Beadle's Half Dime Library (no. 105) (1879 07 29)
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po a a SS *: DAA Go Hii . re ) ® PI ree AN Tuly 29, 1879. ee od — ~— Rca No. 105. Vol. V. aa, ah Old Rube, THE HUNTER; The Crow Captive. A Tale of the Great Plains, BY CAPTAIN HAMILTON HOLMES, CHAPTER I, OUTWARD BOUND. OnckE more on the pees with the endless sea-plain stretching far away, be- yond the reach of mortal eye. A vast surface, dotted here and there with apy of trees, with nota sign of hu- man habitation to be seen, A strange, beautiful scene, and I loved it. I was born of the woods in the East. I had loved them in_ childhood, when, far up among the New York hills,through the mountain lakes and “‘ John Brown’s Tract,’ Ihad followed the wolf to his lair, and shot bucks onthe sunny slopes; and when it became my fortune to seek leasure upon the limitless plains of the est, in a life of wild adventure, I learn- ed, I said, to love it. Tt was in early summer, when I bade adieu to Leavenworth and struck out upon the plain. I was not insensible to the fact that danger girded me; 20 I went armed, as he should who traverses the Indian country. My horse was the best I could find at Leavenworth. I bought him from an old voyageur, who had been trapping eee the winter, and who was in a hurry to turn all he had into money. It was a noble black, with a lit- tle touch of mustang blood. A strong, straight, arrowy form, with great muscu- lar quarters, small head and wide nos- trils. For arms I carried the best “Sharp” I could find in_St. Louis, to- ther with pistols, and a long hunting- fe. This last was a curious affair. more like a sword than a knife, curved slightly on the edge and very heavy. I had found it of service many a time, up in “John Brown’s Tract; and once when a buck at bay sprung at me, and bore me down upon my knee, T struck him on the neck. The muscles were tense and hard, and the heavy blade seemed half to divide the neck. After that I liked it, and had one made of fine- ly tempered steel, a little larger than the one I then used. I was out for ad- venture, The life of the city palled u on me, and I longed for the free brea’ of the prairie, the loosened rein, and mad gallop—ay, even the combat with the : 2 : “‘ tigers of the desert.” “ ; . y companions were two. They, like TAKING THE KING OF THE HERD. . myself, had taken deep draughts from the overflowing cup of human pleasure, until it In one thing he excelled. He was a bold and fear- Willie was a fair rider, and backed a stout sickened them. Willie Mason rode on my right. | less rider, ant had won Jaurels in the riding-school | which he had bought at’ Leavenworth. Dolf ald Tall and straight, a ve Saul among his fellows, by his efforts at bar and gate. No fence could sto ride nothing but Abdallah, his favorite, and so he had rich and loved, he was the ideal of manly beauty. him when once in the saddle. He seemed to lift | been brought by rail to St. Louis, regardless of our en But his cousin, Rudolf Strong—Dolf we led him— | his horse by the rein, and his light weight made it | treaties that he would not take the chances of losing was a slight, almost effeminate man, with thick, play for the animal. Many a time, at home, I have | the beautiful) creature on the route. But,here he was, long, brown hair, and eyes that grew humid like a | seen him leap his trained horse, Abdallah, over the | strong, full of fire, far out upon the great plain. girl’s, under any sorrow. I do not know what it | garden-gate, and ride him quiet! upon the veranda, Those who know the plain will recognize our situa- was that bound us, great, strong men, to the pale- | to the no small consternation of his sisters and mo- | tion. Far to the west the land was level. But miles faced boy of twenty, who looked to us for counsel | ther. See him now, 7s he sits in his saddle, with his | and miles away, dim and blue, reared up against the and protection as to elder brothers. We were un- | body thrown bac!:war!, and a shortened rein. You | sky, rose the peaks of the Rocky Mountains, for we wise to bring him with us, unused as he was to the | forget that he isso young, in your pride of such | had crossed the Platte, going toward the “ Blsek; tois of the and the camp-life on the plains. | noble horsemanship. Hills.’’ on the route for the buffalo.
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2 a- =e Dolf was in ecstasy. He could be happy forever in the saddle, and the long days we had passed were nothing to him. We had killed small game enough along the route to satisfy hunger, but all were eager fora drive at the monarch of the prairie, the American bison. We were now in the Black Hill country, and therefore moved cautiously. As each aight came we chose some natural fortress on the plain, where bowlders or trees cover- ed us from view. One thing we needed, and that one thing was provided, the sec- ond week out. We had built a camp-fire, and were broiling some prairie-chicken over the blaze, when we were startled by hearing a voice, all at once, singing one of the melodies peculiar to the negro: *“ Deuteronomy’s dead and gone, I hope he’s gone to the kingdom, And when de Lord shafl come dar’ too— Hard times dis side of Jordan! Pull on de clothes line, Haul on de lead line, We're all g’wan to Can-i-ine And den goin’ home.” “Shet up, Jake,” said a gruff voice. * Don’t want ter lose yer sculp, do yer?” Willie stepped out of the covert, and looked for the speakers. There they were within a few feet of the camp, walking their horses leisurely over the grass. The foremost was an unmistakable son of Ham, of the blackest dye. His face was turned toward his companion, who rode at his side. A gaunt, wiry man, in the untanned buckskin common to the hunter and trap- per. He was mounted on a long-legged mustang, whose vicious eye and twitching ears told plainly of an unhappy disposition. At the sight of Willie both pulled up with an “Oh, de Lord!’ from the negro, and a sudden pitching forward of the trapper’s rifle. “ Friend orinimy! speak mighty quick !” cried the mustang’s rider. “Friend,” said Willie, “if you will have it 80.” “How many of yer ?” “ Three,” The man dropped the piece into its origi- nal position, and rode forward, accompanied by the black, whose countenance was dis- figured by a ghastly grin, which, joined with the terrified look which his face had not yet lost, was ludicrous in the extreme. The trapper did not speak unother word, but, corraling his mustang under the shadow of the trees, he came slowly to the fire, cast- ing wistful looks at the savory food, cooking over the flame. Seeing this, -vhen the meal was ready, I invited them to share in the repast. forth his hand, and seizing a chicken, raised it to his mouth, smiling slightly; we pre- pared ours with rather more system, using our knives and hirch-bark plates). The negro was not behind his friend in dispos- ing of his food, and very little was left when each, with a sigh of relief, declared himself satisfied. “Who are yer?” was the first question of the white man. We told him we were sut to hunt buffalo and learn the ways of the prairies. He put his hands on his khnevs, laughing—a dry, bitter, sarcastic , , Old Rube, the Hunter. —_—— SS SE A he es laugh, which did not speak well for his ap- preciation of our purpose. “ Whar’s yer guide ?” “ Haven't any.” “What yer goin’ ter do when ye pass the Black Hills? Blackfeet hev’ yer sculps in about two days.” “ We thought we could get along with- out a guide.” “See yer, stranger, [ve bin on these prairies goin’ on twenty-five y’ar, man an’ boy, an’ I reckon I knows a wrinkle or two *bout it. fust place. Ye’r boys from the towns, ’at EE eee a... With a grunt, he stretched | has taken a fancy to a big hunt. Wal, as ye hey’ done so,’ tain’t fer me ter go ag’inst yer. No, ’tain’t scarcely, but yer don’t know whar yer goin’. The natyves is rav- enous beasts. They goes about like roarin’ lions, seekin’ somebody fer ter sculp. ‘Sides, how is yer goin’ ter find buffler? Yer can’t do it!” We began to look blank. It had, indeed, been a foolhardy move in us, leaving the forts without a guide, Our new friend saw our dismay, and a smile deepened and spread itself over his homely face. The negro sat on the other side of the fire, and looked at his companion across the blaze. Neither spoke for some moments, but puffed away ‘ndustriously at the long sandstone pipes which they had lighted after their feast of fowl. There was a mute question in the eyes of both, and then the white man spoke: “’Tain’t like me ter go back on a wiite ; no, ’tain’t. Yer can’t go up ther’ in the Injin country an’ not be in danger. No, yer can’t. Stands just this way, then: yer want a guide. Wal, I ain’t much use ter myself, ’cept in winter, when I kin take pelts; an’ so, if ye say it, we ’ill go with yer. ’Tain’t no lie fer me to say Tye tramped over every foot of land within two hunder mile of the Black Hills. Know it like a book, I does.” We eagerly accepted his services, and offered to pay him. He grew stiff at once. “ Yer needn’t talk thet way, stranger; I don’t want yer money. What is money to a man thet passes his life on the plains? Cities and towns is nothin’ to me. Some- times I goes ‘o the’r forts, an’ change pelts fer powder an’ ball, an’ then I am back ag’in to the free breath of the plains. I tell yer, folks, I lovesit/ I hey’ fought In- jins on every mile, an’ seen many a one drap before my rifle. Drat the’r skins! I hate’en, fer they hey’ done many a bad thing ter my friends!” “How came you here?’ I ventured to inquire “ Hew came I here® I Jive here, stran- ger. The broad prairie is my home. Years and years I have tramped across’em—I an’ my old mule, Syntax. Yer hain’t looked at thet mule. Well, yer may, an’ ef yer up lerstand good sound mule-flesh, ther’ it | is. She hain’t but one good quality, an’ thet is, she knows me, an’ will go when I tell her to. Yes, she will, consarn her. Yer ain’t no business har’ in the | She will scratch, kick, bite, tear, and other- , wise disfigure yer mortal frame, ef I tell her todoit. Look at thet eye. Thet mule is nigh onto as old as I a, an’ her eye is as bright as it was twenty y’ar ago, drat me ef it ain’t !” “ What do you call her?” “ False Syntax,” was the reply. ‘“ There was a feller in the fort one time when I was ther’, an’ he had one of yer blamed books. Wal, I was a-goin’ round, and he kep’ sayin’ to everybody ’at we didn’t tork rightly ; every one used to tork false syntax. | Says I, ‘stranger, what mought thet be? Says he, ‘T will gev’ yer an example: Ef I war’ to say, you @#% a jackass, ’twouldn’t be right.’ ‘ No,’ says I, ‘’twouldn’t, scarce- ly.’ “* But, ef I war’ to say, you are a jack- ass, that would be right.’ “*Look hyar, stranger,” says I, gettin’ riled, ‘ d’ye mean ter say thet ’er’ book tell yer thet ? “* Yes, says he, ‘ False Syntax.’ “* Take thet, then,’ says I, punchin’ him in the ear, ‘and l’arn better then ter call a gentleman a jackass.’ Yer orter hev’ seen ’im roll. And the cunnel, he stood by, an’ I thought he would bu’st with laughin’. Wal, they kinder tried to smooth it over, an’ make out thet he didn’t mean to call me a jackass ; but it wouldn’t work, nohow. I cottoned to thet name, though, an’ gev’ it to Syntax, there.” “Have you been much alone on the plains ?” asked Dolf. “Yes, youngster, a many y’ar, until I foun’ that grinnin’ critter over thar’, who is dyin’ fer ye to talk to Aim. Can’t cure him of hankerin’ arter the towns, I can’t. He will keep thinkin’ of them, an’ talkin’ of them, an’ runnin’ down the prairies, until I feel like punchin’ him. But the black ras- cal knows I am good-natured, an’ he goes it on the strength of it.” The darky grinned broadly. “You say you found him. What do you mean by that ?” “Tt’s a long story,” replied the hunter, lifting a fresh brand to his pipe, and puffing away vigorously. “A long story, an’ he ain’t hardly wuth it. He wouldn’t be, alone, only for the gal.” “Eh,” said Dolf, sitting up quickly, “ what girl ?” “So that has roused you, master Dolf,” said Willie, laughing. “How quickly he came to a perpendicular position! But, let’s have your story, Mr.—Mr.—” “ Rube!” said the hunter, quickly. “Rube the Hunter, as they call me on the plains.” “ Very well, then, Mr. Rube, we—” “No handles, I tell ye. Plain Rube.” “Rube be it then,” said I; “but let us have thestory. It will serve to while away the evening.” Rube turned his feet to the fire, and, throwing his body back against a tree, com- menced his tale. The trees stood thick about us, throwing great shadows over tran- quil faces, as we smoked placidly, while , Dolf, no smoker, threw himself at length upon the sward, looking up in the face of the hunter, who looked down on him in a sort of grim complacency, while he com menced his story : “Tt were five y’ar back, and # iot of us boys had been out after buffler on the plains, At night we camped near this yer very spot. We were old heads at it, an’ we
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——— oe “a ¥ Pd Old Rube, the Hunter. knowed ’at the Blackfeet an’ Crows some- | times med’ long marches on the war-path, | an’ that chey reckoned one white scalp wur’ wuth a dozen natyves. So we didn’t go to work buildin’ up sech a fire as this, ’at I ought to ha’ put out afore, but jest enough | scalpin’ the dead. to cook a little meat ’thout much smoke. Toward seven in the evenin’ we see’d a party vemin’. ’Twan’t a big one, by no means ; only three men, ’sides Jake, thar’, an three women. They had wagins, and all the traps that settlers carry, an’ I knowed it was some one as had got tired of the great towns, an’ the whirl an’ bustle of the’r life, an’ come out to find a home in the West. We kept still, an’ they passed by ’thout seein’ us. The men looked strong an’ brave, an’ I liked them ata look. Both women was ridin’. One wur a middle-aged one, with a face ’at made me think of the angels one of the Bible men at the fort used to talk about. Her hair was gettin’ gray, but she hed thet look I never seen twice in my time. T’other was ridin’ wito her face away from us, an’ I could not see it; but her long ha’r floated clean down to ther saddle, in thick, black curls. "Tain’t no ways likely she war any thing but harnsum. Jake, thar’, says ’at she were beautiful, aa’ I believe him, though he do tell a many twisters, now an’ then.” The negro made a deprecating gesture, put, unheeding the dumb show, the hunter went on with his story. “ There were another with them, an’ jest as soon as I seen his face, my blood began to bile in my veins. I hed seen the face too often not to know it. It were the face of a red devil from the Crow tribe. He used to hang round the forts, and whenever he got a chauce to guide a party out upon the plains, they never come back without a fight with the Crows. We knowed him, fer he hed been our guide a year before, an’ led us into wn ambush, whar’ two o’ the best boys ’at ever drew a fine bead ona na- tyve went under. The rest of us cut out an’ got away, with jest our hides, an’ no more. We swore ter hey’ Meton’s sculp fer thet, jest as soon as we met him. Two o’ the boys raised the’r rifles, but I stopped ’em. God knows I were wrong. But I thought it best to let him go on, an’ take him off in the mornin’. They went on, an’ camped in the open pluin beyond. We camped down, too, an’ the boys went to sleep, while I took iton myself ter watch. But we hed traimpt fur thet day, an’ I wur nigh about tuoxered out, an’ so 'tain’t no ways wonderful thet I got to dozin’. Not dead asleep, yer see, but in that state half atween sleepin’ aa wakin’, when a man seems out of the world. It mought a’ been twelve o’clock, mayhap, when I were waked by a great yell. I thort the natyves were at us, an’ I sung out ter ther boys ter git up, an’ goin. They jumped'up in a hurry, s’pect- in’ to see the woods lined with the painted reptiles, but, on lookin’ out, we c’u’d see thet all the noise kem’ from the plain. I knew what it werethen. They were at the other camp. “ We tuk our rifles an’ stole down toward ‘em. Yes, they had pitched inter the camp, about a dozen of them, an’ it were over afore we got near. Jest as I expected, the liar of a Crow hed broug)’ his friends down upon them. We c’u’d see them trottin’ round in the camp, robbin’ ther wagins and Thet riled us, an’ seven rifles kem’ up, an’ as many red-skins kem’ down. ‘The other five mounted, an’ put oui upon the plain. It were pesky dark, an’ no manner of use fer us to try to ‘chase them, so we turned our attention to the camp. “ Youngsters, I am an old trapper, a tough old nut, but I tell ye, an’ Lain’t ’shamed on it, thet when I looked at that sight, I cried right out, like a great overgrown baby. Maybe ye'll laugh at me fer it, but it’s true. Thar’ they lay, nearly the hull on ’em, scalp- ed and bloody. Thar’ lay thet woman, the oldest one, whose face I liked so Well, an’ blame me ef she wa’n’t a-smilin’ jest asif they killed her sleepin’. Youngsters, I jest laid down by thet poor critter, an’ layin’ my hand on the cold dead forehead, I swore to haunt her murderer, thet Crow guide, until I hed his sculp, Jake, here, were lying partly under a wagin, an’ we pulled him out ter look at him. He warn’t dead, The toma- hawk warn’t sharp enough to split A¢s skull, no ways. Jake take off yer cap.” The negro ong and showed the bare, white skull. The scalp had been torn from his head, yet he still lived, “ Scalped, by Jupiter,” shouted Willie. “ Yes, sculped. We brought him to, an’ found out all about them. They were imi- grants, goin’ somewhar’ up country to live. Soon’s he begun ter look round, he asked fer Miss Ida. Thet wes what he called her. Soon’s he spoke, it kem’ into my mind thet they hed carried her off. An’ I tell ye, knowin’ as I did the’r ways, I would sooner a’ seen her lying dead at my feet, than ter know she were in the hands of them brutes.” “ Have you kept your oath ?” “Not yit; no. I hain’t done as I said I would as yit. This blamed villain, he is a chief, now, keeps hisself outer my way. He knows jist what I’ve promised to do, and he knows me. Thet’s the reason why he ain’t dead. He is on his guard all the time.” “ How old was this girl when she was taken ?” I asked of Jake. “ Fifteen, masser.” “Then she must be twenty now.” “ Yes, thet she is. I know she is alive, an’ what is more, she is a great medicine among the Crows. They hey’ med’ a pro- phetess of her, an’ it hes saved her from them so fur. Although I do hear that Me- ton hes sed thet she shall be his squaw. An’ he is workin’ every way ter get her. But she hes the men all on her side, and he don’t dare to tech her yit.” Next morning we rose with the light. Rube had been our watcher, and it was he that roused us. An hour was spent in get- ting our breakfast and preparing for the march, and then we were off again. I saw that Dolf was pensive. This was not strange. Toa sensitive mind like his, the thought that a beautiful girl of his own race was a slave in the hands of an Indian tribe, was sad. He rode at my bridle-rein, moodily dreaming, when all at once he broke out: rene ere a2 2 ene eemerene open nneNNE EES ES a 20 a ae a “ Couldn’t we save her, Charlie” “ What are you thinking of, Dolph?” “That girl. It seems too bad that she should be left in the hands of that red fiend.” “Umph! Well, what do you mean te do? Shall we six ride into the Crow na tion, and warn them to give up that girl into otr hands or it will be worse for them? I would like to help her; but really, my boy, as I look at it, it is no use talking about in,” : “] can’t help thinking of 1t; 1 then, wa not sleep last night. I was thinking all the time of her and of that dear old lady whe was killed. I felt like hugging that old fel- low when he told me about his crying over her dead body.” “So did IL He is a brave old Roman, and we were lucky to get him for a guide. There, he is beckoning to us. Ride on.” Rube was some distance in front, and had paused suddenly, and beckoned us on with his hand. We rode quickly up, and saw the eyes of the hunter fixed upon a great cloud of dust rising slowly from the prairie, far to the south-east. “Well ?” said I, inquiringly. it?” “Buffler!” was the laconic response ‘Git ready yer rifles.” “ What fs CHAPTER IL The Buffalo Hunt We had come out upon the plains for sport, and here, before we had dared to hope it, our wishes were gratified. You who have been hunters in your day, whether of large game or small, can im- agine the thrill of delight that passed through every frame at the words spoken by our guide—Buffalo! We could see the cloud of dust rolling up, and knew that they were miles away as yet, so rifles were taken from their cases, and caps fitted te everytube. J use a Sharp’s rifle in the hunt, Nothing can stand before a bullet hurled out by this merciless arm. The hunter carried one as well, and I considered it ne stain upon my taste in arms that he thought it the best. Willie used a Manton. He had a little of the English blood in him, and held in reverence every thing English in regard to arms. We had many a controversy in relation to the weapons, and were eager te try their respective merits upon the monarchs of the prairie. The wind was blowing stroag toward the drove. We were too good at deer-stalking not to know that this would sever do; so we rode hard to get on the flanks of the coming herd. Willie and I went together while Dolf, Jake and Rube took the left The signal to close in was to be a single rifie-shot, from the trapper. We rode with a free rein, and were soce in a little thicket, near which the herd must pass, unless turned from their course in some unforeseen way. Here we halted and prepared for the charge. We could see them now plainly, a thousand huge backs, rising and falling in their unwieldy stride as
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a 4 they came on. Their fierce little eyes | fen: He paused in mid career, a quiver Old Rube, the Hunter, gleamed out from the mass of shaggy hair ran through every fiber of his huge frame, about the huge heads, and my blood warmed | and the giant lay powerless upon the short for the struggle. On they came; and now we could hear | their hoofs pounding upon the prairie turf. We waited in breathless suspense ;—and then, all at once, came the crack of the rifle, and a hoarse shout from the other ‘side. I touched my horse with my heel, and he bounded out into the plain. Hurrah ! The herd have taken the alarm, and the front ones commence crowding back, while the others, stupidly pressing on, hurl their unfortunate leaders forward, sorely against their will. We were now at the work, and, green- horns that we were, each selected the toughest looking buffalo bull he could reach, and let drive. Mine took it, hard and sharp behind the shoulder, and went stagger- ing to his knees, while the one at whom Willie aimed, as luck would have it, went down to rise no more. “What do you think of a Manton now, Charlie, my lad?” laughed Willie. “See that fellow, don’t you ?” “All right, old fellow, you are in luck this time, but Iam going to have that fellow T hit,” I replied. “Go at him,then; I am after another—a cow this time, for they say the hump is the best eating.” My buffalo had risen to his feet and stood with the blood dripping from his shaggy coat. I rode near, and was just about to deliver my fire, when the angry beast made a fierce charge, uttering a bellow of rage and pain. TI let him have a second shot as he came on, and brought him to his knees. The ball struck him fairly in the center of the forehead, and saved me from the mad fury of his charge, although it did him no visible harm. But the charge acomplished one thing more. It separated the bull from his companions, and I rode in between. The hunt had turned away toward the north, and I knew by the frequent cracking of rifles that my comrades were at work. Willie had bagged one already, and from pure shame, I could not leave this hard nut I had undertaken to erack, while I had a shot in my pouch. So I shook loose my reins and plunged forward again; my horse, by this time, as hot and restless as myself. His majesty had enough of it, evidently, for he started off at the heavy, lumbering pace so peculiar to the animal, across the prairie, in the opposite direction to that taken by my friends. His blood dropped at every step from his wounded shoulder ; Fhoped to see him fall at every stride. I Foaded my rifle as I rode, and gave it to him ence more. This time he paused and turned his head toward me, with a look in his eyes I shall never forget. It said, plainly: “ You-have hunted me to the death ; your last bullet has found my life; come not near me yet, or beware.” There was a some- thing truly majestic in the noble animal, as he stood there calmly waiting for his death. I sat in my saddle, and waited for the end. Once or twice his eye turned toward the distant west, and at last he sharged me. I rode away, looking back at prairie grass. I had slain my first buffalo. I sprung to the earth. No need to fasten my horse, for, trained to the life of the prairies by his former owner, he would never wander away from his master. I waa in a transport of delight. I had slain him fairly, and it was the greater joy that he had struggled for his life. I arose and looked at the sky; and then, | for the first time, I realized that I had rid- den out of sight of my friends. I took out | my watch. I remembered that just before | we charged, Willie said it was eight o’clock ; now it was half-past nine. I had been rid- ing an hour or more, at the best speed of my horse. They had been going the other way nearly as long. I was lost on the prairie! Were you ever on the sea in a calm, kind reader, far out of sight of shore? Did you then ever sit upon the deck, while a feeling of utter desolation, of loneliness, stole over you, in spite of all you could do to shake it off? Have you heard the steady moan of the surge upon some desolate shore, when no soul but yourself was near? If you have, you can then have some idea of the feelings of a man in my situation. I looked all about me. Far as the eye could see, an unbroken prairie rolled out before me, dotted here and there with clumps of trees. I listened intently, hoping to hear the rifles of my friends. 1 listened in vain. My horse, as if knowing my situation, and that I needed sympathy, came to me, and laid his head upon my shoulder. I put my arm over the old fellow’s neck, and caressed him. I did not feel somuch alone. “Old fellow,” said I, “we will have to do the best we can for ourselves. Let us see if we can find our friends.” I could not bear to leave any sign of my victory, so dearty bought, behind me. I cut off the tufted end of the buffalo’s tail, and put it in my saddlebags. This done, I left the carcass to the coyotes, and rode back upon the trail. I made up my mind to one thing: that my friends must have missed me before this, and would ride back to the place where we charged, and either | wait for me orride back upon the trail. It | was a broad one enough, for the clotted | gore lay thick upon every leaf, to the spot | where the brave beast fell. I rode rapidly, | with my eyes upon the ground. I do not know what induced me to raise my eyes, but when I did, I saw something that thrill- ed me. Scarcely a mile away, spear-heads glittered in the sun-rays, and a body of In- dians were coming down upon me at full , speed. I was cut off from my friends. There was nothing for it but a ride for | life. There they were, twenty in number, hideously begrimed as only Indians can be, | coming straight toward me, as fast as their | horses could go. I turned my horse’s head the other way, and was off like the wind. Never till then did I know what a marvel, in the shape of horse-flesh, I bestrode. He | seemed to fly. The pace of the swift Indian | horses lessened to a walk, as it seemed to me; and yet they were going at their high- | est speed. I shook my hand at them in de- rision and defiance. I knew them for Black- feet, those Arabs of the prairies, and thought I would teach them a lesson. So I sat steadily in my saddle, until the foremost was within a few hundred yards. Then I turned upon him, and gave him the contents of my rifle. It was along pull, and a good shot. The fellow went rolling to the earth, and his mustang pranced riderless over the prairie. Then I rode away again, and, though they clung persistently to the pur- suit, by noon I had ridden them out of sight. Then I reined in, and took a look at the situation. If I was lost before, I was in a worse condition now, for I had lost the trail utterly. I cursed the Blackfeet for their ill-timed interference. What should I do? 1 could not return to my friends; , did not know the way back to the forts ; ip short, I was in a bad situation. I turned my horse’s head in the direction of the spot where I had struck the buffalo first. Perhaps they were there still; per- haps I could find it. I rode all that after- noon, and at night camped in a thicket. I slept, and was wakened at early dawn by the sound of voices near at hand, speak- ing in the Indian tongue. I crawled stealth- ily to the edge of the thicket, and looked out. A party of Crows, five in number, stood by the side of their horses, looking out upon the prairie. They were bold-look- ing fellows, with heavy, muscular limbs. Soon another person rode out of the lower thicket, and joined them. My heart gave a single throb, and then bowed down before the gloxious vision which presented itself to my eyes. A woman, in the flower of youth and beauty, with great curls sweeping down upon her horse’s back, and the face of an angel! I never doubted for a moment who she was. This was the Ida who had been taken by the Crows five years before, and who was now their prophetess. Ida, for whose rescue Rube had sworn to peril life— itself. Such a woman! More than even Dolf’s exuberant fancy could have painted her, my ideal of womaniy grace and beauty. She was clad in a beautifully wrought kirtle of buckskin, smooth and soft, embroidered here and there with colored beads. A sort of crown of eagle-feathers covered her dark hair, and a beautiful little rifle hung at her saddle-bow. She spoke to the Indians, and they bowed their heads before her, and her voice was like running water, clear and sweet. She spoke in the Indian tongue, and I could not understand her; but she pointed out upon the prairie, and I, looking, saw of what she spoke. On the extreme verge of the horizon glittered a clump of spears, and I knew that my friends of the day before were nearat hand. What could I do better than throw myself on her mercy? These men obeyed her implicitly, and why would they not spare me at her command ? and that such would be her command I had not a doubt. Without a moment’s thought, I stepped from my covert, leading my horse by the bridle. The sudden cry of the men warned her of my presence, and she turned sharply upon me. “Who are you?” she cried, in English. “What do you want here ?” “My name is Charles Westgate,” I replied. “I am out upon the plains for a hunt. In yesterday’s hunt I followed «@
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{ —— buffalo too far, and in endeavoring to find my way back, I fell in with yonder vaga- bonds, who chased me out of my way. I slept in this clump last night, and that ex- plains my presence.” “Then you know who yonder men are ?” “They are Blackfeet.” “They are not Blackfeet, in spite of their paint. They are Crows.” “Then you do not fear them ?” “You are wrong. Sooner would I fall into the hands of the Blackfeet than into theirs.” “You are the prophetess of the Crows, are you not?” “IT was; but I have escaped from them, through fear of their chief, Meton. He is doubtless leader of yonder gang, who are men chosen for their wickedness to be his boon companions, even as these faithful men are his enemies.” “Then you haye escaped ?” “Yes. How did you know I was the Crow prophetess?” she asked. “From an old hunter who knew of your capture, five years ago, and has been trying, ever since, to free you.” mio? y “Why have you not escaped before ?” “ First, because I was watched ; second, why should I escape? Every friend I had in the world was gone, and it was only un- til Meton began to persecute me that I thought of it. Yesterday we came out for a hunt, and I escaped from their hands by the aid of these friends. They are search- ing for us now.” “What will yeu do?” “T have not decided. Let me talk to my friends.” She turned away, and entered into con- versation with the Crows. She had not much time to spend in that way, for the lances were coming up fast. After a little she came to my side. “Do you go with us, sir ?” “What have you decided upon ?” “To ride away at full speed, keeping this ‘ump of trees between us and our enemies. We hope to escape unperceived.” “T am with you,” was my reply. We touche¢ our horses, and they bounded sway across the prairie. Just then one of those unforeseen circumstances, which hap- nen to break every well-arranged plan, dis- poneerted ours; for, coming up from below, we saw a body of Indians equal to those who were following, riding toward us. “More enemies,” cried Ida; “ heavens, ‘we are lost.” “ Back to the thicket ” I shouted; “ it is sur only chance of safety.” We turned and rode back from whence we came. We piled up a breastwork upon the worst defended side, and prepared for the onset. The two parties joined about half a mile from our camp, with whoops of joy. It appeared that they had been separated in chasing me, and had thus met, much to our discomfiture. After a conference of some moments, the chief separated himself from the rest, and came toward us. “That fellow can speak English, I be- lieve,” said I, addressing Ida, “Yes; quite well.” Old Rube, the Hunter. “Then I will go out and talk to him.” He had left his rifle in the hands of his friends, retaining only his tomahawk in his belt. I stepped out in the open space, ap- parently unarmed, but with my heart beat- ing against as pretty a specimen of “ Colt” as was ever seen. I seldom showed it, and I knew that the natives were not aware of its use, as they were then just out. I rode close up to him, and addressed him in the concise dialect affected by the Indian. “What does my krother want?” The Indian spread out his hands, to show that he was unarmed, and then said, in a tone of gentle amity: “Let my white brother listen. Last sun we came out upon the plains to hunt the buffalo. With us came the white prophet- ess, loved by all the tribe of the Crows. While we hunted the buffalo, she was lost. Has my brother seen her ?” “Perhaps she has returned to the wig- wams of the Crows.” “My brother is wrong. She has not re- turned to the wigwams of the Crows. Has my brother seen her ?” “ What if she wishes to leave the wig- wams of the Crows, and go back to her own people ?” “ Tt may not be,” replied Meton, savagely. “She must not go back to the wigwams of her people. She belongs to the Crows.” “Would wy brother force her to go back ?” “Let my brother listen. If he had a fine horse, and it went out among the wolves, would he not follow it, and force it to return to the corral ?” “ She shali not go back unless she wishes it.” “My brother says it; but how will he make his words good? Let him look out upon the plain. He will see there many brave warriors, the bravest of the Crow tribe. If my brother will give up the pro- phetess, let him do so, and then go in peace. If he will not do this, my young men will come, and take his scalp, and take her away.” “Let the young men come,” was my re- ply, for I was getting heated, “and they will find that we are not armed with bul- rushes.” I looked out at the Crows. Most of them were armed with lances, while some half a dozen carried rifles. From the fellows with the lances I had little to feay, except in point of numbers. There were forty of them besides the chief, greasy-looking vaga- bonds, rendered still more hideous by the ghastly paints they daubed over all parts of their bodies. It looked like a hard pull, but my blood was up, and so I defied him. He went back to his men, and I to mine. Ida had unstrapped the little rifle from her saddle, and was quietly looking at the cap. “ You are not going to help »” I cried. “Why not?” she answered. “It is for my sake that all this is done, and why should I not strike for myself?” The rascals were now in motion, wheel- ing in great circles about the clump. I took my rifle in my hand, and stepped out. A brawny savage—not one of those who chased me, by the way—threw up his hands in derision. I drew a fine bead upon him, 5 and gave it to him. He went down as if a bolt from heaven had struck him, and £ returned to the clump, while the savages rode quickly out of range. I loaded and stepped out again. The half-dozen with rifles came up, and let drive at me all together, the balls cutting the leaves from the trees, but effecting no damage 1 life or limb. I took aim at another whe was making himself particularly conspicu- ous, and laid him out by the side of his friend. That sickened them, and they rode once more out of range, and grouped to- gether about a mile from us. They had not succeeded admirably, thus far. Two of their number had fallen, and they were as far from their object as before. The result of their consultation was a muster of courage, and a determination to make a charge. I spoke to my Crow friends. They rose and looked at their rifles, for all of them were well armed. In short, they were the regular body-guard of Ida, and were ready to die in her defense. I looked at them once, and their looks said fight. Indeed, there was little else for them. If they were taken @ horrible death, as renegades and traitors, could only be theirs. We were ready for the charge. It came! With yells which none but an infuriated Indian can give, and which is cal- culated to appall the stoutest heart, they came on. We waited until every bullet could tell, and then opened upon them. Half a dozen were down before they were half way across, and they forced their way fully up to our breastwork, upon which they had made no calculation, with the lose of ten in all. All our rifles were loaded for the last struggle, and I gave the contents to a black-looking villain who was climbing over the breastwork, and then drew my revolver. I fired one barrel, and a man dropped. With a yell of joy, three of them flung themselves upon me. ‘To their sur prise, the pistol which they thought empty went off again and again, stretching an In- dian on the sod at every discharge. With a yell of dismay, they dashed out of the thicket, and mounting their horses, rode out of reach, followed by the derisive yells of my friends, not one of whom, strange to say, had been wounded. I myself had been touched by a bullet uponthearm. Ida took my handkerchief, and bound it up. Her soft touch thrilled me. Her fingers trembled as they touched my arm. Her eyes said, “T thank you.” I turned my head away, that I might no longer be dazzled by the glorious vision. “You have saved me,” she said, softly. “T have saved myself as well,” I replied “You have nothing to thank me for.” “But, I must thank you; they may re turn, and we may yet be conquered. But, if we escape, I shall never cease to be grate- ful. Are you in much pain ?” “A seratch ; it is over already.” “Tam glad. What are they doing ” “ Nothing much—only preparing to roast us. Get your men to work, and pull up the grass around this clump. The villains are going to fire the prairie.” She spoke to the Crows, and we went to work with a will. In ten minutes a space three feet wide was bare 4ll along the front
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* rode off at full speed. for a parlev. “My young men are yery angry,” he said, “ and are going to set fire to the grass. Ido not wish to see the prophetess burn with fire. Let her come back to us, and all will be well.” “ My friend,” said I, walking out with a pistol in my hand, “ do you see this little article ?” “See him. Short gun. Very much fire many times. Never stop fire.” “Very well. I give you fair warning that when you get to yonder tuft of grass, 1 sm going to fire at you.” The fellow wheeled his horse about, and As he neared the clump, he suddenly disappeared from my sight, while the side of the horse was pre- sented to my view as he rode, clinging by ene foot and his hand to the saddle. I could not but admire the exquisite horse- manship displayed in the action, even while hungering and thirsting for a shot at him. I stood looking at him im blank astonish- ment, when a red face appeared under the neck of the horse, and a shaft came whiz- zing past my ear. I got myself behind a tree in all haste, when he straightened up in the saddle, and was off like the wind. Soon a smoke rose slowly, and we knew that he was at work. Then a bright flame flashed upward, and a long line of fire marched steadily down upon us. The heavens seemed ina glow. The heat grew more intense as the fire approached. Soon respiration was difficult, and the air was filled with cinders, and a sultry vail hung thick about us, I looked at Ida. Her form had straightened up proudly, and she stood like a statue carved in ivory, looking across the flames at the demons on the other side. The flames reached our barricade, and blazed fiercely for a few moments, while we almost sunk beneath the fiery glare. But it swept on to the, right, hand. and the left, leaving before us a black and barren waste, while far to the other side the Indians peered out at us, and ‘tried, .to make out our forms, lying upon the black- ened sward. They had seen the flames, part on either side, and they regarded jit as the work of the Great Spirit. The flame had passed by, and Ida looked parched and thirsty. I produced my, bran; dy-flask, and its taste revived her. We turned to watch the progress of the flames, Perhaps there is no grander scene in nature, and yet it is terrible, than a prairie on fire. The great wall of flame went rushing on, shooting up great tongues of fire far toward the zenith, and roaring like an army march- ing to the battle. not passed away, and our animals hung their heads and looked pitifully in need of water. I began to realize our situation. If the Crows chose to besiege us, there was little hope that we should escape; unless, indeed, we chose to die of thirst rather than fall into their hands. Food we should not lack while our horses remained : but water ? Night was upon us before we were aware. We kindled a large fire, which threw its glare far out upon the prairie. I feared the night attack more than that of the day. I feared that we should be over- come. f; | ef our position. Meton came toward us The terrible heat had. Se ee ee ee en ee ee ee ee ee ee eee eee Old Rube, the Hunter. the shock came. My men were all on their guard ; none could say we had not watched ; when, like a flash, the whole troop were upon us. Ida slept at the foot of a tree. I myself had begun to think that they had given up the design of attacking us, and | had seated myself for a moment, when a tush of many bodies through the under- | brush told us that the hour of trial had ‘come. I stood over Ida, with my revolver | ready. My companions, borne down in tbe _ first rush, never spoke again, except one, | whom they kept for vengeance sake. | I saw that they feared my revolver, and I menaced them as they approached. “Why fight longer?” said one. “ Bes’ you give up now. S’pose you give up, no be killed.” “ Keep off!’ I replied. They held me in parley some minutes, dozen lithe forms fell upon my head. My arms were pinioned, my legs bound, and I was a prisoner in the hands of my merciless enemy, Meton.” Here the journal ends. CHAPTER IIL The Hunters. Tue friends had pressed hard upon the skirts of the flying herd, and several huge bodies, cumbering the sod, attested their prowess. Weary at last, they returned. Charlie was not in sight, and Willie remem- bered that he had been engaged in combat with the buffalo when he left him. He looked anxiously around. No gory man and horse could be seen; but southward, red blood-stains, with hoof-marks, side by side, showed where he had pursued the buf- falo. “Tt’a all right,’ said he. “Charlie was bound, to have that buffalo. and has followed him, Let us camp and wait for his re- turn.” The old hunter shook his head, and went ‘about building a fire, muttering low to him- self Hedid not like the looks of the thing. plains, especially in the buffalo season, and he.was afraid for Charlie. “The boy was too quick,” he mutsered. “ Why didn't he stick to the herd! Buf- fler enough ’thout running an oid bull out upon, ther prairie.” He went. to work, nevertheless, in an ar- promised best, and cutting off a huge por- tion of the savory hump. He was. an epi- cure in his way, and. worked with a will, and then gave it into the hands of the negro, That worthy looked at it with un- utterable fondness, and proceeded to.impro- vise a spit from a limb of a tree; and in a few moments the mass was hissing and sputtering over a fire, They waited with what appetites they might, for they were sharp-set after their ride; and when it was fully cooked they fell to with a will. The piece had lessened sensibly in size when they had finished their work, and a look of relief was visible in every face. “ That's prime,” said Rube. “ Now, then, whar’s that bey d then, from the t | SEED ED NIECE HOUIne, NBME | 1 Ladle and peered at ibe earth. Then I think it was nearly twelve o’clock when | _ the spot where the buffalo fell. | / Ja 8 “ Charlie ” “ Yes.” “ What do you think ?” “ Lost, I reckon. Chased that burticr to, fer. S’pos’n’ we mount an’ ride dvwu oa. his trail ?” They were all ready, and soon wert presy ing down the course followed by Charlie the old man of the plains leading, and keep- ing his eyes upon the bloody trail. An hour and a half passed, and they reached Here the hunter dismounted and looked more care- fully at the ground. A short search showed him the fact that Charlie had returned, and they must follow the back-trail. They reached the point where he caught sight of the Indians and had wheeled his horse in flight. Here the hoofs had pressed hard into the sod, pointing to the east. The hunter rode rapidly out upon the new trail. All at once he leaned eagerly forward in he rolled down, the wonderful beast he rode standing stock-still, and watching he master’s moyements with a curious eye. He looked up, after a brief examination, saying: “ Injins |” “ What!’ cried Dolf. “How do you know? I can see that something has passed, but, in all probability, it is a heré of buffalo.” “How long yer been on the plains youngster?” replied the old man, in sover eign contempt. “S’pose yer kin tell me any thing ’bout ther plains? Yer can’t, scarcely.” “T beg your pardon,” replied DolF; “my anxiety for Charlie led me inty it. I don’t propose to put my knowledge against yours, I merely asked for information.” “Oh, wal, that’s al) eignt, then,” replied he, mollified at once “T'll tell yer; an’ fust let me say thas, i never tuk an Injin fer a buffler in wy ife—no, not once, as I remember. Wai, how do J know these yer marks was made by an Injin hoss and /not by bvuftier? First, an’ best: buffler don’t hev' pound hoofs, ner they don’t trot ; tart,” went on the hunter. tistic manner, flaying the buffalo: which next, buffer don’t smoke pipes !” As he spoke, he lifted from the earth a He. knew that Indians. swarmed upon the. | P'P¢-bowl, carved in red sandstone, evidently dropped by the pursuers in their chase. “The boy hes the best of it from the “Ther ain’t a better hoss on the plains then thet one he rides; an’ these fellers begin ter see it Ther’ ain’t nothin’ ter do but follow, an’ see how ther thing turns out.” They rode all that afternoon, some hours behind the object of their search, The In- dians had left a broad trail, for they thought of no such thing as pursuit. The grass was beaten down as if an avalanche had passed oyer it. On their way they passed by the body of the Indian shot by Charlie. They had left him where he fell, in their reckiess haste, and he was lying in his blood upon the short prairie-grass—a stalwart savage, but with a bold, bad face. They sat in their saddles, looking down on him. The bullet had passed through his breast, pass- ing out at the back, He had not died at once, as was evident from the manner in which he lay. He had plucked up some of the prairie-grass and formed a pillow for his _ dying head, and then, drawing his blanket
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about him, had died bravely, in his simple way, giving his soul into the hands of the Great Spirit. The hunter moralized. “Now, ther yer see what skulkin’, an’ trampin’, an’ hoss-stealin’ kin bring a man to. Iknow thet natyve, an’, next ter Meton, I hated him wust. He were just off a piece with Meton, consarn him, an’ they always hunt together. Meton ’ud go out and pre- tend ter guide parties, and this skunk ’ud bring down the Crows upon them. Now he lies ther’; an’ I make no doubt thet yer thinkin’ about ther poor Injin, an’ how we whites hey wronged them. ’Tain’t right. Ther a greasy, theevin’, hoss-stealin’ race, an’ I hold it a greater sin to let one of them pass then ter rub him out. Ride on!” We left kim where he lay, looking noble in death, as a warrior should. The hunter mused and at last broke out: “ Yer saw the paint onthatInjin. Thet puzzles me. Thetis Blackfoot paint, an’ he is a Crow. What deviltry him and Meton hed bin gettin’ up, I don’t know, but they were disguised. I can’t think.” “ Do you think they have caught Char- lie?” asked Dolf. “No. Ner they won't, ef he don’t want ter be caught. He waited fer them ter get in range, an’ then rubbed out thet natyve. He’s got a hoss, I can tell you, almost ekal to Syntax.” Dolf cast a queer look at the mustang upon which he wasriding, and the remem- brance of the beautiful horse Charlie rode, and the idea of contrasting the two was too much for his risibles, and he burst into a hearty laugh. Rube looked nettled. “Yer may laugh, youngster, but, look har, will ye. The trail is straight ter yon- der clump of bushes. ’T'won’t be outer the way ef we try this out. Let's race /” Dolf looked down at his horse, Abdallah, and laughed louder than ever. I saw a ely twinklein the old hunter’s eye, as he of- fered to give Dolf a, start of half a dozen rods. Dolfin return offered him half the way. After considerable chaffing on either side, Willie gave the word, and they started off together. The mustang, at first sight, was a hard- headed, obstinate-looking beast, with the: vicious. eye peculiar to the race. For a few rods, without any perceptible effort, she: kept up to the horse, going along:much in the manner of a skater. Half-way across, Rube said something to her, which she un- derstood,.and then followed one ét the most remarkable races upon record. The legs of the mule seemed to lengthen, and her body to shorten perceptiby, while their motion was so rapid that they could scarcely be seen. It is enough to say that Rube pulled up at the clump, halfa dozen lengths Jahead of the Arabian. Dolf leaned over ‘and shook hands with the hunter : “ Fairly beaten,” said he. “I will give you five hundred doilars for that mustang.” “ Money couldn’t buy her, lad; an’ I’m glad if L have learned you a wrinkle. Never again despise a thing fer its looks. Yer can’t buy Syntax. We've tramped these yer prairies too many years together. Git up, Syntax.” And the forsaken-looking brute went on, weking more stubborn than ever. Old Rubs, the Hunter. had discontinued the pursuit, and could see the track of the fleet steed leading out alone upon the prairie. The hunter pointed with his band: “ See thar’,” he said, “the heathen hey given it over in despair, 1 thort they couldn’t catch him. You kin see how they huddled up together, and swore in Injin, while the youngster rode on, laughing at them for their pains. Consarn their paint- ed hides. Do the reptyles think ter ketch a white human thet way? See, they’ve tired of it, an’ gone off, this yer way. Let’s go on after the boy.” Shortly after, the trail turned back to- ward the place of the buffalo-hunt in the morning. They rode hard, and, unluckily enough, camped for the night, instead of pressing on in pursuit. Had they done so, those few brave friends of Ida would not be lying in their gore among the trees, stark and stiff. They came to the place of combat at early dawn, and they saw them lying there ghastly and scalped. Among the many hoof-prints in the cinders, they could see those of the black horse Charlie rode, and which they had followed so far that they knew every nail in it. Wandering about among the trees, Dolf found a little paper fluttering over the ground. He lifted it, and read : “ T, Charles Westgate, was taken prisoner by the Orows,in company of the white girl known as the ‘ Crow Prophetess.’ If this is ever found, send it to William: Westgate, New York City.” “ You see this,” cried Dolf, striking the paper with his hand. “ They have taken him, and I swear never to go back, until I have rescued him, or know that he is dead.” Rube reached over and shook hands. “Tam with yer.” “ And I,” said Willie “ You don’t say any ting, Jake.” “Wot’s de use forZ to talk! Don’t s’pose I’se gwine ter stay har, an’ hab my head tek off, next time, does,yer? No, sah, so I’s gwine wid yer.” “T don’t quite understand this note,” said Willie. “ Would you think that the proph- etess wasia prisoner as well as Charlie?” “J think so,” repled Rube. “Shé’s got tired ov ther blamed mean ways and guv’ them the go-by. Yer friend hes fallen in with her, an’ been taken in: her company. Ha YP. “ What is it?” Rube was down upon his knees, peering intently at the mark of a hoof upon the sod. He rose with a sigh, saying, quietly, “ Meton !” “ How do you know that ?” “TI hey’ trailed that mustang too many times not to. know him. He wusn’t in the gang who chased your friend, but j’ined them arterwards, You needn’t be afraid o’ my gettin’ tired now. Td foller him, till I dropped down an’ died.” “ Will they go back at once to the Crow country ?” “ Can’t tell yit. They mought, and then ag’in they mought not. They hain’t got much the start ov us, thet’s very plain. This yer work were done last night, an’ they are jist off this morning. These fellers here —— ee = ~~ Se = They reached the spot where the Indians died like men, fightin’ fer her. Jake, di ea ye understand? Your mistress, Ida, was here last night, and was taken again by the Crows.” The negro stared at him stupidly. He had looked upon his mistress as utterly lost since that fearful night, five years ago, when she was taken by the Crows. “ Mias Ida?” “Yes; look hyar. Does you see thet footprint. No Injin foot ever made it. It’s a moccasin, sure enough, but it is a white woman’s step.” Jake fell on his face and kissed the foot- print. Then he lifted his honest face, streaming with tears, saying : “T’s goin’ wid yer now, shuah! Don’t you be ’fraid fer me. If it’s to sabe Miss Ida, den dem Injins may hab dis head if dey want it.” They mounted and follow ed the trail. CHAPTER IV. On the March, and a Happy Meeting WE left Charles Westgate and Ida in the hands of Meton. The chief came to Char- les, as he lay bound, and glared down upon him with a tiger-like joy. He gloated over him with all a savage’s delight over a fallen foe. He had work enough to do to keep the hands of his men away from him. They remembered the many dead, lying out upon the blackened prairie. The four bodies im their hands were not enough to appease» them. They wanted fresh victims. Besides, these had died bravely, fighting to the last ;, it gave them no pleasure to see men die so. : They wished to see the strong body writhe: in agony, and the bold lips quiver with an-- guish.” They made ready to march on the next morning, leaving the bodies, scalped and unburied, on the plain. They bound the feet of Charles under the horse, by mean. of a lariat; his hands were also bound, and an Indian rode on either side. Ida was not bound. These rough men. respected their prophetess, and dared not pro-- fane her person by bonds. They would have» expected thatthe Great Spirit would strike: them dead for the sacrilegious act, had they’ laida hand upon her. She rode her favorite horse, sitting in the saddle like Zenobia, going out to battle. Her arms had not been taken from her, and, although a strict surveillance was kept over her movements, she was, in other ways, free to act as she pleased. “Do your bonds pain you ?” she asked, riding close up to him. “Not much,” was the reply. She looked at his ankles and saw that the tense cord was cutting into the flesh. She said some- thing to the guards in a sharp tone, ané with abashed looks, one of them loosened the lariat. The prisoner repaid her by = look of gratitude, for he had been in agony all the ride, and her kindness touched him. She looked at him, from time to time, with a yearning look, as one who all through life had been yearning for kindness and sym pathy, and, when she had made a friend, lost him at the beginning. For his part, he was sad, for every step of the fleet steed were some ov her friends, p’raps, an’ they | was taking him further and further from
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oe SE -* home and friends. It is not at all wonder- ful that they turned for sympathy to each other, Ait night, they camped on the South Fork, near the Black Ilills. They had no intention | as yet, of leaving the plains. They had come out to hunt buffalo for the winter supply, and would not go back until they had enough. Still they gave Charles no loophole from which toescape. At night, they cut a lariat into many lengths, and tied one to his hands and one to his feet; then others were laid across his body, and Indians lay down upon the loose ends. In this way he passed the night ; and, if he stirred, the motion awoke the Indians, who warned him te be still, and again lay down to rest. It was a strange scene. The fire in the midst of the prairie, shining out upon the bright river, the sturdy warriors sitting or lying around, with their blankets drawn about them; the horses corraled near at hand, with the silent guards near them. It might haye been two o’clock, when Charles awoke with a start. There was a terrible uproar in thecamp. Rifles flashed, spears gleamed, and the crash of a fight sounded in his ears. The horses stamped and neighed, tugging at their lariats vainly. War-whoops, followed by answering cries, told that it was an Indian attack. The Blackfeet, those omnipresent rovers, had happened on the camp, and could not re- sist. their innate longing for stolen horse- flesh. The combat was soon over, for the uttacking party was small, and had no idea of the number and bravery of the assailed, Indeed, a Blackfoot warrior rarely stops to count, where horseflesh is concerned. They were driven off, leaving one of their number stiffening in death, at the fireside. Ida had been sleeping when the shock same, and intuitively knew the cause, Rising, she went to the place where Charles lay, and found that his guards had left him. She cut the cords that bound him, and he rose. At first he wus so stiff with his re- cent bonds that he could hardly use his limbs, but staggered like a drunken man. This was soon over, and she led the way to the spot where the horses were picketed. An Indian guard rushed toward them, but a single blow from Charles laid him gasp- ing. To cut the ropes, and mount, was the work of a moment, and then they were off upon the prairie, riding for life, with the sound of the combat still ringing in their ears, For two miles they rode in silence, and then he leaned over toward her in the pale moon-rays, holding out hishand. She took it. (That was their betrothal. There were no spoken vows; sorrow might come to them after this, and it did. They might doubt all the world, but never each other, after that. The pale moon-rays shimmered about them ; the shadows came and went. They rede slowly, for they did not fear pur- suit, as yet, and_she told him the story of her life from the time when every friend she had in all the earth was murdered. She saw that something must be done to keep herself free from a captive’s common Old Rube, the Hunter. acute, she was soon able to take a stand from which she could defy even Meton. It was her desire to escape which eventually caused her to lose caste. They rode all night. Where, they had no thought; in what direction even, they | did not know; but morning found them /many miles away. Charles saw with joy that his rifle still hung at the saddle-bow, | | with every thing complete for offense or de- | _fense. Ida had her rifle He missed his / revolver, and knew that Meton had taken | the “short gun” for himself. The morning sun rose up bright and full Charles brought down a prairie-chicken | with a small charge, and they made a _hearty meal. All at once they heard a great clamor, and, looking eastward, they saw a party of four, hotly pursued by a | large band of Indians. As they approached, | Charles recognized them, and greeted them with a glad cry. “ Mount,” cried Dolf, as they rode up, “and ride for your Hfe.” “ Not that way,” replied the other. “You will run into the jaws of the Crows. Keep to the right.” Dolf cast a single look at Ida and then said, in a low tone: “ Now, then, here is something to fight for.” They rode at their best speed, the wonderful mule keeping up with Charlie’s black with the greatest ease. The Indians, who were Blackfeet, gave up the chase. They uttered a whoop of anger, and rode off at full speed in the opposite direction, then their pace subsided to a walk, and the boys got around Charlie to shake hands, and congratulated him on his escape. “T say, lad,” said Rube, “ wasn’t Meton there ?” “Yes.” “ How many men has he now ?” “ About thirty.” “No mor’n that ?” “No.” “T reckon, then, it’s bout time fer us to settle up. I’ve waited a mighty long while, an’ I ain’t hed no good chance as yet. | This young woman, I take it, is the one as we hey’ been tryin’ to git away from the Crows.” “ Yes.” “She don’t know me. I didn’t calculate | she would. How should she? P’raps she knows that some one hes been workin’ fer her all these years, but she don’t know who it is.” “Ts this Rube?” said Ida; “the brave hunter who wept over my dead mother ?” “The very one,” said Charlie. She bent closer and kissed him on the cheek. The man started, as if a thunder- bolt had struck him; he put up his hand, with a sudden motion, as one in a dream. Then, seeming to realize the truth, that she was grateful to him for what he had done, and had taken this way to show it, he | dropped his head upon the neck of the stub- | born mule and burst into tears. His heart was rough, but true, and such a thing touched him to this degree. She rode closer still and took his hand. “ Good, kind, faithful man, do you won- me and mine? I can not forget that your hand laid my sainted mother in the grave— that your tears were shed above her. Never forget that my very life is at your service for this.” “Don’t!” he said, putting out his other hand with an appealing gesture. “’Tain’t right. I ain’t done nothin’ that a man, call- ing himself one, would hey’ left undone.” “What is our next movement?” broke in Dolf, relieving the poor fellow. “Shall we look out another herd of buffalo ?” “The plain is getting hot for us,” said Rube. “It’s many a long year sense I _ have bin so hard put to it as I hev’ the last two days; but it’s jest as you say about it, | Ef you boys ar’ fer more huntin’, very good ; I live here; but if you hev’ enough of it, then back we go to the towns.” “Vote,” said Dolf. “ All in favor of stay- ing here hold up your right hands; four! Very good. Contrary by the same sign— Charlie and Miss Ida! Umph! Ina hurry to get back, are you, Master Charles? I don’t wonder; but you are outyoted, two to one.” “Miss Ida?” said a tremulous voice. She turned at the sound. As yet she had not looked at the black, who, standing apart, had been devouring her with his eyes. flash of recognition passed over her face as she looked into the honest eyes, brim- full of love and devotion to her. Both hands were stretched out toward him, and he, going down on his knees, covered them with kisses. “ Jake,” she said, “I thought you died, that fearful night.” “T’ought so myself, missee, most. He sabe me. Nebber forget dat night, Missie Ida.” “Tam glad to see you, Jake; more so because you were with us there. Were you out there when they buried my dear parents ?” “ Yes, Missie Ida, I was dar’. You don’no how much you got to tank Mass’r Rube. He bashful in talkin’ to ladies, but he’s good. Don’ want to know any better fel- ler dan he be. He buried mudder and fader in one grave, and de two brudders in anudder, and dar dey sleep yet; saw de place yesterday.” “Ts it near at hand ?” she asked, starting quickly. “Tain’t fur off We been ridin’ roun’ an’ roun’, but we ain’t gone fur away from it.” “Can you guide me to the place ?” “Rube kin. He mark de place so dat he know it ag’in. He kin find it, sure.” “ And will you ?” she asked, turning to the hunter, who was busy with his rifle He looked up. “If you wish it. There’ ain’t many things I wouldn’t do for you, miss.” . In his rough, honest Way, the heart of | the brave fellow adored her. Don’t misun- derstund him. He did not presume to love her; but, there sprung up in his heart such a feeling as a mortal might have toward a spirit, as a thing beautiful and noble, but far beyond reach. “Do you want ter go ther?” he repeated “Oh yes, yes. I long to see the spot fate, and so, by means of a mind naturally | ger that I am grateful for your kindness to , where they repose. Don’t refuse ma” —¥
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—* _— “T ain’t goin’ to. Boys, you hear orders, don’t you? Make reauy to march.” CHAPTER Y. The Graves. Tuey fell into rank, riding two and two, with Ida by the side of the hunter, who was pointing out familiar spots as he went along. After a while he pointed to a little clump of bushes, saying : “See thar’, don’t you? Thar’s whar I were chased by a bufller.” “Were you hurt ?” “Not much, but I were pretty considera- bly scared, now I tell ye. I mought as well tell ye the story to pass away time. Thet were fifteen year agone, an’ I ain’t fergot it, no, nor won’t as long as this yer old carcass holds together. I were young, an’ risky, an’ didn’t take no sort of care of myself. I hed been out with some friends ar- ter game, an’ arter a while, seein’ we couldn’t find any, we ’greed to sep’rate, an’ meet at this yer clump, as both on us knew it well. “They went off one way, and I went another, And arter searchin’ about, I med’ my way toward this clump. As I kem’ near it, what should I see but an old buf- fler cow and calf, standin’ ’bout a hundred yards from the bushes. I jest made up my mind to hey’ them both, so I pulled up, an’ let the calf hey’ it. He dropped in a min- ute. I knowed that ’ud keep the other by him, for she stood stock-still, never budgin’ an inch, turnin’ over the dead body with her horns, I stepped out as soon as my rifle were loaded, and gave her one. It warn’t a hard hit, by no means, and it jest made her mad, at the same time showin’ her whar’ I was. She jest gev’ a roar, and made fer me as quick as she eould go. I hed nothin’ to do but run fer it, an’ I didn’t stan’ much chance either, fer the brute w tre mad, I kin tell ye. i put fer the bushes, an’ we went round them lively. 2 thort ov a prayer I heard a missione” say once, fer I thort my time were come, sure enough. “ Arter a wiile I begin to git tired, and the blamed buffler looked as fresh as ever. I looked over my sholder at her as I ran. Like a dum’ed foo), I hed left my shot-pouch on the ground,’bout half a dozen yards ‘from the bushes. But how was I goin’ to git it. Ef { hed thet I might load ag’in while I run, and bring her down by a quick ‘shot. But, I couldn’t see how ter git her. “T hed a blankit, an’ I hed dropped it ‘when I hed run round once. As I run past it this time, suthin’ whispered ter me what to do, an’ I did it. When I kem’ ‘round ag’in-I snatched up the blanket, an’ ‘turned on the bufiler. She didn’t see me, but kem’ on with her head down, an’ I “slipped the blankit over her horns, and ran ‘for my pouch. -I’spected to hear the tramp of the blamed thing in half-a minnit, but I didn’t, an’, lookin’ over my shoulder, thar’ was one of the most comical things you ever see a-goin’on. The buffler didn’t hev’ time ter stop‘runnin’, until she hed stuck her feet through the blanket, and she were as fast as a buffler could well be, rollin ied Old Rube, the Hunter. ~t 9 over an’ over like thunder, and roarin’ all | ther ha’nches an’ lookin’ atus? Now, they the time; I loaded as fast as I could, fer | the blankit was goin’ to flinders, an’ ran up | and gev’ her the charge under the shoulder. Thet settled her, an’ she went to sleep as quietasalamb. The fellers cum’ ’thout a hair to show, an I hed my game all ready fer’em.” “Quite an adventure, Rube. Any more of the same sort ?” said Dolf. “Not now. Here we are at the place I told you about. These trees are the ones whar’ I went to sleep, an’ out yonder, on thet plain, whar’ you see the white stun’, was the camp of the whites. If ye’ll come with me, Miss Ida, I will show ye whar’ I laid her.” Ida cast an appealing look at the others, and they kept back, not wishing to intrude upon her grief. They saw the hunter lay his hand reverently upon the white stone, and then he came away. There was a sus- picious drop of moisture in his eye as he came back, and busied himself with his saddle-girths. She, out by those lonely graves, cast herself down upon the prairie- grass, which had been reddened years ago by the blood of all her kindred, and prayed silently for the souls of the fallen. Her age, when taken by the Crows, had been such as to preclude all possibility of a deadening of her religious sensibilities; she still was a Christian. What recollections crowded into her mind as she sat there beside her parents’ graves? ‘What hopes of happiness had been blighted on that terrible night? They had hoped, tired »f the world and its peo- ple, to find » nappy and peaceful home, away beyond the “ Big Blue.” The tomu- hawk of the savage had too early broken their dream, and she, their daughter, wept above cheir graves. How her heart cried out over the recol- lection of those sleeping so peacefully under that prairie-turf. She went back to her friends, and they, at her intercession cut upon the stone the names of her parents, and to this day, those who pass that way may read : “ JAMES AND ADALINE LEE, AND THEIR SONS, WILLIAM AND ARTHUR, Murdered, May 15, 1847.” Rest well, early martyred, under that soil! The plow, in after years, may go above you, but not yet. The Indian steed, the buffalo and the deer, may come and go, but your rest will be all the sweeter, that you do not sleep in a crowded churchyard. Next day the party went out to hunt, leaving Charles and Ida to keep camp. It seemed to be pretty generally understood that this arrangement would suit all parties concerned. They went toward the Black Hills, expecting to fall in with buffalo. They were not disappointed. A small herd were feeding ‘in a secluded glen, close to the edge of the hills, with the river flowing on one side, and the hills on the other. Hang- ing upon the outskirts of the herd, a half- dozen coyotes might be seen, hungrily re- garding the animals. Some of these “prai- rie-hyenas” near at hand, scuttled rapidly away at the approach of the hunters, giving the short, quick bark peculiar to them. The hunter pointed at them with a laugh: “Does yer see those varmint sittin’ on knows, jest as well as we does, thet we are after them buffler. An’ they knows ’at we will kill more’n we'll carry away, thet they do, an they is waitin’ for a share Keep to the right, my boy.” The last paternal instruction was extend- ed to Dolf, who was inclining to the left, from whence the wind blew fresh toward the herd. It was not a large one, consist ing of a couple of dozen of all sizes. A’ usual, two or three males, of ponderous size, were feeding on the outskirts of the herd, and looking suspiciously on every side. They could not have chosen & more advantageous position. It seemed impos- sible to get near enough for a shot. “Tt must be done,” said Rube. “Our only chance is a little trick. Give me that robe, will you, Jake ?” The individual addressed handed the ar- ticle required to Rube. It was the hide of a buffalo entire, with the horns remaining. To their surprise, he proceeded to invest Syntax in this strange dress. The animal looked more sedate than ever. Her neck bowed more humbly to the burden. When Rube had completed his work, all burst into a laugh at the comical metamorphosis. Instead of the mustang, False Syntax, we had a fine buffalo to all appearances. Before mounting his strange steed the hunter gave them directions where to stand. He had thrown off his saddle, and length- ened his bridle, which was hidden by the hairy front. He mounted, throwing his body along the side of the animal, out of sight of the herd. Taking care to keep the other side turned toward the watchful males, he came slow: ly down upon the herd, while the stern guards looked at him angrily from under their shaggy brows. Evidently they thought him some impudent intruder, and hoofs be- gan to beat the ground angrily, and tails flourished more briskly, as he approached. The wonderful mule showed his training. Had the young men not seen him leave them, they would have said that two buffa- lo bulls were approaching each other, stamp- ing the ground, and preparing for a conflict. All at once, from the side of one, puffed out. a column of smoke, and a whiplike crack smote upon their ears. Rube never fired twice at the same buffalo, and they were not surprised to see one of the guards sink to the earth, never to rise again. The herd were startled by the sound. In all probability they never before had heard a rifle, and after a little began to feed again, while another of the males approach- ed the intruder, snorting fiercely, and pawing up the earth. Again the white smoke puffed out from the side of the disguised animal, and another patriarch measured his length upon the sod: The coyotes crept slowly up toward the herd. All at once the trained mustang lost his shaggy covering and bounded away, for the herd was taking the alarm, and gathering fora rush. “Get ready!” shout ed Rube, as he dashed up to them ; “ they will come on now. Ha! what is that ?” A bull, upon the skirts of the herd, was seen to stagger, and fall prostrate upen tne
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——_—__--— ——_— 10 —— earth. Rnbe snatched up his bullet-pouch | and began to load. * injins !’ It was all he said, but the young men knew he did not speak in vain. | Yet they could see nothing but the herd, the coyotes, and the verdant. plain. “ Yer don’t see them, boys. I’m ablam- ed fool, er ’'da thought of thet. Do yer see thet coyote yonder, clus te: the herd ? Thetis an Injin with a wolf-hide onto him. ’d like ter know how many ther ar’ of them.” Shall we give up our meat on their ac- count?” cried Dolf. “Let's drive the greasy knaves away.” “ Softly, softly, my lad. An Injin arrer kin kill, as well as a bullet, at a short range. I'm thinkin’ ther’s a good crowd of them, or they’d never hey’ staid ther’ so ‘long, af- ter they found out we was on hand. I’m not the man ter give up our meat ’thout a fight. At any rate, they calculate we don’t see them, an they ain’t seen anybody but me. I calculate we'll fool them jit. Jake ?” “ W’at say, Rube ?” “Go in ther an’ collar thet Injin in ther wolf-hide an bring him in.” “Git out, you! W’at ye t’inkI med’ of, you Rube? Cast-iron, probly. Ain’t, though. Don’t wan’ to get me killed, spose, does yer ?” “ Yer won’t hey’ sech a chance all yer life. Ha! here comes the herd. Get out of the’r way, every man. Ha! ha! see them blamed Injins go.” The wolves were getting out of the way of the rush at an odd pace, something be- tween the run of a wolf and the gait of a rabbit. They had not calculated on being pushed, and were just able to escape. Jake stopped to watch them, laughing aloud, and forgetting utterly his own posi- tion. The rest rode out to the skirts of the herd, and, as they turned to look, be- hold, the negro was in the midst of the herd, borne on by their rush, and his legs so bound against the sides of his horse, that he could not budge an inch! The wolves were out of sight, but, all at once, with a bedlam-like howl, they reappeared, a score of mounted savages, shaking their spears in the air. It was the same band who had chased the party the day before—Blackfeet. Knowing the speed .of their horses, they did not pursue when the hunters turned in flight, but chased the flying herd. They could see them upon the skirts of the herd, pouring in their arrows, and they knew that the black was doomed, for all they could do to aid him. They turned toward the camp, sorrow- fully enough. As they approached it, a fear toolx possession of them. They hurried on. ‘The camp was utterly forsaken ! “Tt isa trick,” cried Dolf. ‘“ They are hiding somewhere. Come out, Charlie ; no skulking, you know.” Only the echoes answered him. “Come, some, that will do,” he repeated. “What isthe use? You promised to have something for us to eat when we came back.” “T don’t like the looks of this at all,” said Willie. “Do you think it is a trick, Rube ?” The hunter shook his head. “ No, no Old Rube, the Hunter. in this country yer can’t count on any thing. | It’s Injin deviltry, or ’m much mistaken. _And yet, I don’t see any trail.” “ There must be one ; spread out and fina it.” They strayed in all directions over the prairie, and came back with blank faces. “ You haven’t been out by the graves,” said Willie. Rube had forgotten that, and now walked out in that direction Wher they reached the spot, they saw him stoop and examine the earth intently, and then he rose and beckoned them tocome out. They /ran to him and found him bending over fresh blood-stains on the ground. Near the graves the earth was trampled and the grass crushed by many feet ; and there, right across the grave, were fresh blood-stains, Whose blood? Their hearts stood still. “Tt seems as if fate was working against poor Charlie,” said Willie, choking down a sob. “Here he is taken again, and, per- haps, wounded.” “ This yer ain’t Ais blood!” said Rube. “ How do you know that?” “Easy enough. Yer look here, you will see whar’ the heel of a pa’r of moccasins hes dug into ther sile. Thet Injin is the one who were wounded. I’m sure of it. ’Sides, Injin blood ain’t like white blood, no- how.” “ Where’s the difference ?” “ Ain’t ther’ a difference in the’r hides ? Wal, ef thar’s a difference in the’r hides, it stan’s to reason thet ther’ sh’u’d be a differ- ence in the’r blood as well. Yer don’t per- tend to say thet the same kind er blood flows in Miss Ida’s veins as ther’ does in Meton’s? No, there’s as much difference ez ther’ is ’tween prime whisky and rotten vinegar. This yer is black blood—an Injin lost it.” “How many were there of them ?” “Can’t tell, yit. Wait till I go round.” The hunter walked about the place for some minutes, and came back with a very decided look on his face. “ You know all about it,” said Dolf; “I can see it in your face.” “ Yes, I think I can see it. Thetwo kem’ out here by the graves to talk, an’ the cow- ardly brutes crept up behind them. Two of them went under, I take it, before they c’u'd take the boy. But they’ve got him, and ar’ off for the Crow country.” “ What shall we do ?” “ Foller them,’ answered the hunter, sternly. “I ain't redeemed my vow sit.” “ How do you know itis Meton? Might it not be the Blackfeet, now ?” said Dolf. Rube. looked at him in silent wrath for a half-minute, while Dolf, who had again committed the “ unpardonable sin,” shrunk away, and hastened to apologize. “Don’t get help it, the best way I can fix it. I only meant it as a question.” “ Put it as a question, then. How do I know thet itis Meton? ’Cause here is his hoss-track, plain as day. An’ here are a dozen other marks. But we ain’t got no time to lose. In my way of thinkin’, we've got a long trail to foller, and it will bring us to the Crow country. We'll save them, | or die a tryin’.” | just as it should be. CHAPTER VI On the Tratl Again. “Let's go at this yer’ as if it were an all- day job, boys,” said Rube. “ Let’s look at the case as it stands. These yer’ scamps hes taken our friends, and we are bound to take them back. Thet’s all right—thet’s We wouldn't be half men if we didn’t save them. Now, then, for the best way. We mought ketch up to 'them, by ridin’ hard, before they got to their village. I say we mought do this, but would it pay best ?” “Why not?” said Dolf. “If they get to the Crow village we will never get them out. There are only three of us now.” “Thet’s jest it; an’ ef we hed a dozen, enough to whip the Crows out an’ out, then I mought be fer ridin’ hard an’ ketchin’ them. But, the way it is, we can’t fight. Now, I s’pose you hed med’ up yer mind to ride inter the Crow country, inter the village, and take them out in the face of the Crown nation. No good ter think thet way. Ther’ is only one way to do it, and thet by tricks. We may get snapped up ourselves in tryin’ ter do it, but thet is as it happens. We must try. And we must ’member thet any thing happening to us is death ter them. Soa.lI can say, is, be car’- Sul.” The trail wasa wide one. Evidently the Indians had no fear of the now weak party. They did not calculate on what might be done by brave men. That the three would be foolhardy enough to follow them was beyond their thought. “ Yer see how it is,” said Rube, as they rode on, “They don’t think we'll foller. Thet’s jest like an Injin, right over. They’d desart a friend ef they was in danger, and they think whites ain’t human no more then they ar’. We'll try thet before we're done with’em. I’m sorry about poor Jake. The feller hes been with us in a many tight places; an’ though he were always scar’t nigh about to death, he never turned fully white yit. I ’member one scrape he hed with a grizzly. ”Twas nigh on to three y’ars ago, an’ we were up on the Missouri, after beaver. ’T were a hard winter, an’ we built up a hut of boughs an’ covered it with bark, an’ calculated to stay until we had taken all the pelts in thet part of the stream, Beavers seemed to walk inter our traps thet year, an’ we hed nothin’ ter do but take them out and bait ag’in. This yer kept a goin’ till our meat began ter run low, an’ we hated ter leave, fer beaver never were 'so hungry as them. So, one day, I tuk my | med’ a stroke fer a deer. ride, and left him ter keep camp while I I calewlated I | mought find one up on the mountains, sum- mad, now, Rube, please..| © 80d ten” we c’uid'get’along ‘another ? ’ ’ € . You know I was born a doubter, and I can’t | week. e “ Jake hed a great notion fer comfort, so he built a fire, and set down on a log by it. Arter a while he concluded ’at he would go out and look at the traps near by. He got a good load of beaver, an’ was a-bringin’ them in, ter skin ’em comfortably by the fire, when, just as he stuck his nose inter the lodge-door, he heard a growl, and, look: in’ in, thar’ were the biggest grizzly these _ yer eyes ever saw, a-toastin’ hisself by the
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’ : t [oer eer res ete eee semen ne toot = teeta blaze, and lookin’ pleased as possible over it. He showed his white teeth, and giv’ a growl which sent Jake flyin’ out of the hut, an’ down the bank to ther ice; then he looked back and saw thet the ‘bar didn’t | foller him, and, afier a while, he sneaked back to ther hut, an’ thar the grizzly sot, lookin’ inter the fire, an’ feelin’ as much at home as ef he hed been in his cave. It med’ Jake mad to see him sit thar’, and he ’van to call him all the names he could lay his tongue.to. Grizzly looked up, when he heard his voice, an’ growled ag’in, but showed no signs of getting tired of his snug quarters. “ Jest think of it. The poor nigger out in the cold, with his teeth chatterin’, and that blamed b'ar settin’ on his ha’nches an’ en- joyin’ the fire! After c while, the old fel- low made up his mind that it would be a good plan to make a meal of Jake, so he came lumberin’ out of the door an’ chased him. “ Boys, you hey’ never seen a grizzly, and you don’t know how hekinrun. Jake was goin’ for his life, but, for all that, the b’ar gained on him every step. But he got to a sapling, clum’ it, an’ left Mr, B’ar gnashing his teeth at the bottom. “ For a while he amused himself by rear- ing on his hind-legs and lookin’ up at Jake, who, thinkin’ he were safe enough, laughed, and begun to call him names ag’in. After a While he laid down under the tree, an’ put his muzzle on his paws, and looked up at him, as much as to say, “ All right, Jake —you won’t come down. Suit yourself as to time, for J can wait. “’Tain’t necessary fer me to tell yer Jake didn’t like ‘hat. He begun to find, too, af- ter half an hour, thet ’twan’t pleasant roost- in’ on a limb in cold December weather, and a warm fire shinin’ out upon the snow from the door of the hut. Things begun to look blue enough. He looked at the b’ar, and begun to caleulate his chances in a fight; then he looked at the long teeth an’ sharp claws, and dassent try it. “ The tree was a hemlock, an’ long limbs reached out an’ almost touched the ground. His gun were a-standin’ in the door. Ef he e’u'd only git it, he would risk his life for a shot. at his inimy. ; “Tt seemed to grow colder, and his blood were like ice. Was yer ever nearly froze? Well, I hes been, an’ I know ’tain’t pleasant. Jake didn’t like it, neither. “Bymeby he ’gin to holler. He thort he might make me hear, ef I were not too fur away; but, Lord! I were miles away, among the hills, an’ couldn’t a’ heard him, anyhow, fer I hed followed a deer out of range; but he hollered till he was hoarse, and his legs felt like iron rods. After a while he got up, and begun to climb up an’ down the tree. Thet was a good idea, an’ pretty soon he was warm as toast, an’ his blood begun flowin’ ag’in. “ All this time the b’ar never stirred, and Jake kept callin’ of him names. ‘ Yon ole np! he said, ‘you’s afraid, you is; you’s afraid, you is; you dassent go ’way an’ let me get rifle Lemme get gun once, me fixie you, ole fool! T’ink yer smart, don't yer? Well, yer ain’t. Yer ain't half so smart as yer cracked up to be; nothin’ but ld Rube, the Hunter. l ‘ a lean old grizzly, with a black face, long as my arm. I dar’s you to take a stump! Go out by dat stump an’ wait till I come. That's the sort of talk he gev the b’ar; but the old fellow never minded it at all, but jest laid still an’ looked at him with eyes twinklin’. “ Strange things happen sometimes. The b’ar got up, after a while, an’ began to snort, jest as they will when they’re mad, Jake knew somethin’ were comin’; what it were he couldn’t tell; but the b’ar was afeard. “ Pretty soon he heard a crawlin’ sound, and the b’ar got up on his hind-feet to look. The sound kem’ nearer, and then one of the biggest painters you ever laid eyes on jumped up on the limb, close to the nig- ger. Thet were worse then the b’ar, Jake thort, but he hoped the Jld fellow wouldn’t see him, so he jest laid still and scarcely breathed. The painter were lookin’ at the b’ar, and didn’t notice Jake at all, who was shakin’ fit to take the tree down. Bymeby the painter gev’ a yell thet med’ the old darkey jump about three feet frum the limb. The painter had tackled the b’an Jake knew thet were his time, and when the painter dropped onto the b’ar, he tumbled outer the tree, and went inter the hut fly- in’. This time he shut the door and piled logs against it, an’ then looked out at the fight. “ Boys, thar’ ain’t nothin’ like it in natur’. I saw sich a fight once, and it fairly med’ my ha’r stand on end, Sich yellin’, sich scratchin’, sich fightin’! Every oncet in a while the painter ’ud fly up inter the tree, like a bird, an’ the old grizzly ’ud stand up on his hind-legs, an’ wait fur him. Then they’d close, and the ha’r and blood would fly for about a minnit,when they would break away, and try it over. “Fire and blood. Thet is the way it looked to Jake. The snow were red for yards around, an’ they were both growing weak. After a while the old b’ar got him in his fore-paws, and begun to work his hind ones as ef he were workin’ a tread-mill. At the same time, the painter’s teeth met in his throat. They stood locked in this way fer some time, an’ then both kem’ to the snow with a crash. Jake fired one or two shots at ’em, ter mek’ sure thet they were gone up, an’ then kem out. The inside of that painter was taken out as neat as you ever cleaned a trout, an’ the windpipe ov the b’ar was bitten clean in two. ’Tain’t no wonder they was played out. Jake put a couple of balls inter them, to make sure, and then dragged them into the hut. I kem’ back without any meat, an’ Jake showed me his b’ar-meat, but he didn’t take pride in it, an’ told me he never was so scart in his born days. Do you see the track of Charlie’s horse on that side, my lad ?” “ Yes,” replied Dolf, “ here it is,” “Good. These fellows leave a broad trail. Have yer any brandy in that can- teen, Willie? I’m dry after talkin’.” Willie handed him the flask, and he took a hearty pull and then bent his eyes on the trail. “ How fur we shill hev’ to ride is plain, now. They’re makin’ straight fer Powder river. Meton’s town is about three miles i 11 from thet, an’ probably the easiest place te hide near in the whole Crow kentry. I ain't afeard. but we kin take them out ov thet village. Don’t let’s be in a hurry, They’re jest about three hours ahead of us now, an’ we needn’t to hurry ourselves Twon’t do to get too near, you know. I’m hungry ; how is it with you?” They halted, built a fire, and prepared a meal from some jerked venison in the possession of Rube. It was not a very good repast, but they were hungry, and did not care to fire their rifles, as sound is borne te such a distance on the plains. But, Rube would not starve in the midst of plenty, and so he took his rifle, and went out to try for game, taking Dolf with him. Upon second thought, he left his rifle, and carried a long bow which Willie had purchased at Leavy- enworth, for what purpose it was hard to tell. “Tm goin’ to teach you how to stalk deer, my lad,” said he. “TI didn’t take the rifle, fer we’re done with thet now until we hey’ our friends with us. But, we must hev’ meat, an’ I hev’ a notion thet buck- tails ain’t very fur off. It’s jest the country fer them, an’ we will hev’ one or two.” The land through which they were pass- ing was rolling, and covered with a growth of low trees. Rude led the way with quick strides, for he did not like to leave Willie too long alone. That individual, with praiseworthy caution, led the animals into a thicket, fastened them to separate trees, and then laid down for a rest, from which he was awakened by the return of the hunting party, bearing a doe between them on a pole. Rube had stalked him on the moun- tain and brought him down with an arrow. A pretty fawn followed Dolf like a dog, while he looked down compassionately upon her. They prepared and finished another meal at once, regardless of the fact that they had just dined. This done, as night was coming on, they laid down to rest upon the trail. The fawn lay down by Dolf’s side, and laid her head upon his hand. He was up next morning before the rest, and at work very busily. By this time all were fully awake; they found that he had been making up some cakes from a little flour he had carried in a package so far, and was feeding the fawn. * Isn’t she pretty ?” he said. tle thing; I hate to leave her.” They mounted and rode off, but to their surprise the fawn trotted along by their horses’ sides, nd would not leave them. “Poor critter,’ “aid Rube. “It’s nat’ral thet she should want some one to take care on her, seein’ thet we've killed her mother, Tain’t often they take to murderers so well, though.” And so the fawn kept up with them, looking up from time to time into Dolf’s face, and watching his every motion with her luminous eyes. They rode again all day, and when they laid down to rest, the fawn again went to him, and laid her head upon his arm while he slept. “ Poor lit-
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- SE —— Old Rube, the Hue. * CHAPTER VIL. The Orow Council Nestiine down among the hills, a few weagues from Powder river, among the Panther Mountains, lay the village ruled by Meton. It numbered three hundred lodges, and was beautifully situated upon the shores of a small lake, peculiar to that region— a beautiful little lake, whose glimmering sur- face shone clearly among the leaves, con- trasting with their brilliant green. To the east, through a gap in the mountains, Pow- der river could be seen flowing downward to unite its waters and mingle with those of the Great river. The village was alive with excitement, for a swift rider had come in to say that Meton was coming, with buffalo-meat, and prisoners. Squaws were running to and fro, jabbering at the tops of their voices, and preparing for the return of theirlords. _ Vi- sions of the post, the fagot, and the torch danced before their delighted eyes. With the innate cruelty of their thoroughly sav- age natures, they longed for the tor- ture. The hunters came in about noon, and brought with them Charlie and Ida. They had been taken at the graves of her parents, after a hard struggle on his part, and the death of two of their number by his hand. They had another prisoner, the brave who had been taken on the day of that fight upon the prairie, when they were first taken. The Crows had lost their veneration for the prophetess in some respects, for they had guarded her strictly on the march. But, as they came into the village, one of the old men advanced with stately grace, led her into her own Jodge, spread the skins that she might rest, and went out with se- date steps. The other prisoners were strongly bound. One of the old braves looked at the young Crow, and said: “Why is my son bound ?” It was his father. “You will know at the council,” replied Meton, fiercely. But the young brave cried out; “He shall know now/ Behold! Meton, he has slain the rest, and now brings me in a prisoner. He is worthy to die.” “What has my son been doing ?” “T would not give up the prophetess into his hands.” “Let the prisoners go into the lodge,” said Meton, making an imperious gesture with his hands. They were carried into a lodge, still securely bound, while a strong guard of Meton’s own adherents was placed about it on every side. The braves scat- tered into groups through the village, con- versing with one another on the events of the week. The old men, with their usual stolidity, asked no questions, although many missed sons from the ranks of the war riors. The council was called at night. Both prisoners were brought forth and bound to posts before the principal lodge. Charlie looked for Ida; was she there? He could not see her at first, for her face was turned away and her dress was that of the squaws. After a while he saw her leave the crowd | of women, and take her place in the eo” cil. Ona sort of raised throne of skins, | upon the side of the fire opposite him, he ' saw her take her seat, while two old men, | patriarchs of their tribe, sat on her right | hand and on her left. A murmur of delight ran through the multitude as they saw her thus enthroned. Her eyes were downcast, | except one look flashed quickly across the | intervening space, which plainly said, “Courage! Hope!” The great fire began to blaze fiercely, | and then a horn sounded three times, At | the third summons, one arose and called | the name of a warrior. No answer. A roll was called, twelve in number, but no answer was returned. The young brave at the stake started suddenly, for he knew the | names. It was the death-roll of the fallen. Ida rose. “ Answer they not, my brother ?” “ No, great prophetess.” “Where shall we seek for them?” she said, sinking back into her seat. This was the method of their council, and the last question gave those who knew any thing of their fate to speak for themselves One after another the braves rose and an- swered for the fullen. Then the old chief ‘on Ida’s right arose. “ Have we then a traitor among us ?” “We have,” said Meton. “ What says the prophetess to this ?” “Let him be brought before us and we will judge him by ow law,” she answered, faintly. A movement was made by several war- riors in the direction of the place where the prisoner stood. The young Crow was un- bound and led to the center of the circle. Meton stood up, pointing to him with a malignant finger. “Behold the traitor!” The young warrior stood erect, with his arms folded across his manly breast, which rose and fell with regular pulsations, as if his blood could not be quickened by the near approach of death. Not a muscle of his face was convulsed; only a haughty firmness dwelt in eye and lip, as if he had nerved himself to meet the worst. “Let my young brother speak,” said the silver voices of Ida, “and tell us how he came here bound and a prisoner.” “ Great prophetess,” he said, “let my ac- cuser speak first, and then I will answer Let the forked tongue of the ‘ Moose’ finish what he has to say. He isa liar /” Meton clutched at the handle of the hatchet. The young prisoner smiled. “Let Meton speak,” said Ida. “He hears the words of the young brother.” “Why should I waste time,” he asked ; “yonder traitor must die; and yet it is well that he know that his death is just. My fathers, you sent your young men out to hunt the buffalo. They were ready to go, | for the squaws and pappooses needed meat. The prophetess said, ‘ Let me, too, go out the hunt with you.’ Meton said, ‘It is | well, let the prophetess come.’ She took | saying, with her the men you had given to be al- ways near her and protect her from harm. You chose them because they were brave. | But they were as snakes in the grass ; they | 1 were as Blackfeet, enemies of the Crow. | for we should see u. | of the village had gone | them we must have the propx. “ We hunted the buffalo upon the plains, and, at morning, we looked for the prophet- £88, and she was gone! We looked long, as at last, we found her; but she was * ye. The white man of the short not #lo. “-) her. We asked them to give eaten - but they bade us go back, her up to WS; = -.er face no more. How when the great light out? We told ‘etess, They should the Crows live would not give her up. We “My fathers, what could we dor ‘tes fought them all day. At night many of ~ were dead, and we had not harmed them. At night we took them, and all were slain but these. My fathers, it grieved the sou! of Meton that he must shed the blood of a Crow warrior; but it was done, and the others will come back no more.” There was a deep murmur of discontent from the better half of the audience, for all the village had formed a deep circle around the ring of chiefs and old men. The young men who had been slain were the bray- est of the tribe, chosen for comeliness of person and strength of limb, to be the body- guard of the prophetess. Plainly, Meton had not made a good impression. He saw this, and began to be angry. “T look about me, and many faces that were with me are gone from my sight. Where is the friend of my youth, who has fought with me in a hundred battles? He fell by the long rifle of yonder white man, and the coyotes will make merry over his bones.” An angry buzz rose from the adherents of Meton, and fierce looks were exchanged by the two factions. Then the young pris- oner svoke, for Meton had seated himself. pleased at the impression he at last had made. “The forked tongue is silent, and now will I speak. What right had I to do as I have done, let my words show. I was chosen to be one of the guards to our great prophetess. Good; that was more than I deserved, and I was proud. I loved the prophetess. I was ready to die for her good. So were my brothers, whom the forked tongue murdered on the plains. I[ took no command from him. The proph- etess said, “Come, let us go.” I did not. ask her where she was going. I was not put there to ask, but to obey. We went away, and next day, men, painted like Blackfeet, said the prophetess must be given up to them. Why should Ae put on the dress of a Blackfoot? We would not give her up to his hands. He fought us, and was beaten. He lighted the prairie-grass, to burn us where we stood.” A perfect roar of rage broke out from the faction of Ida, and many of the others now joined hoarsely in the cry. In truth, the power of this girl over the village wus won- derful. They reverenced her as akin to Deity. It is no wonder, for her remark- able beauty and grace had won their hearts years before. And when they heard that the prophetess had been in danger, theit anger found vent in these expressions. A malignant scowl deepened upon the face of Meton, as he turned angrily aside. “ He lighted the prairie-grass,” went on ‘the Hawk,’ asthe young chief wus called. Ne ~"
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“and we were in danger, but the Good Spirit helped us to turn aside the flame, and we escaped. The white man was with us, and he fought for the prophetess. At night, like Blackfeet, they came, and murder- ed my brothers, and took away the proph- etess. She escaped out of their hands that night, and they took her again next day. Behold, she is here. Let her say if all this is not true.” In all this subtle speevh, not a word had been said that could be forced into the con- struction that he was aware of Ida’s desire to escape. He was particularly careful to say nothing of this kind, as that would have done his cause great harm. Ida rose, flung back the mass of raven hair with one hand, while she stretched out the other ‘persuasively toward the people. _ How she talked to them! Sweetly as though they had been children whom she loved! The rough wattiots Were moved, and looked from man to man, She spoke of her guard; how she loved them; how ‘brave they were ; how devoted to her cause. “Then she spoke of the fight upon the prai- ‘tie, when she would not give herself up to men in the paint of Blackfeet. This masterpiece of strategy, laying so much stress upon the fact that they took the guise of Blackfeet, the inveterate enemy of the Crow, had the desired effect. Aud when she went on to tell of the successful tepulse, of the fire-wall bearing down upon them, of the night-struggle, and the death of of her guard, she had wound them to a pitch of the wildest excitement. She concluded: “ And shall this young chief die, because ‘he was faithful to me? Couid any of you go to the happy hunting-grounds, if you took away fis life? And what shall we say of the Snake, who murdered your broth- ers? It was not our bullets that laid them low. No, no! But Meton led them on to death. I say, let the Hawk go free, and let Meton take his place. He is the traitor here.” “ Let the chiefs who say that the Hawk has done no harm, arise with me,” said the old chief on her left. Nearly every man in the circle rose to his feet. Then Ida rose, and said to the Hawk, “ Go free.” He came to her, and, kneeling at her feet, bowed his head. She put her hands upon the bowed head and said he was free from stain. Then he rose, and went down among his friends, while Meton was seized, and placed in the stand he had occupied. It is needless to tell what was said and done there. The usual number of partisan speeches were heard; and, at last, that grave jury deputed one to be spokesman for the whole. The gray-haired man on the right stood up, and turning full upon Meton, addressed him in these words: “ My son is not old, but he has a bad heart. For years his heart has been the game, and now it has come to this. We would have peace in our village. Why should there be murder while we have a t prophetess among us. We do not love bloodshed. We would not have it so. But, my son is never weary of taking scalps. Now he comes to us, and what scalps has he in his belt? Not those of the Blackfoot taken in the fight, spear against spear and shield to shield, but the scalps of his broth- Old Rube, the Hanéer. ers, and the friends of many here. My son, you have done very wrong; you have done & wrong to the Great Spirit and to us. We are very sorry. We have judged you by our law, and say you are worthy to die; but because you have been a chief, we bid you go out from our village, and come back to us no more.” The dusky Catiline arose, and faced the senate of brown peers. His eyes were bloodshot; his white teeth showed through his half-parted lips. He passed his hand unsteadily across his brow, as if something obstructed his vision. He leaned heavily upon the stake near which he stood. Hate, fear, anger, all the evil passions of his wild nature burned in his face. His malevolent glance hurried over the sea of faces, about nim, and found many friendly to him, but none who dared to speak. The circle cried out with one voice : “Go! Murderer, go !” He spoke then, with a vindictive earnest- nest, tecounting his services, and hurling defiancé in theit teeth, Then he went down, and passed from man to man, speak- ing hurried words to several. But he was hurried away. Looking back at them from a little distance, he spat venomously toward the crowd, shook his clenched hand in the air, and went on his exiled way. A thrill ran through that savage assem- bly as the chief disappeared from view. They had no idea that he would take his dis- appointment kindly, or that they should not hear of him in his banishment. Indeed, they felt that half the tribe were with him iu heart, and were grieved and angry at his banishment, and wished for his recall. But, these knew better than to resist the will of the council as it felt at present. Boiling with rage, the chief climbed the mountains to the right of the village, com- ing up the valley, and looked down upon his native fields. Banishment! The now wild man of the woods grew sad indeed. Was he taking his last look at the spot where his life had ben spent? He could not tell. He was hungering after vengeance. He would return to his native village, and he would not come alone. He would come, with spear, knife, hatchet and blazing brand, and lay it desolate. He was not long alone. One by one his friends came to join him on the hill. He could see from his perch that the council was broken up. Charlie had been taken back into the lodge, and the fire was out. He was angry, and foamed at the mouth, as he saw the Hawk walking about, giving orders as he should have done. This, then, was the end of all. The prophetess taken from him baulked of his revenge for the death of his friend, exiled from his home. He began to hate her. That she loved Charlie he could see in every word, look and tone of her voice—in the pretty way she had of starting at his words, and turning her bright face toward him. Charlie should die. The love of the Indian was a coarse pas- sion, but it was not the less strong. Woe to the man who crossed his path! His friends Joined him. He questioned ' them as to what had béen done. Who was | chosen head chief in his place ? ee ee ee ee a aa... ee —— te 13 “The Hawk has takem the lodge of Meton,” replied one. Meton bousded erect, as if in pain. “The Wawk ? on “Head chief?” “'Y 68.” Meton took his hatchet, and struck ht jnte a log. “So will I cleave his head; so wB my knife find his heart. Let us be watchful Go back to the village, and make ready When three suns are gone, meet me at on place and I will tell you what to. 0.” They went back to the village. They found more disaffected now, for there are politicians even among the Indians, and they had not all been satisfied with the election of the Hawk. He spoke tg Ida, standing on the doom way of their lodge, ‘ Meton is gotie,” she said. z “He will return,” was the answer. “ Why do you think so ?” “He has many friends. He will come back, and blood will run in the streets of our village. - I wish we had not been taken.” “ How soon do you look for trouble ?” “Trouble iseverywhere. We see a black cloud in the sky, and we say, behold, a storm comes. We see the flash of the lightning, and we wait for the thunder. Meton will come to claim you and his own right.” “ And you?” “While blood yuns in the veins of thy Hawk, you are safe from every harm.” She thanked him by a look of gratitude from her calm eyes, and the Indian was nm warded. “ What can you do for him?” she aska, softly. “ Nothing now.” “ Will he die?” He knew why she asked for the ¢ ifety o. Charles. The savage hal quick syca, and he knew her love for the prisoner, “ T will do what I can,” he answer x. “May I go in and see him now?” Without a word, he led her to tle door of the prison-lodge, made the guan{ stand aside, while she joined her lover. He had cast himself down upon the skins 4nd! was thinking of his home, beyond the, distant hills.. Was he sorry he had come to this dangerous plain? Was it enough of joy that he had found what he had songht, one to love him. as he would be loved?) He knew that Ida loved him, . Years had, not been passed, only days, and yet they, loved as truly as if they had bven lovers for many seasons. What would be his fate ? He did not hear her when she came in, for her footsteps awoke no evhoes upon the floor of the lodge. But she came te him, and knelt at his side, placing a hand upon his, That startled him, and he roused himself to look into her earnest eyes, to listen to the music of her voice, and to say to his heart, that, whether life or death was in store for him, happiness or misery in the future, he did not regret the step he had taken. Her priceless love, her undying devotion, would lighten the burden he would have to fear, and clear the way for his weary feet into the promise of the com- ing day.
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oe ST 42 ee TSO — “Indians themselves. CHAPTER VIII. Three against— Many. Tue hunters had followed Meton hard, and, on the morning of his exile, were cau- tiously making their way up to the Panther mountains. The old hunter knew every foot of the ground, nearly as well as the They climbed the slope upon one side, and, from the crest shielding themselves behind the cliffs, they tooked down upon the village. They had been lookers-on upon the council. They his native village, showed them that he shook a wrathful hand at the council as he departed. Plainly, Meton had come to grief. But how? They kept the telescope on the village. The Hawk was receiving the oath of head chief. Charlie was there. “leaning against a post,” Dolf said; “ tied to it,” corrected the old hunter. They could make out his features through the powerful glass, and there was an expression of unmistakable pleasure upon it. “ He is all right,” said Rube, as he handed. the glass to Willie. “ Come!” They followed him down the mountain side to a cleft which opened suddenly at their feet, and ran down toward the plain. {nto this cleft they walked, and kept on un- til they reached a small opening on the rock, looking black and grim in the shadow of the cleft. “ Give me thet birch,” said Rube. A torch of birch-bark, which he had pre- pared earlier in tne day, was handed to him by. Willie. He lighted it, and at once passed into the black opening. They fol- Jowed, and-found themselves in a beautiful little cave, about a dozen feet square, and high enough to admit of their standing up- right. The stalactites hung in great honey- comb-like masses’ from the roof, and the Aight of the torch was reflected from a thou- sand ‘sparkling points. ‘What acapital place to hide,” said Dolf. “ Pretty good,” said Rube, “ but, not the ipldce for me.” “Why, what are you going to do?” iLook here.” on) “He held down the torch in one corner of the’ cave. The others looked down, and saw another opening, as large as the first, uid from it an inelined plane led down- ward into utter gloom. Dolf shuddered. I“ Ught) What a gloomy rat-hole! I hepé you don’t méan to go down there ?” »» Por/ answer, he tied one end of a lariat, which’ he suddenly produced, around his waist, and put the other end into the others’ hands. “If I jerk the rope three times,” said he; you may know there is something vrong, and pull me out.” He seated himself upon the sloping sur- face, and disappeared. The two remained above, and awaited in great anxiety for some time. At length the voice of Rube was heard. “ All right, lads, come down.” _“How ?” “Do as I did; you will come quickly enough.” ‘Dolf sat down upon the limestone, which iv“ lined at’ an angle of about filly degrees, Old Rube, the Hunter. /and in a moment's time, it seemed, landed , at the feet of the hunter. Willie followed. Then both stood up, uttering an exclama- tion of delight. The room in which they found them- selves was A vast circular one in the very heart of the’ mountain. Like the small chamber, it was of limestone, and its beauty can scarcely be described. The floor was smooth and shapely, except where the sta- lagmites rose from it. The roof was an arch, and as the light flashed back from the many points, Willie thought of the “ star- . had seen, from far, the chief slowly leaving | Thetelescope Dolf carried | chamber” of Mammoth cave. “ How did you know of this, Rube ?” he asked. “ Wal, as we hey’ time, an’ can’t do any » thing till night, I don’t know but I may as well teil ye all about it. You see it were two year ago, an’ I hed come into the Crow ' country, I may ez well tell ye, after that ' fellow Meton. I hed been larkin’ round the. village, and at night I went in. “ Jest as luck would hey’ it, they chased me, and I ran down the mountain, and thought I would hide in the cleft. It were neck or nothin’ with me, nothin’ to spare either way ; so, as I happened ter see the hole in the rock, I went inter it. “T hed no notion how large the place was, and ran into onecorner tohide. Fust I knew, I was off my feet, and sliding down thet stun’. I tell yow boys, it were a scarey feelin’, an’ I never was in a tighter place. There I were, goin’ down, down, down, it seemed a year, and every mean thing I ever done in all my life kem’ up before me. It seemed as ef I saw my whole life while I were slidin’ down, an’ yit, you know, it don’t take searce aminnit. Wal, I struck bottom after a bit, an’ when I found it I were safe—I begun to breathe. “’Tain’t never very dark here—see,” He extinguished the torch, and although objects in the cave looked indistinct, still there was sufficient light to move easily and quickly to all parts, The hunter went on with his story: “T thort I c’u’dn’t never git back up ther slide, an’ I begin to cast about fer other ways to getout. Just then I c’u’d hear the Injins come into the outer cave, an’ goin’ to ther mouth of ther slide, I ¢’u'd: see their torches. Then I knew’twan’t very fur up. One of ’em kem’ to ther slide and looked down, but it didn’t suit him, so he wen‘ away. “ When I kem’ out, I hed a notion to see whether the place hed been explored by the Injins. I hed my lariat with me, as I al- ways has, and when I left I tied it acrost the movth, in sich a way thet a man c’u’dn’t slide down ’thout runnin’ into it. When I kem’ down, I found every thing straight, | jest as I left it. Now, then, you stay here, while I go out and see to the hosses.” “How do you get up ?” “Ther sides of the slide ar rough, an’ you kin take hold with both hands and go | up thet way. You keep still.” He left them, and they began to wander | about the spacious room. All at once, it came into the head of Dolf that it would be @ good idew vo find where so much light came from. Climbing up the western slope a few feet. he came to a sort of ledge, per- eeu ——])])0]([—oovmmmns» —— haps five feet wide, and up this he clam- bered, until he came to the opening from which the light entered. The village lay in full view. The open. ing was in one of the rocky clefts common to these mountains, and in a spot inacces sible to the foot of man, or it would doubt less have been discovered before this time. ; Just before the opening the rock widetied | into a sort of platform,on which they could — stand while observing the village. “This is grand!” said Willie. “ Wecan see every thing they do from this.” “ Where did Rube leave the horses ?” “In a clump, just at the mountain foot. think he means to lead them into one of hese clefts and feed them from time to time. It won’t do for us to stay here long, though.” “ We must save Charlie.” “Yes, we must save Charlie and her. If we save one, we must save the other. Isn’t it strange that he should escape heart-whole from the pretty girls in the Empire State to find his fate out here ?” “Tt isn’t wonderful that he loves her,” said Dolf, warmly ; “how could he help it ?” “Aha! my lad, is it there you are?” laughed Willie. “Take care, for you can’t eut out Charlie, you know.” “Neither do I wish it. You will not misunderstand me. If she were not in love with him, I would raise heaven and earth but I would win her.” “Indeed! Well, let it pass. Both of them need our help, God knows. When they are saved, then let her judge which is the better man. As for myself, Dolf, I can only say that I don’t want her.” “Willie, do you remember the fable we read of in Alsop, about ‘ Vulpes et Uva? How the fox found that he could not reach the grapes, and went away, saying, ‘ But, even now, they are sour; neither would I touch them if found in the way ?” “Sour grapes for me! That will do for you, Dolf. Ha! what is that?” “ Voices in the outer cavern, as sure asI am a sinner. Look out!” Two bodies, joined in deadly conflict, came rolling down the slide. In the dim light they could only make out that one was Rube, and the other an Indian in the dress of a Crow brave. Their strong arms were about each other, and each muscular right hand closed like a vice upon the wrist of the other. A grim determination settled upon cheek and brow. Deadly strife is awful, when loud words mingle with steady blows; but more fear ful still is the strife where teeth are hard set, and those lips are silent, and nothing heard but the panting breath and the heavy blows. So the two forest men fought. their faces worked fiercely, and the breath of each grew shorter. As the two white men stepped forward to aid their friend for the first time, he spoke: “Keep back !” There was concentrated earnestness in the tone of his voice. They understood it. His rough code of honor would not allow more to come against one not more thap _ his match. i Their | toughened muscles stood out like ropes, ~ eal C
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The old hunter’s wire-like muscles were never tired, and, at length, he wrested his hand from the grasp of his adversary. Two passes, quick as light, and he shook off his bleeding foe and rose to his feet. The In- dian lay silent, with the blood oozing from two ghastly wounds. “He hes his gruel,” said Rube. “Where did you find him?” Willie. “ Just outside. We had a few words by way of compliment, an’ then we clinched. ’Tain’t no use talkin’, but he were the tough- est customer I ever kim’ acrost, ’thout an exception. Skeered him some, thet rollin’ do.va the slide.” * Have you looked at the horses?” % Yes.” “ Oon’e and see what we have found.” Dolf iad the way to the opening, and pointed wut with pride the strict surveil- lance they could exercise over the village. The huntey expressed his approbation of the discovery, and they came down. As they reached the level, the dying Indian rose upon his elbow and looked at them with strangely lux\d eyes. “Ah, the accursed word is true, and the Indian must cease from off the land, Long ago our medwine-men told us that we must some time yield to the arm of a race who /had wings like birds and flew over vast o6as—a nation with the power of the buf- falo and the swinness of the eagle. “The mediciaz-men were very right. We die, and our luads fall to the lot of the accursed people. ‘Woe, woe to the Crow, the Blackfeet, and we Néz Percé, that a white man living sev foot on their soil. They kept not the words of the medicine- men, who told them .o slay the whites where they could be fouud. Alas for it! “The Indian had awany lands, and horses like the birds of the plains; but they said, ‘ Let these sit down among us, and take a little of our land, avd a few horses, and so we shall be frienda They may teach us much,’ “ What did they teach ust They taught us how to lie, and steal, and drink the fire- water; they taught us all this that was wrong, and nothing that is good. The hand of the Crow should be sgainst them, through all time to come. “ White man, I curse you dying. I go to the happy hunting-grounds of my people. I curse you with my latest breath. I hate you, I hate you!” He paused, for the blood was welling up into his throat, and choked his utterance. The paroxysm over, he sunk back, and be- gan, in a low, monotonous monotone, to chant the death-song of his people: asked Great Manitou, I die! Hear thou the voice of thy child; Behold, how I bleed, How I chill, as my spirit is passing on, Idie. The knife touched my heart, And I shall not behold the morning , Great Spirit, hear my curse: Curse, ye darkest spirits, The spoiler of the laud of thy children 3 Let thy lightning blast, Let thy fires come down, Let him tremble when he hears thy voice. Behold I am a warrior, I have taken many scalps; ido not fear to die; Old Rube, the Hunter. Let me hunt the buffalo, The deer and the moose, On the banks of the Happy River Why should I live, When the inheritance of my fathers, The land they loved, Passeth into the hands of the stranger? Good father, let me go.” The voice was still, the muscular limbs stiffened after one more spasm, and the voice was forever stilled. He hunted the deer by the Happy River. “ Poor fellow,” said Dolf. “ He’s an Injin,” said Rube, dogmatically, “an’ you see 1 were born to rub him out. It’s jest as well as it is. An’ now, while we think of it, what kind of an Injin would I make ?” Dolf laughed. I fancy.” “T don’t know thet. On the contrary, I think oy tryin’ it. This yer Injin’s kit, an’ is a good one, will make me look fancy. Jest hand me thet little pouch abcut his neck, will you?” He complied, and Rube fished out from its depths various colored pigments, with which the Indian had adorned himself in life. Seeing these, he moralized : “See thet, don't yer? Now thet Injin thort himself a beauty, and used ter paint red, yaller and white stripes acrost his face. Now thet is jest Injin natur’.. He didn’t know any better. Let's see what kind of a painter you are, Willie.” “What do you want me to paint ?” “Thet Injin’s pictur’.” “What do you mean by that ?” “ Mean jest what I say. I want you to paint thet Injin’s pictur’.” “T have no canvas,” laughed Willie. “ Here is yer canvas,” said Rube, stand- ing up before him. “ Now go in.” “You want me to paint your face like that Indian’s ?” eee Se “ For what, pray ?” 5 “ You are derned inquisitive,I must say. Well then, it ar’ thet I may go inter the village, and see hew things is goin’,” Willie understood him now, and went to work with a will. A natural artist, he knew just what pigments to use to gain the desired tints, and in the course of half an hour, the hunter, haying taken the body to the summit of the platform, put on the clothes of the slain man, and came down with the cat-like tread characteristic of the Indian. The two could not repress an ex- clamation of astonishment, so perfect was the likeness. “Will I do?” he asked. “T guess you will. What have you done with the body ?” The hunter pointed up at the opening ‘¢ Left it on the platform ?” “ No, threw it out the hole.” Dolf shuddered. “ You ain’t used to it,” said Rube, com- passionately, “and ’tain’t nat’ral you should. It’s a poor life, any way, you'll find, for them as hes lived all their lives in cities. You'll git over bein’ afraid of blood if you stay long upon the prairies.” “T hope not,” said Dolf. out soon ?” “ Soon’s it gits dark. We hev’ got to be “Not a very good one, “Will you go L& keerful. I think Meton is in the hills Somethin’s the matter with him, as I c’u’d tell from that council this mornin’. Looked to me as ef they turned him away. kf they hev’, my word for it, they'll git enough of it. He hes half the warriors on his side, I know, fur he’s a great brave, an’ thet’s what they like. He will wait out here tel his cronies comes together—then look out fur ha’r raisin’, fur he will go inter the vil- lage and fight fur Ida, and Charlie, who he thinks ar’ Ads prisoners. Let’s lie down an’ rest tel the time comes fer us to be goin’, an’ then we will try what we kin do for them. To-night, we ought to save them, ef possible.” CHAPTER IX. Rube at Work. Merton did not leave the hills. Indeed, the hunter was quite right when he said that he would doubtless attempt to gather his friends, and by force of arms gain back what he had lost. The wily chief was in a rage, chiefly, because he had lost caste with the elders of the village. The seenes at the council rankled in his heart. That another should be preferred before him, and that other a prisoner of his own, filled him with anger. His men came back at the appointed ume. They brought yet others with them, and the wild band sat down in the shadow of the mountain, and talked of their pros- pects. They could not surprise the Hawk. That they had already found, for when they came away he had been making ready his urms, and preparing to resist to the death, any attempt of Meton. What the outcast gained must be by hard fighting. He rose and addressed his dusky ad- hererts, and inflamed their minds by paint- ing the death-scenes on the plains. They were soon ready for any evil. “Let my brother Un-am go to the cave,” he said. “In it he will find a bow ana arrows. Leé him bring them back to me.” A stout young Indian arose and went away, and the plotters sat silent, waiting his return. silence, but he did not come back, ‘They watched in vain for that Indian, for he was the one who now lay bleeding in the rocky cleft, into which he had been hurled by the strong arm of Rube. At the end of an hour, the second Indian was sent, and re- turned, bringing the bow, but finding no trace of the other. Meton took the bow. “Let my brothers look at these arrows, and they will see that the quiver is of rat- tlesnake skin. In my other hand I hold a pipe. You, my friend, will take them in your hand asI take them. Go into the village, and call aloud for the Hawk. When he comes, say to him from me, that Meton is angry because he sits in his lodge, and rests upon the skins prepared for him. Say to him that Meton does not seek blood, but rather looks for peace at the hands of his countrymen. Let him go out of the chief's lodge, and sit down .in his own; let the chiefs say to Meton, come back, and take For an hour they smoked in »
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Old Rube, the Hunter. =i SS ———— STP hen o f ————e————E—E—————— je a eel A eat BB SEE the place that is yours by right. Let them do this, and all will be well. But if he will not take the pipe, give him the skin of arrows, and come back to me.” The young Crow took them from the band of the chief, and ran down the moun- tain side at the long lupe peculiar to the Indian. They saw him cross the plain and disappear among the lodges. Passing on to the central square to the opening before the council lodge, he began to call in a loud voice. <A gray-haired thief asked him what he would have. “ Let the Hawk come forth and face me.” “What would my young brother do with the head chief? He has much work to do.” “Let him come forth,’ demanded the other. The chief turned to a boy, and sent him to, the Hawk. He came soon, crowned with the eagle-feathers of the chief, and de- manded the business of the embassador. “I. come from Meton, who has been driven forth from his lodge. I bring you his word. See what I hold in my right hand. It is a pipe. Its stem was cut, and its bowl carved by the medicine-men, many years ago. If you will take this, after I have told you the message of Meton, all will be well; but if, refusing to do this, you claim the other, it is here for you.” “Who is this Meton?” demanded the Hawk, angrily. “I do not know the man.” “Have you forgotten? Then I will tell you. He is one who was head chief of the village, whose place you have taken.” “T remember that there was such a chief, but the council have said, let his name be forgotten, for he is a chief of the tribe ne more.” “Have you nothing more to say ?” * Nothing.” “Will you not smoke the pipe ?” «“ No.” The embassador took the rattlesnake ‘kin from. his blanket, and held it out to ne chief. He took it, and broke the .trows one by one, saying : “As I break these arrows, so I will break the power of the exiled wretch you have named, if he comes to make good his threats. Say to him that the Hawk fears him not. Say to him that my young men are eager for battle, and they will sweep him from the earth, if he rouses them to anger. Let my young brother take good advice, Ee has been led away by this bad one. Let him come back to the tribe while there js yet time.” The other made a haughty gesture, as if to reject the overture. “My brotier is wrong,” continued the chief. “Let him go to those who are on the mountain, that if they will come to the village to-day, all shall be well with them. But if they refy se, they suffer for it.” The young nan turned away and re- turned to the 4ills. The Hawk looked after him silentys, and then went to the door of Ida’s lo&ge and called her. She came out, and he xold her what had passed, and that they might expect an attack from Meton that night. She advised him to pre- pare for it, and put guards about the camp on every side. He called his men together, and num- , were away. bered them. He found that more than half the fighting element of the village His strength had been in the ‘influence of the old chiefs more than in /the young and hot-blooded portion of the community. Those who remained were the bravest and best of the tribe, and he had no fear of the result. He found that he had seventy men on whom he could rely, and that somewhat more than that number were opposed to him. He did not wonder | that the exile had grown bold, and defied him. Night came, and found them ready. Huge fires had been lighted, not close to | the village, but some rods away, so that, though the village lay in darkness, a broad band of light encircled it on every side, over which every one must pass who came from either way. It was rather sharp prac- tice, and as good as a stockade in the way of those coming from outside. Charlie was in his prison-lodge, not bound, but guarded. The lodge itself was in the very center of the village, and, for that reason, in the deepest gloom. Ida had left him not an hour before, and he sat with his head bowed upon his knees, treasuring every loving word, and look, and touch, in his heart. He had heard the preparation for the coming battle, and longed to be in it. Indeed, he sent forthe Hawk, and beg- ged that he might join in the fight, promis- ing to return to his prison when it was over. He did not care to fall into the hands of Meton. The Hawk had promised that, in case the battle went hard with them, he should be released, and arms were put into his hands. He thanked him, and the chief departed. Something touched him ; he turned quick- ly. In the dim light he could see that a part of the bark was being forced aside, and a dusky face looked in. Then it closed again, and he was alone. Rube was in the camp. He had crawled in at that uncertain time, between darkness and light, when we see things in a sort of hazy indistinctness. The Indians were col- lected in groups, in the open spaces between the lodges, and he could make out that they expected an attack, from whom he could not tell. He saw a lodge that looked desolate, and, lifting the curtain, he looked in. It was empty of human beings, and creeping in, he found a pile of buffalo-robes in one cor- ner. Lying down close to the wall of the wigwam, he drew these over him, and lay quietly. He was not one to be caught with- out a chance of escape, so he cut out the bark in a square, close to his head, so that he could easily push it out, and waited. In addition to this, he cut a small hole, from which he could look out upon the camp. Everybody was arming, and he knew that a battle was coming, but with whom he could only surmise. Soon two Indians came into the lodge and took off some of the robes, spread them on the ground, and lay down with their heads resting on the | pile. Had it been light in the tent, it would | have been an impossible thing for Rube to — escape. Such control had this remarkable man over his nerves, that he lay quietly, with the — "heads of the {w esting within a foot of his’ own, and ma tremor betrayed to them his. situdtidt. Indeed, while they were pulling off the robes, he rolled a little closer to the wall, so as to remove his body from too close contact with the hides. “Where is the white prisoner?” asked one. “ Next lodge,” replied the other. “Well done,” thought Rube. “ Thet ia @ good beginnin’.” “ What did he do to Meton? eh ?” “Try to take away the prophetess.” “Couldn’t come to council, but hunting. What has been done ?” The other, in his concise way, gave an account of the proceedings at the council, and things which had transpired since then. From their talk, he came to a correct under- standing of the state of things in the vil- lage. The old hunter determined to see Char- lie. He judged rightly that the Indians would be busy in preparing for the fight, and he was in no fear of being taken. His disguise was perfect; none could have told him from an Indian. The two talked on for half an hour, giv- ing the spy a detailed account of the events of the day. Then a horn sounded, and they rose hurriedly, flung back the robes, and ran out of thelodge. Crawling on his hands and knees, Rube followed them to the door of the lodge, and looked out. Just then one of them remembered something forgotten in his haste, and turned quickly back for it. Rube had just time to draw back his head, when he camein. He found what he sought, his hatchet, and rushed out, brushing against Rube as he passed. That worthy individual followed him again, and could see the Indians hurrying from all sides toward the center. Here the head chief stood. Around him were grouped the chief men of the tribe, the gray-haired patriarchs, who had called the young warriors in order to give them good counsel before the battle, Now was his time. Creeping out, while all eyes were directed upon the chief, he got between the two lodges, and went to work with his knife. He had just finished his task, and was about to speak to Charles, when a hand was placed upon his arm, and a voice whis- pered his name, or rather the name of the person he represented. Rube knew enough of the dialect of the Crow to be able to converse properly, though he was somewhat concise in his lan- guage. “ Meton thought you were dead,” said the Indian, who was no other than the young brave whom Meton had sent on the embas- say, and who now returned in the character of aspy. The quick-witted hunter saw this at once, and understood why the chief had) thought him dead. So he merely grunted. | “Who stay in this lodge?” Rube told him the truth. “Come ’way from lodge,” said the other. “Tell you what Meton send me for.” Crawling away from the lodge a short distance, still lying prostrate, he told Rube that the chief had sent him to find out which lodge contained Ida and Charlie, and, if possible, he was to seize Ida, and bring
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her away. Rube at once fell in with this plan, and together they crawled back to the lodge. The young spy knew the lodge in which Ida had stayed before, and toward this they now made their way. She, worn by the fatigue of the day, was sleeping quietly, under the light of a burning taper. Even the rough Indian held his breath, at the perfect loveliness of the face, sleeping. “T will go in,” whispered Rube. “ You watch.” The other complied, and with a cat-like stealthiness Rube glided into the lodge. She lay upon the pile of buffalo-robes, in the regal dress she had worn that day, and her hair covering her like a mantle. He had no time to hesitate. But stooping down, he covered her mouth and nostrils with his broad palm. She struggled fiercely, and the other, looking in, saw that she would free her mouth if she was not held tighter. Just as he was coming in, Rube stooped, and whispered in her ear. She became quiet at once, and suffered a gag to be put into her mouth. He offered aer this indignity in order to keep up ap- pearances, but as soon as they were out of the lodge, carrying her between them, he removed it with one hand, while he sup- ported her head with the other. As they neared the broad band of light, the Indian whispered to Rube, and they darted across like a flash of light, fortunate- ly unseen by the guards. But as they crossed the lighted space, the eyes of the apy dwelt more carefully upon the face of Rube, and he knew that he was not his triend. “ Hal” be whispered. ‘ You not Ish-me- no! You not the son of Ac-ta-wan!” Both loosed their hold at the same mo- ment. But before they closed, Rube said: “Tf we fight here, they will hear us, and we shall both be taken. Let us go further on, and then let the best man win.” They went on, Ida following closely. After a little they came to the entrance to one of the clefts in the hills, and passed in. “ Here,” said the Indian. Both grasped their knives, and prepared for the fight. ‘Get out of way, little ’un,” said Rube. “Climb up on one of these rocks an’ see fair.” She con:pliec. Just as they were closing with cautious steps, the light of the moon broke slowly through the last cloud that covered it, and then stood out in an un- clouded sky. Both instinctively took a look at her calm face. “The last time, mayhap,” said Rube. “ Good-by, little ’un, ef I go under.” “ Good-by,” she answered, in a broken voice. A clash of steel was simultaneous with the sound of her voice, and in breathless anxiety she watched the combat. They were fairly matched, and both in splendid condition, and determined to win. The Indian had the advantage of years on his side, but he contended with a man who had never known defeat. Agile as a cat, he was never to be taken unaware. He dodged the blows intended for his heart, or turned them aside with his knife, and then put his own well in. The Indian was bleeding to | death from two wounds, and he saw that | Old Rube, the Hunter. ad his only hope was in closing. He rushed in, and struck, and both knives flew from the combatants’ hands, and they wrestled without weapons. It was, as the old hunter says, “ very plucky, but foolish.” The Indian was a child in the hands of the other. In an in- stant he was borne back upon the sod, with two brown hands at his throat. Remorse- lessly they closed about it. A gurgle, a moment’s deathlike stillness, and Rube rose slowly to his feet. “ Come down, little ’un; it’s all over.” “Ts he dead ?” she asked. “Dead enough. He were a fool. He found me spyin’ in the village, thort I were his friend, and I j’ined him in stealin’ you away. Pretty well done, I reckon. You wait a minnit.” He raised his fingers to his lips, and ut- tered au sharp, prolonged whistle, which echoed through mountain and village with startling earnestness. “What was that for?” she asked. “ You wait a moment.” An answer came back from the hill. The hunter took her in his arms, and hur- ried along the side of the mountain, uttering the whistle from time to time. All at once she cried out : “Oh, sir, here are men, coming. Hear their feet.” “ T hear them. they are.” “What have you done, Rnbe ?” * Nothin’ much, youngster. What does yer think of thet fer a present?” He set Ida on her feet, and Dolf, in his boyish earnestness, took both her hands in his and welcomed her back. Willie made less show of his pleasure, but his earnest face told that he was happy. é “ And Charlie?” said Willie. “ A pris’ner yit. Iam goin’ back. Do you two take the girl to the place you know of, an’ then watch her tel I come back. Ye can’t do no good by goin’ with me. There’s goin’ ter be right smart of a fight in the village, and I allow thet I kin save the boy in the rumpus.” “Before you go,” said Ida, taking the brave man’s hands in hers, “let me thank you for what you have done for me. You are going out to danger, perhaps to death, for the sake of one almost a stranger to you. The prayers of a weak woman are all I have to give, but they are yours while I live.” He pressed her hand to his rough lip, and was gone, He knew the way now, and was not long in getting into the village. Without breath- ing, almost, he crept up to the lodge where Charlie was confined, and looked in. It was not empty, for there were two chiefs with him. One held his rifte, and another was helping him to fasten his belt. He was speaking in a low tone. “You are right in giving me weapons now. When was this done?” “ Don’t know how long. Not an hour.” “ Was she asleep ?” “Guess so. Would have screamed, tink, ef’s not ’sleep.” “ Yes, yes, they doubtless surprised aer It’s only the boys. Here 17 meeping. How many do you think there were ?” “ Two,” said the old chief. Charles was no more than human; and when the chiefs came to him, and told him that some one had taken Ida from her lodge, and that it was thought to be the work of Meton and his men, no wonder that another was added to the already full list of the out- cast’s remorseless enemies. They told him that they needed his aid, and ke eagerly promised to join them, for revenge upon Meton. How he hated him now! The vindictive hate which had followed him in the person of the hunter was nothing to the fires which burned in Ads breast. He vowed to save her from the hands of the chief, or, if she had died at his hands, to take vengeance on him suited to the offense, He followed his new friends from the lodge, clutching his rifle eagerly. “There he goes, poor fellow,” muttered Rube, “ an’ his heart is jist about broke. I wish I c’u'd get near enough to speak to him. He don’t seem to think of us at all, But here goes to follow them.” The three had entered the lodge of Ida, and he crept up to the opening he had made in the wall. “You see how it is,” said the oldest chief, in such execrably bad English that we can not bring our pen to write it, but must perforce give his mean- ing. “There were two of them, and they came in at the door. She sleeps here. They coyer her mouth an’ take her out,, while we were busy. Very bad, dat; sorry we no see dem.” “ They shall pay for it,” cried the young white man. At this moment there rose a sudden clam- or behind Rube, and half a dozen dark forms darted at him in the gloom. He was discovered, and could do nothing but run for it, as he had no particular wish to “ rub out” any of the faction who supported Charlie, at this particular time. He darted into the shadow, dodged in and out among the wigwams, and at last threw his pursu- ers off the trail. It was very plain that his costume was well known in the village, from the quickness with which he had been pursued. He worked in and out among the lodges, until he came back to the spot where Charlie and the other chiefs were standing. Charlie was giving them his ex- perience. “I was more than half asleep, when something pricked me on thearm. I turn xd round, and saw that a hole had been cut n the bark, and an Indian looked in.” “ How painted ?” asked the old chief. “Black and red bars across the breast, white and red upon the face.” The chiefs exchanged glances, “ Tsh-me-no !” said one. “ Ugh !” grunted the rest, in chorus, “ Who is Ish-me-no ?” demanded Charlie. “Friend of Meton; bes’ friend he got.” “Ah! Then you think— ?” “He carry her way.” At this moment two or three braves rushed breathlessly up to them, shouting something in their tongue, which, though indistinct in their Babel of voices, led him to suppose that they were giving the informa- tion that Ish-me-no was in the camp. Bt
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18 was getting too warm to be pleasant. If he did not get out of the village, he would certainly be taken, and yet he could hardly bring himself to leave. A huge tree stood at his right hand. The hunter slung his rifle across his shoul- der and began the ascent. A few seconds found him comfortably ensconced among | the leaves, peering down upon the vil- lage. It was nearly midnight, and the attack promised by the rattlesnake-skin must come soon—and it did. All at once, like a crash of thunder from a clear sky, broke a fear- ful yell from the plain around the village. Rifle-shots began to patter among the leaves, and the position of the hunter became pre- carious. True, they did not see him; but Indians are, proverbially, bad shots, and one of their careless bullets might knock him off his perch. Not liking the idea, he came down a little distance, and placed the body of the tree between himself and the shots. The yells from both parties became deaf- ening, and the missiles of all kinds fell thick and fast. Very little damage was done, however, and the Hawk, by the advice of Charlie, refused to go far from the village, while the night continued, and so give the attacking party an opportunity of getting him in ambush. They did something else, too, of which the savages themselves would never have dreamed, and which the attack- ing party found to their cost, when, incited by Meton, they made a desperate charge upon the village. It is seldom that Indians make a deter- mined attack of this kind; and when they do, it is generally successful. But, in this case, they found their way impeded by felled trees, with the sharpened branches pointing outward in inextricable confusion. They ee up to the abatis, and then a withering fire was poured upon them, while they floundered among the network of limbs. Many fell; but they struggled bravely; and it was only when they saw that the task was hopeless, and the voice of Meton recalled them, that. they retreated, fighting as they went. Vain was the effort of Charlie to restrain the Hawk’s warriors: They rushed over the. obstructions, hatchets: and knives in hand, and pursued the flying foe. Of course Meton turned upon them when he gained the woods, and they were. pressed back in turn, losing nearly as many as their assailants had before them. The Hawk, who had: remained at Charlie’s side, rated them soundly when they returned, crest- fallen, from the unsuccessful charge. Meton had seen Charlie fighting in the foremost rank. Twice he had his eye upon him, and made him the mark of his rifle, and as many times had some good genius turned aside the ball. His anger was still hot against him; and Charlie, who thought that Ida was a prisoner in his hands, bated him with a perfect hatred. Once more the party of Meton, still as strong as the party of the Hawk, gathered for the attack. A busy crowd of skirmish- ers came threateningly on, and kept the de- fenders busy, while a new programme, nothing less than turning the flank of the 1 Old Rube, the Hunter. " position, was being carried out. saw at once that his front was not pressed by the larger force, and detaching a score of the best men, he led them out to the left, toward which the fire was slowly tending. Here he ordered his men to lie down, and waited confidently the result. | It came at last. With a wild yell, forty | of the bravest of the foe rushed down upon the spot where the men of Charlielay. At | a whisper, the rifles were lifted, and every | one picked his man and poured in his fire. | They came in a solid body, and every bul- let did its office. sink into the earth; but, with a vengeful yell, the rest pushed on. Charlie, placing his finger on his lips, blew a ringing peal. It was the signal agreed upon for more men; but there was no time to wait for them, so, drawing their knives, the enemies met hand to hand. Meton rushed upon Charlie “Dog of a white man,” he shouted, “you die!” “Hound!” cried Charlie, “I am your enemy.” Their knives clashed sharply together. Charlie had his own good blade, which he wore when he hunted the deer upon his native hills, and it seemed like a sword in his hand. In the dim light they fought, each one striving for the other’s life. The combat raged around them, and, in a backward rush of his men, Charlie was separated from his enemy. The forty had proved too many for him, and his men were slowly giving back, smiting the foe at every step, when the reénforcement sent by the Hawk joined them, and they in turn at- tacked the enemy, who retreated, bearing Meton in their midst. The attack was & fgilure. Meton was a determined and desperate man; he could not give up now, if he would. His backwoods education had the slightest possibility of success, and he did not yet despair. Besides, hate, revenge, every evil passion, spurred him on. He must conquer or die. The night passed slowly. Desultory fir- ing was kept up during the darkness; but, as morning came, the hunter saw there was no chance of doing any thing for Charlie, and he left his tree and stole noiselessly out of the camp. He got out without trouble, and at once made his way to the mountain. He saw that the men in the village could attend to the case of Meton, and he wished to assure himself of the safety of his friends. He entered the cave on the outside, and he could hear their voices. He called, and could hear the rattle of their arms as they | sprung up, eager for the conflict, if it were necessary to fight for her. When they | Charlie knew his voice, the rifles were dropped, and | they called upon him to descend. He slid down the rock and stood before them. She | sprung toward him, with only one word | upon her lips. “ Charlie ?” “He is well, and no longer a prisoner.” “ Where is he?” “In the village.” “J thought you said—” taught him never to yield while there was “Thet he was no longer a_ prisoner. Wal, Idid. But he hes j’ined the Crows in the village in the’r job of whippin’ Meton’s Crows out of it; an’ all I kin say is, he is doing it up like a first-rate war- rior.” “What do you think they will do next ?” she asked, after the hunter had given a de- tailed account of the battle, and its results. “ Wal, ef I look at it rightly, in the morn- in’, thet is, in "bout two hours, at the furthest, those fellers in the village will pitch inter ther ones out ov it, an’ whip them all to Half the party seemed to | pieces. An’ ther way I look at it, boys, we hed better be on hand, and help thet side.” “ All of us?” asked Dolf. “ Wal, no, I don’t want to leave Miss Ida alone, tho’ she’d be as safe har’ as a baby in its cradle.” “T don’t want anybody to stay with me,” she said, in a spirited tone. “I am not afraid.” Dolf was eager for the fight, and this de- cision on the part of Ida pleased him vastly. He laughed. “ T warrant Miss Ida could outride any of us now in a fair race upon the plains, I move we don’t coop her up in this hole, but give her arms, and let her ride out to a place we shall appoint, stay there a certain time, and then, if we do not come, make the best of her way to the fort.” The hunter shook his head. “ No, no, boy. This place is safe enough, an’ the best place. Ef you don’t want to leave her alone, you stay with her,” Dolf looked doleful at the idea. “There, there,” laughed Ida. “I won't have any of you. Go along, every one, and leave me to take care of myself. You need not have the least fear but I shall do it well. What is that ?” The hunter had taken something from under his hunting-shirt. “ Your rifle,” he said. She seized it eagerly. get it?” “In your lodge.” “Thank you. And you have all the ac- couterments. How kind of you.” They passed an hour in the caye, and then the three went out together, leaving her alone. They passed down the slope of the hill, just as the gray dawn was breaking in the east, and the sun’s first rays gilded the lofty peaks, They went to the spot where they had left their horses, and found them safe. Mounting, they rode round to the west,so as to come up well in the rear of Meton’ s band, who were still pressing the unlucky siege when the morning came. Such a morning as only in the West can be seen. A thousand mingled perfumes came from the surrounding prairies, and the grace- ful deer, in the distance, came down to the river bank to drink. The hunter took off his hat, and let the fresh breeze play among his black, crisp locks. “ Sich times as these yer,” he said, “ mek’ me wonder how men kin live—and I hears thet such men do livein the towns—as say ther’ ain’t no one as made all these things, ’Tain’t likely, no, that these things shu’d grow themselves. They didn’t do it, and what’s more, they cu’dn’t. Yer can’t find “Where did you
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an Injin mean enough ter say as ther’ ain’t no God; all of them believe thet, any way. L ain't no book-man, but I doesn’t believe ‘het we go to ther dogs when we die, no I don’t, scarcely.” Such was the religion of the noble-mind- ed, though uncouth man. Let no man dare to sneer at him. His religion savored of his training; the woods and the prairies were his home. He had hunted, fought, and suffered over them from end to end, and in every bending leaf or blade of grass, in every shrub, he read of a great—good Creator. “What shall we do to help Charlie ?” asked Dolf. “ Wait a bit; we kin tell better when we see how the fight goes on. Those fellows in the village are brave, and I take it, if they win the battle by his help, will set him free; but we will be on hand. Meton is a desp’rit? man, an’ a desp’rit? man does qu’ar things sometimes; now mind, I tell ye, he’ll fight while a drop of blood flows in his veins ; fur he hates Charlie and the Hawk like p’ison, and loves the prophetess.” Dolf emitted a sharp whistle. “ Phew! You don’t say. Well, lam blessed. I'll zut his throat.” “No, ye won't. Thet is resarved fer me. I’ve sworn ter take his sculp, an’ I won’t have no one ter step in atween me an’ my vingeance. It can’t be done, no- how.” “ Well, well, have it so, but we are get- ting pretty close to the village.” “ What’s that ?” : “ A close shave,” replied Dolf, wiping the blood from the crease of a bullet upon his right ear. The rascal meant weli, but & miss is as good as a mile.” * Fall back,” whispered Rube. “TI didn’t think we hed been so clust ter them ag thet,” “Tot work we shall have. The knaves are mad and vicious, and what’s more, they know we are on hand. Thet may skeer them. Ah-h-h! There comes the attact from the town.” He was right. With the first gray of the morning, Charlie, knowing that he now had, one-third more men than Meton, began to press him hard. His, riflemen played upon their front. Skirmishers, armed with heavy bows, pushed up as. closely as they dared to the thickets, and wherever a leg, head or arm made its appearance, it was pierced. by the ready shaft. Then by a sudden rush, they gained the skirts of the woods, bearing back the party of Meton, re- sisting with,al]l their power. They were now on equal footing as re- garded cover, and fought after the manner of Indians, from tree to tree. Leta head appear, an elbow protrude, and a bullet whistled by it, or buried itself in the mem- ber. Charlie saw that he was losing as many as the enemy in the struggle, and he passed the word to his men. At the word, forty lithe forms glided from cover, draw- ing a hasty and ineffectual volley from the enemy as they advanced, and then closed. The conflict was terrible. Men who had lived in close companionship through life, Fs yi | ‘Trifles were clubbed, and knives flashed ; i. Old Rube, the Hunter. while over all rose the voice of Cliarlie Wesigate, calling for Meton to come out and fucehim. The wily chief knew better than to meet him in this mood, and con- tented himself with more ignoble game. The battle could have but one ending. The band of the Hawk now outnumbered that of the enemy two to one, and the rest fell under their rapid strokes. With a de- spairing yell, they broke, and fled through the forest, pursued by their late friends, now their unrelenting enemies. One by one they fell by the bullet, knife and hatchet, until only three clung to the side of Meton, and escaped into the hills. “ After him,” shouted Charlie. “I would not have him escape for all the gold of Cal- ifornia,” Five men joined in the pursuit, among whom was the Hawk. The defeated chief- tain had disappeared among the rocks. Not u trace of him could they find. The Indians knew that the rocks were full of hiding- places, and they scattered here and there in the pursuit. An angry glow deepened upon the face of Vharlie Westgate ; his an- ger grew hotter still. He went to and fro among the rocks, calling the name of the chief; no reply except the echoes in the desolate cliffs. Where could he have gone ? All at once a yell from his companions aroused him, and following their pointing fingers, he beheld a sight that curdled his blood with horror. Just in front of them was a great chasm, which nature had rent in the mountain side, the same one into which Rube had cast the body of his slain foe. Across this gulfa great tree, uprooted by the storm, had fallen, and its branches rested upon the other verge Hundreds of feet below, the rocks of the bottom of the chasm promised a fearful death to one who should fall from the per- ilous hight. Along this tree, clinging to the branches with one hand, walked Meton, while his other arm supported Ida. She stretched out her arms to him, and called his name. He started forward. “Go back!” cried Meton, hoarsely. “ An- other step and I drop her.” Charlie stopped, while his breath came in hurried gasps. CHAPTER X Rubbed Out. We left Ida reposing safely in the great cave. It was a strange situation, and to one brought up among the sickly senti mentalities of the world, it would have been terrible; but Ida, a royal child of nature, loved all her varied forms. To her, this great room, fashioned by the Creator’s hand, was but another instance of his marvelous power. All was silent in the cave, save when here and there water came trickling slow- ly downward and dropped with a patter upon the stone floor. The fawn, which had followed Dolf thus far, and had been brought 19 head upon her knee, looked wp into her face with its great, pleading eyes. “ Poor fellow,’ whispered Ida, patting the glossy head. “Do you want te to show me that I am not alone ?” It seemed a relief to have something to talk to, even though it could not under- stand. The noise of the battle aroused oer, and she rose, and following the course marked out by Dolf, reached the opening through which came light and air. From this she had a good view of the battle-field, and witnessed the various charges and conflicts, until the final one. She could see Aim, too, in the thickest of the battle, and she knew that he yet was safe. But her heart gave a great thrill, and she shrunk aside in terror, as Meton and his three friends came bound- ing along the mountain side. She knew they would be pursued, and looking out, she saw him coming. She came down from her perch, and had made her way into the broad apartment below, where a scuffling noise in the passage told her that they were coming. She started forward to meet them, but a shriek burst from her lips as she saw that it was Meton. She grasped her rifle and stood at bay. He folded his arms and sternly regarded her, while his men followed him into the cave. It was not unknown to him. “You are very beautiful, white girl,” he said, “and your beauty has been a snare to me. Long ago, I took you from your father, on the plains. You were mine; no other one had a right to look upon you. I brought you to our village and you became great. You wear the dress of the prophetess. “ What have I lost at your hands? Look at me. Ihave been a chief; I am a chief no more. I had many friends; these are all you have left me; where are they? Yonder they iie, dead, and you killed them.” She turned pale, but answered firmly : “Meton isa liar. He says that I killed his men. I did not. Why did: he not let me return tomy people? I wanted to do so, but he forced me back and some of his men were slain He murdered my guards and then he was no more chief.” “ Be silent,” commanded the chief. “ You do yourself wrong, and me. Now listen, I am going to live with the Dacotahs, who will take me because they know I am/ brave. You shall go with me. I have said it Take her.” He pointed with his hands, and his men rushed forward. The rifle cracked, but it was a woman’s hand that pulled the trigger, and only a slight flesh-wound was the result. She struggled vainly in the vice-like grasp of the two men who had seized her. “ No make fuss,” cried one, “else me kill.” Meton thrust him angrily aside. “Come,” said he, taking her by the arm. She sunk down at his feet, and refused to stir. He drew his hatchet, and flourished it before her eyes. She only smiled, and he saw that she regarded death as preferable to captivity with him. The eyes of the wild man lit up with a sudden flame, “ Girl,” he shouted, “ come!” > stood foot to foot, and breast to breast, each down into the cave to help while away the Axes gleamed, | time, came to ber, and laying its pretty atriving for the other’s life. “I will not,” she answered, firmly, He
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20 a 1 stooped, and lifted her in his arms, and for | the first time she realized what a power there was in his grasp. He lifted her easily with one hand, and turned to go up the passage. At this moment the sound of voices was heard in the outer cave. It was the three friends, who had ridden hard, to get to the mountain before Meton; but he had taken the shorter path, and was here before them. was over her mouth, and a voice hissed in her ear that a whisper would be her death, With the hope of escape came the fear of the grim monster, and she dared not call out. But they would come down. Surely the Indians were caught in their own trap, and would have to fight for her at least. But to her surprise, Meton had a better knowledge of the mysteries of the cave than even the hunter himself. Turning to the left, a sudden turn about a jutting point of rock brought them into a long gallery, ex- tending, apparently, into the bowels of the mountain. A gleam of ferocious joy lighted up the face of the Indian, as he turned about and helped roll a great stone before the opening, which was about three feet high, completely blocking it up. “ He never find it out,’ he said, decisive- ly, taking her again in his arms and hurry- ing down the passage. Scarcely had they left the place, when the three came down the slide, to find the place desolate, with the exception of the fawn, who came to Dolf and laid her head against his knee with a pitiful moan. ' “What is it, old fellow?” said he, “ Where is Ida ?” “ She is gone,” oried the hunter. “ Car- ried away, too, fer ther’ hes been a fight har’, an’ a rifle hes been fired. Smell the smoke. An’ here is her piece,” he added, picking up the rifle where it had been left in the struggle. The fawn went away to the other end of the room, and came back with a pitiful face. “ What is thet fer?” said Rube, looking mterested. “ Foller the little thing ef she goes away ag’in.” She did go again, and led them to the place where the great stone barred the way. The hunter looked at it keenly. “ Aha?’ he said. “This yer hes been moved. Come, boys, give it a push, all to- gether.” A very little effort pushed the stone aside, and showed them the path they must travel. “Ts that villain Meton,” said Rube, as he caught sight of the moccasin-tracks up- on the dusty floor of the passage. “It’s him, an’ no other. Thet feller’s time is about up, to my thinkin’. This yer hand lis bound to rub him out. Stands ter rea- son it ah’ud. We can’t hey’ things our own ‘way; no, not at all. Thet Injin were made ‘ter ba rubbed out by me. All right; I'll I do it.” The path through which they went was dark and slippery, and inclined upward. They went cautior ly forward, feeling their way by the wall, covered with a slime which had been the gathering of years. “ Dern it,” muttered Rube, “ what a pesky bole.” cool air struck their faces. She tried to scream, but a dusky hand | Old Rube, the Hunter. “ Where do you think it leads to?” “Can’t tell. Don't know thet I keer, skurcely. All I know is thet Meton hes gone through har’, an’ thet he hes Miss Ida with him. The little un’ is good blood; hold down the torch. See! here she hed a squabble with the pesky knave, an’ he tuk her up to carry her, blame him.” The passage grew wider, and a breath of They knew that they were coming to the outer air, and their hearts beat faster. pon and made ready for the fray. They came upon the Indians upon a sort of natural platform, just above the chasm. The three who had followed the varied for- tunes of Meton thus far, turned at bay, with their hatchets in their hands. They were stalwart fellows, and for some minutes a fearful combat raged upon the rocky shelf. The hunter closed with his opponent, and hurled him backward. He fell over the precipice, and was seen no more. Dolf shot one through the head with a pistol, while the second joined Meton in his flight. Over rock and chasm, familiar to them from infancy, the doomed red-men made their way. Sometimes the companion of Meton looked furtively at the white face lying against Meton’s breast, and longed to kill her; but he dared not speak his thoughts. In pity to her woman’s heart her senses were gone, and she lay quiet against the brown breast. Twice the rifle of Rube covered him, and as many times it was lowered, as he feared he might hurt the unhappy prisoner. The Indian ran out upon the great tree, close to the edge of the cliff, and here the girl was suspended over the precipice, ana that haughty defiance thrown in Charlie’s teeth. “ As you hope for mercy,” cried the hor- ror-stricken young man, “ show it.” “T hope for no mercy—lI will not show it. Go back, young white man; the prophetess of the Crows shall cook my venison in the Dacotah lodges. She is not for you.” , Charlie sprung forward, but recoiled as the fiend lifted her high in the air with both hands and made a motion to cast her into the nbyss below. As he raised her, a pair of white hands reached downward and tore her from his grasp. With a cry of unut- terable hate, the Indian looked up to see from whence came this new ‘foe. It was plain at once. A second ledge ran along a fathom above his head, narrow, it is true, but still wide enough to support the hunter, who, creep- ing on his hands and knees, reached a spot just over Meton’s head at the moment he raised her above it. Regardless of danger, the hunter ran quickly back along the ledge | and placed the fainting girl in the arms of her lover. Joy seldom kills) She awoke to a con- sciousness of her situation, to know that she reclined against his strong ‘breast, and that his heart was beating close to hers. Those Each grasped his wea- | , | gasping, at the foot of the woman he had ee A ‘the log in an uncertain, irresolute way, looking at the group. All his evil heart overflowed with hatred. How dared they be happy. His rifle was at his back, and taking it down he leveled it at the breast of Ida. Only the eyes of Rube were on him at the moment. With a cry, he flung him- self before her, firing as he sprung. At the same moment the rifle of the Indian ex- ploded ; but, wounded unto death, he reeled blindly, catching at the limbs for support. who have suffered much and then received | a heartful of joy, can understand the feel- ings of their hearts. They forgot who were near for a moment, and were only roused by a terrible calamity. / The Indian had remained standing on | Rube, pierced by the treacherous bullet, fell, saved. “It's all over,” he said. “ Thet Injin, who is goin’ down ter death in another minnit, hes done it. I hey’ kept my vow, and I ain’t sorry. Iam a man ashes tried ter do his duty all his life. Mayhap I ain’t been right always; I don’t s’pose I have; but it don’t matter if I tried ter do it.” He turned a look upon Meton. The chief had sunk down upon his knee, and held by a limb, while his glazing eyes were upon the party. It was plain that he had not long to live, for the blood was trickling down from the brown breast, and dropping with a putter upon the bark on which he knelt. The wild man saw his doom, and, fascinated by the dying eyes of the hunter, he looked him in the face. “"Twere years ago, Meton, when you done the deed whicis made me yer inimy. ’Twan’t a good thing fer either of us. It hes been yer death, and mine too, fer we ain’t neither of us long to live. Yer kin see what it is ter go ag’in’ white men; yer can’t do it—whites was bound to rule. I said I would kill ye, an’ now I hey’ done it, fer yer going.” The Indian was sinking slowly down- ward, and the other hand now rested on the log. He was evidently in fearful agony, but he would not show it, for Meton was no coward. He kept his eyes fixed upon the face of Rube, and as the last word was spoken, he rose suddenly, made a single step forward, and then, with a great flow of blood from his wounded breast, fell back- ward and was seen no more, “He is gone,” said Ida. “Oh! Rube, it breaks my heart to see you lying there, and all for me.” “T c'u’dn’t be better,” murmured he, feebly. “I don’t ask nothin’ better than ter die fer you. I promised at thet grave on the prairie thet I w’u’d die, if it were need- ed, fer ye. Yer see I hey’ done it.” Ida knelt at his side, sobbing. Her grief distressed him, and he put out his hand with an appealing gesture. “ Don’t,” he said ; “I don’t like it I’m glad, too, ter know thet I ain’t got ter die like a dog, an’ not one ter stand above my body and say, ‘It is a pity he is gone? Don't think I ain't grateful fer yer goodness} —no man c’u’d be more; but it cuts me ter see yer cry fer me, when I ain’t done nothin’ ter speak of.” “You have given your life forme. Is that nothing ?” “ Thet’s not on the bill,” asserted the dy- ingman. “I promised thet ter yer mother, an’ yer ain’t got nothin’ ter do with thet An’ now, miss, here is my last wish; and,
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‘ it ain’t too much, I ask it ov ye. Tve always wanted it, and maybe ye'll do it fer me. I always thou’t thet Llaid yer mother down ter sleep in ther pleasantest place in all ther broad prairies. I want ter rest ther’ too. I want ter be laid as near her as may be. Can it be done ?” The Hawk stepped forward. “Tt can be done; I will see it done.” “Thank yer, Injin, Ah, Hawk, how ar yer? Ye areone of ther few Injins I wud ever trust. Now ye’ve promised, I feel safe.” “Most gone, Rube?” asked the Hawk, who had met him often at the posts. “ Yes, Injin,’m about done. I’m anold stick, and it don’t make so much odds. Tl tell ye whar’ ter go, so that ye may find the spot safe, for these might forget it” He described the spot. Willie, Dolf, and Charlie kneeled by his side, and the man’s eyes turned upon them in a farewell glance. “ Well, boys,” he said, “it’s over—our tramping and fighting together. I hoped fer one thing. I looked ter see ye safe back ter the settlements. *T'would hey’ been hard ter part, fer I’d got ter likin’ ye, an’ p'raps it’s better as it is. Willie ?” “ Yes, Rube.” “Ye are from the north of New York, ain’t ye ?” “ Yes.” “Well, I'll tell ye what it is. Ye won't laugh at me any of ye, but here is summat I want ye todo. Ye know wha’ Ontario is b dad “ Yes. “ Wal, there’s a little village there called Dayton. Yer know it?” “T go there often, Rube.” “Wal, you take this.” He drew out from his bosom a crumpJed sampler of an- cient date, the work of some deft maiden’s hand in the olden time. “ How long would ye think I’ve carried thet? A matter of twenty-five years, or thereabouts. Wal, if she lives, her name is Susan Blair, and the place is so small everybody will know her. Ef she is alive, tell her how I died with yer, doin’ my duty. I left her when I were twenty, and she were a rosy little girl of eighteen years. Well, we had lots of prom- ises to make, but I never went back, ’cause I got to love the plains, and, ’sides, some one told me that she had forgotten me. I found out, after thet, thet it was a tie, but Ic’u'dn’t go back then, so I never looked upon her face again. You take it to her, ef she’s alive, and ef she’s dead, jest lay it on her grave, and kiver it with a little dirt so it won't belugged away. Ef they tell us true about the angels, then she will know it, and be glad.” o the rough hunter had a love-page in the history of his life! Ah, it is a dreary heart, indeed, which never loved. One of the sweetest poems poet ever sung says: “ Better to have loved and lost, Than never to-have loved at all.” The world would be a sad place without love. The hunter was sinking fast. He looked from face to face in 2 hasty, undecided way, ad then beckoned Ida nearer. Honest, Old Rubs, the Hunter. true heart, bashful as a girl, he feared to ask her aloud. “ Would you mind kissin’ me ag’in ?” he said. “Tm an old man, and dyin’, you know.” Ida sat down by his side, and took the poor head upon her knees, kissing him as he would have been kissed, and parting his hair as tenderly as a mother might have done—the mother who,in that old brown frame house by the side of the distant Lake Ontario, had long since laid down to rest— the mother who, through the long years in which she never heard from her boy, never ceased to pray that the God who had been her counsel and stay, would never forsake him, no matter how far he strayed. His breath grew shorter and shorter still, and a film gathered over his eyes. “ Sing!” he said, as the memory of the old-time songs of childhood came slowly back to him. “Sing.” And Ida, in a voice broken by her sobs, sung of the Redeemer, and his power to save. The hunter rose upon his elbow. “T believe it,” he said. “ Hev’ ye got a Bible, where it tells how the Lord kem’ to save jest sich as I am?” Dolf took a testament from his breast- pocket. “ Let the little ’un’ read,” said he. And she read the glorious promise of the Redeemer, and how, when upon the earth, he did not despise the weak and the lowly, and that his followers were un.earnea and ignorant men. “That is the religion fer me,” cried Rube “T ain’t afraid ter die. Jest giv’ me thet lit- tle prayer ag’in. Thet wasa prayer. ‘* Lord be merciful to me, a sinner.’ Good-by, lit- tle’un’. Good-by, boys. Never forget me.” A gasp, a bounding upward, and the life of the brave man was ended. She laid him reverently back upon the sod. There was a strange procession filing out of the Crow village next day. Every war- rior and old chief went with it. In the middle of the line walked the mustang of Rube, bearing the ciead body of his master Ida and the young adventurers rode in front. For two days they traveled, and then they came to the grave on the prairie. There they made a grave, clove to that of those whose death he had so well avenged, and, as he had wished, laid him to rest. Willie read a service over his grave, and then they turned away, to bid farewell to their Indian friends. Idarode out in front and spoke to them feelingly for some moments, thanking them for their kindness to her, disclaiming any good done by herself, and bidding them a hearty good-by. There were speeches made by the old men, and then a general shaking of hands; after which a guide was given them, and a guard of two men, and they were away. Once only did Ida look back, and she could see the white stone shining out upon the prairie, at the head of her mother’s grave. They reached Laramie in goo time, and here a surprise awaited them, for the first person they met was Jake, in the best of spirits. He had escaped from his captors, -and been picked up by a party of hunters returning to the fort. He was overjoyed e* J 21 seeing them, whom he had never expected to see again on earth. The party set out in high spirits to the States, joining a large train which started that day. The overland route was safely passed, and they reached Leayenwerth at last. Their happiness would have been complete but for the cloud the death of Rube had cast upon them, and through life, they retained an endearing recollection of that brave trapper who had done so much for them. Pass three years, and go with me to the banks of Ontario, not far from the city of O Here, upon a pretty slope, looking out upon the lake, stands a brown-tone cot- tage, emlowered by vine and leaf. Shaded walks and arbors adorn the grounds, and every thing shows a cultivated taste. This is the home to which Charlie West- gate brought his bride, for the prophetess did not remain in §t. Louis and work, as she had said she would do, and here they had lived happily for more than two years. A carriage rolls up to the gate, and two young men descend. Surely we know the first—yes, it is Dolf, grown brown and hardy in these three years, and with him, Willie. The young couple come out to meet them, and we see that the face of Ida has that look which we see only upon faces which are the index of a happy heart. She car- ries upon her arm a boy of a year, smiling up into her face. “What did you say you called him?” asked Willie, taking the little fellow in his arms. “ Don’t you know ?” said Ida. “ Reuben.” “ After him ?” questioned Willie. “Yes. For, under God, we owe every thing to him. But, Dolf, come here. Why, yeu are getting brown as a Hindoo. I hear that you have come to a sensible conclusion, Going to get married, are you ?” “Umph, yes. Nell Fields marries me next week, to get rid of me. Queer way of doing that, I fancy. I couldn’t do any better since Charlie took you.” “And you, Willie ?” “T! Oh, I am a bachelor, dyed in the woo], J—” “T don’t like to doubt the word of a gentleman, but he tells my sister, Mollie, a different story, since they are to be married in the holidays. Own up, Willie.” “T won't. Give me that boy back again, Ida.” “ For you to hold him up by the neck in that manner?” cried the young mother, in- dignantly. “ No, thank you.” “Reuben is his name, is it? You could do no less) Do you know that I found that Susan Blair, whom the poor fellow loved, and gave her the sampler, telling how he died. She was a middle-aged woman, married and happy, but when I left the room, I looked back to see her sobbing over the faded relic as if her heart would break.” : And thus the hunter was remembered THE END.
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32 Large 'Fhree-Column Pages. 1.A Hard Crowd: or, GENTLEMAN %am’s Sister. By Philip S. Warne, 2. The Dare-Devil: or, THz Wincrp | “litcH or THE SA, By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. 38. Kit Carson, Jr., Tue Crack SHorT or roe West. By Buckskin Sam. 4. The Kidnapper: SHANGHAI OF THE NoRTHWEST. By Philip 8. Warne. 5. The Fire-Fiends: or, HeRcuLEs, THE @uncusack. By A. P. Morris. 6. Wildcat Bob, Tue Boss Bruiser: or, To BorpER BLoopHounps. By Edward L. Whee- ler, author of ‘* Deadwood Dick,” * Double Daggers.” 7. Death-Notch, THe DesrRoYER: On, THe Sprrir Lake Avenaers. By Oll Coomes. 8. The Headless Horseman, A strange story of Texas. By Capt. Mayne Reid. 9. Handy Andy. By Samuel Lover. 10. Vidocq, THz Frencn Pouice Spy. Written by himself, 11. Midshipman Easy. By Capt. Mar- ryat, 12, The Death-Shot: or, TRAcKED TO DzatH. By Capt. Mayne Reid. 13. Pathaway: or, Nick WHIFFLES, THE TRAPPER OF THE NoRTHWEST. By Dr. J. H. Rob- n, 14, Thayendanegea, THE Scource ; or, THe WaARr-EAGLE OF THE Monawks. By Ned Bunt- ine, author of ‘The White Wizard.” i6, The Tiger-Slayer: or, Eacuz- MeAD To THE Rescur. By Gustave Aimard. 16. The White Wizard: or, Toe Great PROPHET OF THE SEMINOLES. By Ned Buntiline. 17. Nightshade, Tur Rosser PRINCE pF HounsLow Hratu. By Dr. J. H. Robinson. 18. The Sea Bandit: or, Taz QuEeEN yr THE IstE. By Ned Buntline. 19. Red Cedar, Tur Prarrm Ovtiaw. By Gustave Aimard, 20. The Bandit at Bay: or, Tur Pr- | gATES OF THE Prarries, By Gustave Aimard, 21. The Trapper’s Daughter: or, Tue OuTLAw’s Fare. By Gustave Aimard, 22, Whitelaw: or, Narriz or THE Lakr SHore. By Dr, J. H. Robinson, 23. The Red Warrior: or, STELLA DzLorme’s ComaNcHE Lover. By Ned Buntline, 24. Prairie Flower. By Gustave Ai- mard, author of Tiger-Slayer,” etc. Gold-Guide: or, Stern Arm ao p Dated By Francis Johnson, : 26. The Death-Track: or, THE Ovt- Laws of THE MounTany. By Francis Johnson, . The Spotter-Detective: or, Taz one A tow tone: By Albert W. Aiken, . 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By Albert W. Aiken. 43. Dakota Dan, Tue RECKLESS RANGER; or, THe Bre-Hunters Excurston. By Oll Coomes, By Oll Coomes, 45. Old Bull’s Cye, Tae Licurnine Ssor or THE Piains. By Joseph E. Badger, Jr., | 46. Bowie-Knife Ben, Tax Lirriz Hovnrer or THE Nor’-west. By Oll Coomes. 47. Pacific Pete, Tur Princr or THE Revo.tver. By Jos. E. Badger. 48. Idaho Tom. THE Youna OvTLAW OF SILVERLAND. Br OW (‘oomes, 38. Velvet Hand; or, THE [Ron Grip oF | 39. The Russian Spy: or, TBE BRorH- | 42. The California Detective: or, | 44. Old Dan Rackback, Tue Great | EXTARMINATOR; or, THE TRIANGLE’s Lasr TRA, | Each Number Complete, Price 10 cts, 49. The Wolf Demon, or, Tat QuEEn or Tom Kanawna. By Albert W. Aiken, 50. Jack Rabbit, Toe Pramim Sport or, THe CHILDREN OF THE LLANO Estacapo. By Jus EK, Badger, Jr, 51. Red Rob, Tut Boy Roap-Aarrt By Oll Coomes. 52. Death Trailer, THe Crmr o1 Scouts; or, Life and Love in a Frontier Fort. By Hon. Wm. F. Cody, (Buffalo Bill.) 53. Silver Sam; or, Tork Mystery os Deadwoop Crry, By Col. Delle Sara. 54. Always on Hand; or, THE Sportiva Sport oF THE Foor His. By Phillip 8. Warng, author of ‘A Hard Crowd,” “Patent Leather Joe 55. The Scalp Hunters, A Romance oF THE Piains. By Capt. Mayne Reid. 56. The {ndian Mazeppa; or, THE Map Man or THE Puars. By ert W. Aiken, 57. The Silent Hunter; or, Tux Scowt Hatt Mystery. By Percy B. St. John, 58. Silver Knife: or, WIcK.LIrrn, THR Rocky Mountarn Ranaur. By Dr. J. H, Robinson, 59. The Man From Texas; or, THF OvuTLAW OF ARKANSAS, By Albert W. Aiken. 60. Wide Awake; or, Tar Ipior or THE Buack His. By Frank Dumont. 61. Captain Seawaif, ta: Privatrer, By Ned Buntline, 62. Loyal Heart; or, Tat TRaPrEeRs oF ARKANSAS, By Gustave Aimard, 63. The Winged Whale. W. Aiken, 64. Double- Sight, the Death Shot, By Joseph E. Badger, Jr. 65. The Red Rajah: or, Toe Scourar or THE INDIES, By Captain Frederick Whittaker, 66. The Specter Barque. A Tata or THE Paciric. Py Captain Mayne Reid. 67. 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Deadwood Dick, Txr Prince or THE Roap, By Edward L. Wheeler. Yellowstone Jack; or, THE TRAPPER OF THE ENCHANTED GrounD. By J. E. Badger, Jr. Kansas King; or, THe Rep RiGart Hann. By Buffalo Bill (Hon. Wm. F. Cody). The Wild-Horse Hunters. By Capt. Mayne Reid and Capt. Frederick Whittaker. 5 Vagabond Joe; THz Youne WanDER- ING JEW. By Oll Coomes. 6 Bill Biddon, Trapper: or, Lirz iv THE NortHwest. By Edward 8. Ellis, oi The Flying Yankee ; or, Tux OckAn Outcast. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. Seth Jones; or, THE CAPTIVES OF THE Frontier. By Edward 8. Ellis. 9 The Adventures of Baron Mun- chausen. ] Nat Todd; or, THe Fate or THE Sioux Captive. By Edward §. Ellis. 1 1 The Two Detectives; or, THE FortTvUNEs oF A Bowery Girt. A.W. Aiken. 12 Gulliver’s Travels. A Voyage to Lilliput, anda Voyage to Brobdingnag. 13 The Dumb Spy. By Oll Coomes, author of “ Vagabond Joe,” etc. 1 Aladdin; or, THe WonprRFuL Lamp. 1 The Sea-Cat; or, THe Witcn or Darien. By Capt. Frederick Whittaker. 1 Robinson Crusoe. 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Authors, Each number a Complete Novel, at the extraordinary price of a HALF-DIME., 44. Rattling Rube: or, Tur Nicurt- HAWKS OF Kentucky, By Harry St. George. 4. 5 Old Avalanche, the Great An- nihilator. By Edward L. Wheeler. 46 Glass Eye, the Great Shot of the West. By Capt. J. F. C. Adams, | 4.7 Nightingale Nat: or, THe Forrest APTAINS. By T. C. Harbaugh. 48 Black John, the Road-Agent. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr. 49 Omaha Oll; or, DEapwoop Dick 1n Dancer. By Edward L. Wheeler. 50 Burt Bunker, THe Trapper. A Tale of the Northwest. By C. E. Lasalle. 51 The Boy Rifles, or, THE UnpDER- Grounp Camp. By Archie C. Iron. 5 The White Buffalo. A Tale of Strange Adventure. Charles E. Lasalle. 53 Jim Bludsoe, Jr., Tot Boy PHEnix; or, THROUGH TO THE Deatu. E. L. Wheeler. 54 Ned Hazel, Tur Boy Trapper; or, THE PHANTOM Princess. By J. F. C. Adams. 5 5 Deadly-Eye, Taz Unknown Scovt; By Buffalo Bill. 56 Nick Whiffles’ Pet, or, IN THE VALLEY oF DeatH. Capt. J. F.C. 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Adams, Yd 1 Delaware Dick; THz Youne Ran- GER Spy. By Oll Coomes. 712 Mad Tom Western, Tar Trxan Ranoer. By W. J. Hamilton. 73 Deadwood Dick on Deck. By ¥dward L, Wheeler. Harry, THE YounG TraprPrR Rancer. By on Coomes. yg 5 The Bor Duelist; or, THE CruIsE oF THE SEA Wour. By Col. P. ngraham. 76 Abe Colt, the Crow-Killer. By Albert W. Aiken. - 4 3 Corduroy Charlie; or, THz Last Act or Deapwoop Dick. By E. L. Wheeler. 7 &§ Blue Dick; or, Tux YELLOW CurEr’s VenGcEaNcE. By Captain Mayne Reid. 79 Sol G r, THE GIANT TRAPPER. By Albert W. Aiken. SO Rosebud Rob; or, Nuacret NED, THE KNIGuT oF THE GuicH. By E. L. Wheeler. 1 Lightning Jo, THt TERROR OF THE . By Captain J. F. C. Adams. i Kit Harefoot, THE Woop-Haws; or, Oup PowpEr-Facr. By T. C. Harbaugh. 83 a con gy Rpelacog 84! 1, the Girl Miner; or, RosrBup B ON Hanp. By Edward L. Wheeler. &5 Buck Buckram? on, BEss, THE FE- MALE TRAPPER. By Capt. J. F. C. Adams. | 6 Dandy Rock, Trr-MAN-FROM-TEX- as. By G. Waldo Browne. ' & rf The Land Pirates: orn, tHe Leacta or Drvit’s Isuanp. By Capt. Mayne Rei | 8 Photograph Phil: or, Rosrxsut Rop’s REAPPEARANCE. By Ed. L. Wheeler, ot!) Island Jim: or, Tar Per or THE Faminy. By author of “Jack Harkaway. * 90 The Dread Rider: or, Tue TEXAN Durtist. By George W. Browne, 9 1 The Captain of the Club. By Bracebridge Hemyng, (Jack Harkaway.) 92 Canada Chet; or, Op ANnaconp: IN SITTING BuLi’s Camp. By E. L. Wheeler 9 3 The Boy Miners; or, Taz ENCHANTE) Isuanp. By Edward §. Ellis. 94. Midnight Jack, Tux Roap-Acen: By T. C. Harbaugh, q; 5 The Rival Rovers. By Lieutenaw Col. Hazeltine. 96 Watch - Eye, Taz Derzcrive. 1b; Edward L. Wheeler. 97 The Outlaw Brothers: or, Tus CAPTIVE OF THE Harpers, By J. J. Marshal). 98 Robin Hood, Tue OvuTLAwED EARL By Prof. Stewart Gildersleeve. The f Taos. B 99 he Tiger of Taos. By George rowne. 100 Deadwood Dick in Leadville. By Edward L. Wheeler, 1 O 1 Jack Harkaway in New York By Bracebridge Hemyng. 10 Dick Dead-Eye, Tre Boy Smuw GLER. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. 103 The Lion of the Sea. By Cci. Delle Sara, 10 Deadwood Dick’s Device. Bb; Edward L. Wheeler. : 10 5 Old Rube, Tar Hunter; or, TH: Crow Captive. By Capt. H. Holmes 106 Old Frosty, the Guide. Bx T. C. Harbaugh, 107 One-Eyed Sim; or, Tue Asan DONED Forest Home. By J. L. Bower 10 & Daring Davy, Ture Youne Bra) Kiiter. By Harry St. George. 109 Deadwood Dick as Detective. By Edward L. Wheeler. 1 10 The Black Steed of the Prai: ries. By James L. Bowen. 0 Sport rere a ia oon 11 The Mad Hunter: or, THE Cava 1 13 Jack Hoyle, THE Youne Spxcv. or DreatH. By Burton Saxe. Lator, By Edward L. Wheeler. 1 1 4 The Black Schooner. By Roce: STARBUCK. 1 1 5 The Mad Miner. WaLpo BRowNE. 1 16 The Hussar Captain. By Cou. PRENTISS INGRAHAM, 1 1 wf Gilt-Edged Dick, Tux Sport-Drz TECTIVE. By Edward L. Wheeler. 118 Will Somers, THe Boy Dererc:. tive. By Charles Morris. 1 19 Mustang Sam: or, THE KING oy THE PuLaIns. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr. 1 20 The Branded Hand, or, Tur Man or Mystery. By Frank Dumont. 121 Cinnamon Chip, THE Girt Sport, By Edward L. eeler, 122 Phil Hardy, The Boss Boy. By Charles Morris. 1 23 Kiowa Charley, THE Wairz Mus TANGER. By T. C. Harbaugh. Dec. 2d 1 24 Tippy, the Texan, or, THE Youn HHAMPION. By Geo. Gleason. Dec. 9th, 12 5 Bonanza Bill, Miner, or, Ma- DAME Mystery, THE FemaLe Forcier By Ed. L, Wheeler. Ready Dec. 16th. A new issue every week. By Grorce The Malf-Dime Library is for sale by ai Newsdealers, five cents per bag sent by mail on receipt of six cents each. DLE & ADAMS Publishers. 98 William Street, New York.