway Billy in Texas; or, The River Rustlers. Broadway Billy's Brand. Kroadway Billy at Santa Fe; or, The Clever Deal. 720 Broadway Billy’s Full Wand: or, The Gamin Detective, 785 Broadway Billy's Business. 788 Broadway Billy’s Curious Case. 758 Broadway Hilly In Denver 762 Broadway Hilly’s Bargain; or, The Three Detective. 769 Broadway Billy, the Retriever Detective. 775 Broadway Billy’s Shadow Chase. 788 Broadway Billy’sa Beagles; or, The Trlo's Quest. 786 Brondway Billy’s Teamy or, The Combine’e Big Pull, 790 Broadway Billy’s Brigade; or, The Dead Alive. 796 Brondway Hilly’s saecr Bequest. 800 Broadway Billy Baffled, 805 Broadway Billy’s Fignal Seoop. 810 Broadway Billy’s Wipe Out. 815 Broadway Biily’s Bank Racket. 821 Broadway Biily’s Bluff. $26 Broudway RKuiily Among Jersey Thugs. 888 Broadway Billy’s Rak 8839 Broadway Billy’« Big Boom. 844 Broadway Biilly’« Big Bulge Bily’s #100,000 Snap. Billy's Blind; or, The Bee tbiack Stowaway. Billy In London. Billy Shadows London Siamsa. S74 Broadway RBilly’s French Game, 880 Broadway Billy and the Bomb-Throwers. 860 Silver-Masek, the Man of Mystery; or, The Golden Keys. 869 Shasta, the Gold King? or, For Seven Years Dead. The Detective’sa Apprentice; or, A Boy Without a Name, 424. Cibuta Jonnj or, Red. Hot Times at Ante Bar, 489 Sandy Sam, the Street Scout. 467 Diaco Dan, the Daisy Dude, 606 Redlight Ralph the Prince of the Road. 524 The Engineer Detective; or, Redlight Ralph’s Resolve 548 Mart, the Night Express Detective. Alr-Line Luke the Young Engineer; or, The Double Case 92 rhe Boy P imtrertius or, Running the Rasc als Out. 615 Fighting Harry the Chief of Chained Cyclone, 640 Rareback. Reth, the Centanr of the Circle. 647 Tynewriter Tilly, the Merchant’s Ward. 659 Moonlight Morgan the‘ Pizenest ’? Man of Ante Bar, S87 Battery Boh. the Dock Detective. 894 Arizona Dick's W ipe-Out. 900 Jumping Jack’ Jubilee. 906 Safety Sam, the Cyele Sport. 912 Train Boy Trist’s pahey Hustle, % 918 The Trump Dock-Bo 924 Big Boot« Bob, the a ire-Laddle. 980 Rustler Ralph. the Roy Spotter. 985 The Ex-Newshoy Detective’s Chum. 941 The Bowling Green Detective’s Drop. 944 Cowboy Charlie’« Double. 947 The Bowery W restler: or, The Butcher-Boy’s Backer, 958 Paddy’s Trump Card; or, Silver Sallie, the Girl Sport, 960 The Broadway Sports or, Fiver Fred’s Clear. Case. 967 81000 Reward; or, The Rival Reporters’ Sleek Scoop, 978 Bantam Billy, the Cerker-Ferret. 978 Plucky Pat, the Street-Roy Detective. 989 Bicycle Bob's Hot Scorch. 997 Rcorener Sam, the Detective on Wheels? 1004 Scorcher Sam’s Sweep-Stake a. 1009 ne Girl Cy clia’s Winning Hand. BY WILLIAM PERRY BROWNE. 956 Brooklyn BRob’« Bulee: or, Dodger Dot’s Diamond Snap. 968 The East-Side Spotter: or, Turning Down the Big Three 974 Old Sant’« Dark Deal: or, Miner por Iron Grip. 1015 The Reporter-Detec:ive’s Big Pull 8 4 z be 8 840 Broadway 856 Broadway 862 Broadway 868 Broadway Sing eae oh BEADLES+HALF-DIME-LIBRARY. 7 Each eee Complete and Sold, at the tag ess m Price Fae ih a Five COnrS, by all Newsdealers BUFFALO BILL NOVELS. BY COL. 1018 Buffalo Bill’ 1028 The Cowboy Clan in Cuba, 1016 The Boy 5 in Cuba, 982 New York Nat’s Dro or, Ex-Ferret Sykes’ Bo 926 New ¥ ork Nat and the Traitor Ferret. 920 New York Nat Trapped. 914 New York Nat's Three of a Kind. 908 New York Nat’s Double. 902 New York Nat’« In Colorado. 896 New York Nat in Gold Nugget Camp. 88Y New York Nat’« Deadly Deal, 888 New York Nat’s Crook-Chase. S77 New York Nat’« Trump Card, STL New York Nat and the Grave Ghouls. 865 New York Nat’s Masked Mascot. 859 New York Nat, the Gamin Detective. 858 Dick Doom’s Kidnapper Kuock-Out. 847 Dick Doom’s Ten Strike. 842 Dick Doom’s Flush Hand, TZ Dick Doom’s Death-Grip; or, The Detective by 77 Dick Doom’s Destiny; or, Thé River Blackleg’s 1 784 Dick Doom; or, Ile Sharps and Sharks of New Yor! 788 Dick Doom in Rostony or, A Man of Many Masaki 798 Dick Doom tn Chicago. 798 Dick Doom In the W sit W eat. 808 Dick Doom’s Clean Sweep; or, Five Links ina 808 Dick Doom’s Death Clue. Dick Doowm’s Diamond Deal. 819 Dick Doom’s Girl Mascot. 82) Dick Doom’s Shadow Hunt. 835 Dick Doom’s Big Hoeul. 74Y Dashing Charlie; or, The Kentucky Tenderfoot’s Ft 756 Dashing Charlic’s Restiny; or, The Renegade’s 760 Dashing Charlie’s Pawnee P ard. 766 Dashing Charlie, the Rescuer, 497 Back Taylor, King of the Cowboys. 787 Buck Taylor, the ¢ he’s Captive. 748 Buck Taylor's Lo or, The Red Ri 560 Pawnee Bil, the Prairie Shadower. 718 Pawnee Bill; or, Carl, the Mad Cowboy. 719 Pawnee BUPs Pledge; or, The Cowboy's Doom, 725 Pa ee Bilks or, Daring Dick. 692 Redfern’« C arious Caset 01, The Rival Sharps. 7 Kedtern at Devil's Kanchj or, The Sharp from 702 Redfern’s High Hand; cr, Blue Jacket. 707 Redfern’s Last Trail: or, The Red Sombrero Ra Anda Fifty Others. ders of the Rig BY LIEUT. A. K, SIMS, 589 Tom-Cat and Pardy; or, The Dead Set at Silver C} 622 Tom-Cat’s Triad; or, The Affair at Tombetcae, 681 Tom Cat’s Terrible Task; or, The Cowboy Det 688 Tom-Cat’s Triumph; or, Bleck Dan’s Great Comb 6416 Captain Cactus, the Chaparral Cock; or, Josh’s Tet 568 The Dandy of Dodge; or, Rustling for Millions. 676 The Silver Sport: or, Josh Peppermint’s Jubilee. BS8 Saffron Sol, the Man With a Shadow 601 Happy Hans, the Dutch Vidocg; or, Hot Timesat Rex 611 Bildad Barnacle, the Detective Hercules. 646 Cowboy Gldy the Cattle Range Detective. 657 Warbling w illam the Mountain Mountebank, 665 Jolly Jeremiah, the Plains Detective, 676 Signal Sam, the Lookout Scout. 689 Rilly, the Gypsy Spyi_or, The Mystery of Two L 699 Rimple St Stim, the Rroncho Buster: or, For big Stakes. 712 The Mesameri«t Sport; or, The Mystified Detecth = 788 Toltec Tom, the Mad Prospector, 745 Kanans Jim, the Cross-Cut Detective. 261 Marmaduke, the Moustanger Detective. 778 The Ruatler_of Rolling Stone. 285 Lone Hand Jee the Committee of One, 801 Kent Kirby, the High-Kicker from Killbuck. RRB The Doctor Dete ctive in Texas 872 Two Showmen Petectives In C ‘olorado, 987 The Texan Firebrand; or, Brazos Billy's Snap. she 961 The Tramp’s Trump-Trick. 3 NEW ISSUES, 1085 Antelope Abe, the Bov Guide. a 1086 Dandy Dick's Double. By Robert R. Int an, ps 1087 The Artist Detective. By Col. P. Ingraham. 1088 Kansas Kings or, The Red Right Hand. By Buffas By Maj §, aie 1089 Mustang Merle, the Boy Ranclier- JUST ISSUED. By Baffato Bill. 1029 The Phantem Spy- By Leon Lewl 1080 The Rancher’s Four Millions. 1081 The Texan Hustlers In Cuba. By Col, P. Ingri 1082 Cowboy Chris, the Man © f Caliber. By Wm. W, Wiehe 1088 You Ret Bob’« Ctireus. By Arizona Cy, 1084 The Gold Witch's Shadower. By Col. P. fa ae A New Issue Every Tuesday. The Half-Dime Library is for sale by all newsdeale — ents per copy, or sent by mail on receipt of six cents each. BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers . 92 William Street, New Yc. o {joe By Oll Coometi