Beadle's Half Dime Library (no. 137) (1880 03 09)
The text was read from the page scans by machine (OCR), so it has mistakes and its columns may run together. See the pages · About this title · At the Internet Archive
Page 1
a a ne ae onu-_— Ae ~ — A = = LiL Z TORY WA | tt a i a $2.50 a year. Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., as Second Class Mati Matter. Vol VI Single PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, ° ? Number, No. 98 WILLIAM STREET, NEW YORK. The Helpless Hand; or, Backwoods Retribution. me CARD... MALS IA eee Author of “The Wild-Ho:se Hunters,” “ Blue Dick,” “The Iand Pirates,” Etc, Ete. “ROW MUCH LONGER CAN YOU STAND IT, CHOC.’ ASKED BILL BUCK, WITH A SIGNIFICANT INTOVATION OF VoIeE; ‘' MOST DONE, AIN'T YE?”
Page 2
>) The Helpless Hand. A TALE OF BAOKWOODS RETRIBUTION, BY CAPTAIN MAYNE REID. CHAPTER L A BIVOUAC OF BOY HUNTERS. A Honrerns’ bivouac under the shadows of a Missis- sippian forest, in a spot where the trees stand un- thinned by the ax of the woodman, It is upon the Arkansas side of the great river, not far from the town of Helena, and in the direction of Little Rock, the capital of the State. The scene is a small glade, surrounded by tall cot- tonwood trees, one of which on each side, conspicu- ously “ blazed,” indicates a “trace” of travel. It is that leading from Helena to a settlement on the forks of the te river and Cache. The time is a quarter of a century ago, when this district of country contained a heterogeneous popu- lation, comprising some of the wildest and wickedest spirits to be found in all the length and breadth of the backwoods border. It was then the chosen home for men of fallen fortunes, lawyers and land-specu- lators, slave-traders and swindlers, hunters who lived by the pursuit of game, and “sportsmen” whose : -_ was cards and whose quarry consisted of such issolute com ged me as, ee eee homes fn ang a and Tennessee, had established them- selves in the fertile bottoms of the St. Francis, the White, and the Arkansas. A glance at the individuals composing the bivouac in question, forbids the supposition that they be- longed to any of the above. ere are six of them, sall mere boys, the oldest not over twenty, while the youngest may be under sixteen. And though at the game glance you are satisfied that they are but ama- teur hunters, the game they have succeeded in bringing down shows them gifted not only with skill but courage in the chase. The carcass of a large ‘bear lies beside them on the sward, his skin hanging from a tree, while several steaks cut from his fa wump and impaled upon sapling spits, pleasantly over the camp-fire, sending a savory odor far into the forest around. About a dozen large bear-hounds, séveral showing wears of recent conflict, lie panting upon the g ~while just half this number of saddle-horses stan “* hitched ” to the trees. The young hunters are in high glee. They have wade a table day’s work of it; and as most of ‘them have to go a good way before reaching home, they have halted in the glade to refresh themselves, “their hounds, and their horses. _The chase has provided them with meat of which all are fond, most of them carry a “ pone" of corn in their saddle-bags, and not a few a flask of corn- whisky. They would not be the youth of Arkansas if found unprovided with tobacco, Thus furnished with all the requisites of a backwoods bivouac, they are making it in gleesome style. Scanning these young fellows from a social point of view, you see they are not all of equalrank. A difference in dress and equipments ks a dis- tinct standing, even in backwoods society, and this i ty is evident among the six individuals seated round the eamp-fire. He whom we have taken for the oldest, and whose name is Brandon, is the son of oe of some position in the neighbor- And there is wealth, too, as indicated by the coat of fine white linen, the costly Panama hat, and the dia- mond pin sparkling among the ruffles in his shirt ‘bosom, It is not this, however, that gives him a tone of authority among his hunti companions, but her an assumption of superior age, combined with perhaps, superior stre and certainly a dash of os gs that exhibits itself, and somewhat of- ‘fensi in both word and action. Most of the dogs are his, as also the fine sorrel horse that stands pa the ground not far from the fire. Next to Master Brandon in degree of social stand- {img is a youth who is also two years his junior, by name Randall. He is the son of a certain lawyer, Yate promoted to be judge of the district—an office ‘that cannot be called a sinecure, supposing its duties tto be faithfully performed. After Randall may be ranked young Spencer, the ‘hopeful scion of an Episcopal Lig Some whose cure lies in one of the river-side towns, several miles from the scene of the bivouac. lower e is Ned Slaughter, son of the poms pint oF. oe — — ged Noeeaon sparen eff Gru senior, the princip: g Sercneai of the same respectable city. At the bottom of the scale may be placed Bill Buck, whose father, half horse-trader, half corn- ee: squats on a tract of poor land near the che, of which no one cares to dispute his proprie- torship. Notwithstanding these social distinctions, there is one apparent around the camp-fire. In a hunters’ bivouac, especially in the south-western States, still more notably wi the limits of Arkansas, superi- rity does not ge either to fine clothes or far- stretching lineage. The scion of the “ r white trash” is as proud of his position as the descendant wf the aristocratic corn-planter; and over the camp- fire in question Bill Buck talked as loudly, ate as ehoice steaks, and drank as much corn whisky, as Alf Brandon, the owner of the hounds and the plendid sorrel horse. In their smoking there might be noted a differ- ence, Bill indulging in a corn-cob pipe, while the son p men nter his OF ye 2, that has come the custom-house from Havana. The Helpless Hand, Luncheon over, it still seems too early to separate for return home, and too late to set the dogs on a fresh bear-trail. The corn-juice inspires to some kind of diversion, suggesting trials of strength or skill. ation these sons of Arkansas cards would have come in; but, to their chagrin, no one is provided with a pack. Bill Buck regrets this, and also Alf Brandon, and so, too, the son of the Episcopal preach- er. They are too far from any settlement to send for such things. Pitch and toss is not sufficiently scientific; ‘hokey in the hole”’ is too childish—and it ends ina trial of strength and activity. There is wrestli jumping over a string, and the leap hori- zontal. in all of these Alf Brandon proves superior, though closely tackled by the son of the squatter. Their bad smith is entirely owing to age, for these two are the oldest of the party. The ordinary sports exhausted, something else is sought for. A new kind of gymnastic suggests it- self, or is magaestes by the stout branch of a cotton- wood, stretching horizontally into the glade. It is nearly nine feet from the ground. Who can spring up, seize hold of it, and hang on longest? Alf Brandon pulls out his gold repeater, furnished with a moment hand, and the trial is attempted. All six succeed in reaching the limb, and _ catchi it. All can hang for a time; but in this Bill Buc beats his companions, Brandon showing chagrin. Who can hang longest with one hand? The trial is made, and the planter’s son is tri- Be “Bah!” cries the defeated Buck, ‘‘ Who can hang longest by the neck? Dare ey of you try that?” A yell of laughter responds to this jeu d’ esprit of the young jean-clad squatter. CHAPTER IL TWO TRAVELERS, Tue silence succeeding is so profound that the slightest sound can be heard to a considerable dis- tance. Though not professional hunters, these young Nimrods of the backwoods are accustomed keep open ears. It is a rustling among the reeds that now hinders them from resuming conversation —the canes that hang over the trace of travel. There are footsteps upon it, coming from the direc- tion of Helena. ey are soft as the fall of mocca- sined, or female, foot. For all this, they are heard distinctly on the glade—hunters, horses and hounds having pricked up their ears to listen. Who comes from Helena? The question has scarce os itself when the answer also assumes shape. ere are two upon the trail—the foremost a youth of about eighteen, the other a girl full two years younger. — They are not like enough to be brother and sister. see. may be of the same mother, but not father. If their father be the same, they must have come from two mothers. Beth are of interesting personal appearance— strikingly so. The youth is tall, ee} and elegant- ly formed, with features cast in a mold that reminds one of the Romagna; the same facile outline, the prominent nose and chin, the eagle eye that in childhood has glanced across the Teverone or the Tiber. And a complexion equally suggestive of Ital- ian origin—a tinge of olive in the skin, wr ine4 dam- asked upon the cheeks, with, above a thick chevelure, black as the plumage of a buzzard, While different in mien, this youth is dressed altogether unlike any of the Ao hunters who reg: him from the glade. e is in true hunter costume, slightly ogg mee of the garb more especially affect- ed by the Indian, His feet are in moccasins, his limbs incased in leggings of green baize cloth; a calico hunting-shirt covers his shoulders, while in- stead of cap or hat he wears the “‘ toque,” or turban, long since adopted by the semi-civilized tribes of the frontier. He is equipped with powder-horn and bul- let-pouch, slung crossways under his arm; armed with a long pea-rifle resting negligently over his left shoulder, His companion has been spoken of as a girl. The designation stands good; but to describe her will re- quire less minuteness of detail. Sixteen in counte- nance; older to judge by the budding promise of her beauty; clad in a gown of common homespun, op peras dyed, ill-stitched and gen adju 3 & soft as velvet, and ruddy as health can make it; hair to all appearance nted with combs; yet spreading as the sun — & southern window; eyes like stars clipped from the blue canopy of the sky—such was she who followed, or rather accom- panied, the youth in the calico hunting-shirt, A sudden fire flashed into the eyes of Alf Brandon. It is the expression of a spirit not friendly to one of the new-comers—which may_be easily guessed; for the girl is too young and too fair to have excited hos- tility in the breast of any one. It is her companion Sipaltint whom the son of the planter feels some se- cret resentment, He shows it more conspicuously on a remark made by Bill Buck. “That skunk’s always sneakin’ about with old Rook’s gal. Wonder her dad don’t show more sense, than let her keep company wi’ a nigger. She ain’ta goslin’ any more—she ain’t.” Buck's observation displayed an animus ill-con- cealed. He, too, has not failed to note the buddi beauty of the forest-maiden, who is the da hter of an old hunter of rude habits living in a cabin close by. ‘But the sentiments of the horse-dealer’s son, less refined, are also less kee hy His remark adds fuel to the fire already kindled in the breast of Bran- don. “The nigger thinks entirely too much of himself. I propose, boys, we take the shine out of him.” 7 is Brandon who makes the malicious challenge. “Do the nigger good,"’ chimes in , of tavern training. “But, is he a n ?” asks Spencer, to whom the strange youth has hitherto unknown. “ I should have taken him for a white.” “Th uarters white—the rest Indian. His mo- ther was a half-breed Choctaw. I’ve often seen the lot at our store.”’ It is Grubbs who gives this information. “Injun or rs oe the difference?” pro- ceeds the brutal Buck. “ He’s got starch enough for either; and, as you Hg Ce randon, let’s take it oe ti All agreed, boys?” “ i ” “What do you say, Judge Randall? You've not pia wm yet; and as you're a judge, we wait for your ecision.’ “Oh, if there’s fun to be had, I’m with you. What do you propose doing to him?” “Leave that to me,”’ says Brandon, turning to the quarter-bred, whoat that moment had arrived op- poe the camp-fire. ‘ Hilloa, Choc., what's the urry? We've been having a trial of strength here —who can hang longest by one arm to this branch. eels pose you put in too and see what you can do.” P ; sant desire it; besides, I have no time to spare or sport.” The young hunter halted for only a moment, and is about to move on. The com onship there of- fered is evidently uncongenial. He suspects that some mischief is meant. He can read it in the eyes of all six—in their faces flushed with corn-whisky. Their tone, too, is insulting. “You're afraid you'll get beat,” anperingy Te oined Brandon. “Though you have Indian od in you, there ought to be enough white to keep you from showing coward.” “Coward! I'll thank you not to repeat that, Mr. Alfred Brandon.” “Well, then, show et hr @& man, and make the trial. I’ve heard that you boast of ae stron; arms. I'll bet that I can hang longer to that bran than you—that any of us can.” “What will you bet?” asks the young hunter, stirred perhaps by the hope of employing his strength to profitable purpose. “My rifle nst yours. Looking at the value of the guns, that is quite two to one.” “Three to one,” says the son of the storekeeper. “T don’t admit it,” rejoins the hunter, “I prefer my piece to yours, with all its silvering upon it. But f accept your challenge, and will take your bet as you have proposed it.’ “Enough! now, a stand by and see fair play. You, Slaughter, you keep time. Here’s my watch.” The girl is going away. Brandon evidently wishes she should do so. He has some design—some malice prepense—of which he does not desire her to be a wit- ness. Whatever it is, he has communicated it to his fellows—all of whom show a like wil ess for Lena Rook—such is her name—to take her depar- ture, 4 Thelr free glances and free speech produce the desi effect. Her father’s shanty is not far off. She knows the road without any guidance, and moves off along it—not, however, without casting a look toward her late traveling companion, in which ht be detected a slight shadow of apprehension. e has not failed to notice the bearing of the boy eae insulting tone and attitude toward him of Indian ¢aint, who, for all that, has been the companion of her girlhood’s life—the sharer of her father’s roof—rude and humble as it is, Most of those left in the glade she knows—all of them by name—Bucks and Brandon with a feeling akin to fear. But she has confidence in Pierre—the only name by which she knows her father’s guest—the name siren by the man who, some six years before, in- trusted him to her father’s keeping. She knows that he is neither child nor simpleton; and against any re) danger can well guard himself. By sweet reflection alla her fears, she flits forward along the forest- ike a young fawn emboldened by the knowledge that the lair of the protecting stag is safe and near, CHAPTER OL HANGING BY ONE HAND. “How fs it to be?’ asks Slaughter, holding the hae oy if he were weighing it. ‘“ By one band or “One hand, of course. That was the challenge,” “*T propose that the other be tied. That will he the best way, and fair for both parties. There will then 2 a an so will be a re ag — of Kael a hg arm uspension— urse. Let the left be tied down. What sa: vo boys?” Af “There can be no objection to that. It's equal for both,” remarked Ran 4 “T make no objection,” says Brandon, | “Nor I,” assents the young hunter. “Tie as you please, so long as you tie alike.” “‘Good!”’ eye tes Bill Buck, with a sly look te his companions, unseen by the last speaker, . The competitors stand under the branch of the tree, ready to be tied. A minute or two suffices for this, It is done by a piece of strong cord looped upon the left wrist, and then carried around the thigh. By this means the left arm is secured against strugeit , or in any way lessening the strain upon the right. Saas pinionet ere the ia tion uot by Slaug’ 0 goes is estion as . Oy, bes Sr r a aad challenged?” xe . ‘Thec 6 choice,”’ answers Randall, “Do you wish it, Choc.,” he adds, addressing himself to the quarter-bred Indian. last,”’ is the go reply. en; I’ ” sruinging u p and catching older the ay, ee Sla’ r, intrusted with t aca ae anarostod with thie duty, appenrato take + ——V——————— ee + i
Page 3
——_—_—_—_—_— One—two—three—three minutes and thirty sec onds—told off on the dial of his watch—and Brandon drops to the ground, 6 does not appear to have made much of an ef- losing of splendid rite to say nothing of the ne losing of a splen of the hu- miliation of defeat, Pong Both seem in store for him, as the young hunter, — himself to the effort, springs up to the ranch, One—two—three—four—five. Five minutes are told off, and still does he remain suspended. “How much longer can you stand it, Choc.?” asks Bill Buck, with a cant intonation of voice; “‘most done, ain’t ye?’ “Done!” scornfully exclaims the suspended hun- ter. ‘I could stand it three times as long, if needed. I ro satisfied I’ve won?” *‘ A hundred dollars against my own rifle you don’t hang five minutes more.” This came from Brandon, ‘*T take the bet,” is the rejoinder. “Since you’re so confident, then, you'll have to win it or be hanged.” _ “ What do you mean by that? What are you doing vehind me?" asks the young hunter. ewe eas _ ey gue a ew nt that some trick is being played. He hears w ring be- hind him, anda yumtihier of leaves cxarhen.. “Only taking the precaution that you don’t hurt yourself by a fall,” is the answer given to the last, It is followed by a peal of loud laughter, in which athe one payin il clingi h you nast, sti ng to the branch, wonders — is making them so merry. Their hes have suggested something sinister; and 4 Com gy: he discovers the trick played upon . There is a rope around his neck, with a run- ning noose—its other end attached to a branch above. It has been adjusted in such a manner that were he to let go his hold, the noose would close — his throat, with his feet still dangling in the “Hang on!” cried Slaughter, in a mocking tone. “Hang on, I advise you. If you let go you'll find your neck in a noose.” ‘You keep the time, Slaughter,” directs Brandon. “ Five minutes more. If he drops within that time det him do so, We'll then see how long the nigger ean hang by his neck.” Another .loud Jaugh rings through the glade, echoed by all except him who is the subject of it. The young hunter is furious—almost to frenzy. His cheek has turned ashy pale—his lips, too. Fire flashes in his coal-black eyes. Could he but descend ‘safely from the tree, at least one of his torturers woukl ‘have reason to repent the trick they have put apon him, He does not let go his hold. He sees the set snare, wid knows the danger of falling into it. He can only await till they may please to release him from ine parijous position, if patient, he is not silent. ** Cowards!”' he cries, ‘‘ cowards, every one of you; and FY make every one of you answer for it; you see don’t.” “Come, come, nigger!” retorts Brandon. ‘ Don% ‘talk that way or we won't let you down at all. As ood as you have been in these woods for fo) uch ing. Ain't he a nice-loo gallows- just now? y, boys! suppose we call back the 1, and let her have a look at him. Perhaps she'd e out 0 a a lp him out of his fix. Ha! ha! ha!” **¥You'll repent those hes, Alfred Brandon,” eo ng to feel his strength m. bes You be hanged—yes, hanged! ha! ha! hal” Simultaneous with the laugh, a bear-hound, stray- ‘ing by the edge of the _ gave out a short, sharp god, which is instan ly taken up by those lying around the campfire. At the same instant is h ee renee the ama- teur hun “A bear! a bear!” is the cry uttered by all, as the animal itself is seen dashing back into the cane- brake out of which it had come to reconnoiter. In an instant the hounds are after it, some of them already hanging to its hams; while the six hunters M@ugenly rush to their guns, and flinging themselves ainto saddles, oblivious of all else, spur excitedly In Jess than twenty seconds from the first howl of Se ee is 4 & soul in the glade, save that pee it! parting from the body that The young hunter is left hanging—alone! CHAPTER Iv, A FORCED FELO-p ‘ E-SE, ‘Yrs, the hunter is left hanging alone—han ing by hank ont arm—soon to be suspended by the ‘me Good God! is there no alternative? od ng of his ‘ being rescued from his perilous situation He sees none for himself. He feels that he is powerless. His left hand is fastened to his thigh, with a cord that can not be stretched or broken. a effort is idle, and ends only in the laceration of With the ent hand he can do nothing. He dare not remove it from the limb. He dare not even change his hold. To unclasp it would be certain tion, Can he not throw up his feet, and by these elevate himself upon the branch? The idea a once suggests itself, and he at once attempts its execution. He = twice, thrice—until he proves it impossi- y The Helpless Hand. n it be that they have abandoned me to this cruel death?” “Tt can—they have,” is the agonized answer, as the sounds of the chase come fainter from the for- est. ‘“‘They have—they have,” he repeats, and then, as the tide of vengeance surges 2 in his heart, he cries, through clenched teeth: “Oh, God! give me escape—if but to avenge myself on these villains who have outraged your ownimage. Oh, God! look down in mercy! Send some one to deliver me!” Some one to deliver him! He has no hope that any of his late tormentors will return to doit. He had but little from the first. He knows them— all except Spencer, the son of the clargrmees and from the late behavior of this youth, he has seen that he is like the rest. All six are of the same stamp and character—the most dissolute scamps in the country. No hope now; for the bear-hunt has borne them far away, and even their yells are no longer heard by him. Hitherto he has remained silent. It seemed idle to do otherwise. Who was there to hear him, save those who would not have heeded? And his shouts would scarce have been heard among the howling of hounds, the trampling of horses, and the shrill screeching of six fiends in human form. Now that silence is around him—deep, solemn si- lence—a new hope springs up within his breast. Some one might be near, straying through the forest or traveling along the trace. He knows there is a trace. Better he had never troddenit! But another ht be on it—some one with a human heart. Oh, tt itilioa 1 mo i dagain. ‘Help! hel a ” he cries, again an ‘Help! help! For the love of God, give help!” His words are repeated, every one of them, and with distinctness. But, alas, notin answer—only in echo. The t trunks are but taunting him. A fiend seems to mock him far off in the forest. He shouts till he is hoarse—till despair causes him to desist. Once more he hangs silent. A wonder he has hung so long. There are few boys, and perhaps fewer men, who could for such a time have sustained the terrible strain; under which even the professional nast might have sunk. It is ee by his tra ning, and pany by the Indian bl sorens. through his veins. true child of the forest—a hunter from his earliest boyhood, to has a grasp prehensile as the tail of an American thevarm 4 tension not known to the sons of Fortunate for him it is thus, or perhaps the el site; since it has only added his misery, by delay- ~ fate that seems certainly in store for him. e makes this reflection as he utters his last cry, and once more suffers himself to droop despairingly. So strongly does it shape itself, that he thinks of let- ting go his hold and at once and forever putting an end to his agony. Death is a terrible alternative. ‘There are few who do not fear to look it in the face—few who will has- ten to meet it, so long as the htest spark of hope glimmers in the distance. Men have been known to spring into the sea, to be swallowed by the tumultu- ous waves; but it was only when the ship was on fire, or certainly si beneath them. is but flee- ing from death to death, when all hope of life is ex- lished. he a it is only madness. ut Pierre vat =n = is the name of the 0 unter—is no and not ready to rush the fas oy melee ete vane “4 not hope that induces to hold on; it is onl the hour of death. ‘ . His arm is stretched almost to dislocation of its Has Sage Shh Sapo Mas Baek eyed 8 ngers clu’ ranch, By sj Anges it! , . ; ; ped eeks aré dolorless; his jaws have dro till the lips are agape, displaying his white conned byes ag 8g ihabout to start from their sockets. out o ese wild eyes one more glance is given en more sweep among the seen a What was last glaring look? W the form of a fair girl dimly outlined rH Rg shadow of the trees? Or was ft only that same form Stenie? up by a fancy flickering on the edge of No matter now. It is toolate. Even if there, she would not be in time to save iene aaece —tortured to the last throe—can hold out no longer. She relaxes the grasp of Pierre Robideau’s hand; and the next moment he is seen hanging under the branch, with the tightened noose around his neck, and his tongue protrudi i ‘Sark thant PI : a between lips livid with the CHAPTER V. TWO OLD cHUMS as Bounp for Californy, air-ye?” ie Yes; that’s the country for me,” Ef what you say's true, it oughter be the country for more’n you. Air ye sure *beout it?”’ Seeing’s believing. Look at this.” The man who gave utterance to the old saw pulled from his pocket a small packet done up in fawn-skin, & the string, exhibited some nodules of a “True; seein’ air believin’, ey tel say, an’ feelin’ ws on’t,”’ 4 3 oes ef it don’t look gold! An’ feel like too; an’ durn me ef’t don't taste like it!” This, after he had put one of the nodules in his os and rolled it over his tongue, as if tasting it. “It is gold,” was the positive rejoinder. “An’ ye tell me, Dick Tarleton, they find these sort o’ nuts in Californy, lyin’ right on the surfiss o’ the groun’?”’ * Almost the same. They dig them out of the bed of a river, and then wash the mud off them. The thing’s been just found out by a man named Sutter, while they were clearing out a mill-race. The fel- low I got these from ’s come direct from there with his bullet-pouch chock full of them, besides some —— weight of dust in a canvas-bag.. He was in ew Orleans to get it changed into dollars; an’ he did it, too—five thousand in all, picked up, he pe a in a spell of three months’ working. He’s going right back.” ‘Durn me ef I oughtn’t to go, too. Huntin’ ain't much of a bizness hyar any longer. B’ar's gittin’ poy sca’ce; an’ deer's most run off altogither, rom the settlements springin’ up too thick. Be- sides, these young planters and the feilers from the towns, air allers abeout wi’ thar blasted boun’s, scarin’ everything out o’creashun. Thar’s a ruck o them kine clost by hyar "beout a hour ago, full tare arter a b’ar. Durn ‘em, what hev they got to do wi’ b’ar-huntin’—a elo’ brats o' boys! Jess as much as this chile kin do to keep his ole karkedge from starvin’, an’ thar's the gurl, too, growin’ up, an’ nuthin purvided for her = this ole shanty an the patch °’ surden groun’, I'd pull up sticks an" ‘0 wi’ ye, only for one thing. Bo. What's that, Rook?” Povg hee oe ~ sagt ag Dick. Pe rl's good-lookin’, an’ thar's a young fe rs a bit sweet on her. I don’t much like him myself, but he air rich, or’s boun' to be when the old one goes under. He's an only son, an’ they've got one of the slickest cotton plantations in all Arkan- saw.” “Ah, well; if you think he means marryin’ girl, you had perhaps better ney where you are.” “Marry her! Durn him, I'll take care o’ thet. Poor as I am m , an’ as you know, Dick Tarleton, no better than I mout be, she hain't no knowin’ "beout thet. My little girl air as innocent as a young doe. I'll take precious care nobody don’t come the hum- bug-game over her. In coorse you're gwine to take your young~-’un along wi’ ye.” “Of course.” “Wal; he'll be better cut o' hyar anyhow. Thur a wild lot, the yo fellars "beout these parts; an* I don’t think over f endly wi’ him. ‘T all events he don’t suit wi’ them. They twit him "beout his Injun blood, an’ thet sort o’ t ba. “Curse them! he’s got my blood.” “'Trne envf—true enuf: an’ ef they knew the it wouldn’t be likely to get much favor for him. You dud roll tn mnakiny bimt pass under the name 0’ the mother. Ef the folks’ t hyar only knowed he war the son 0’ Dick Tarleton, thet—” “Hush! Shut up, Jerry Rook! Enough that you know it. I hope you've never said a word of ta the boy. I trusted you.” “ An’ ye trusted toa true man. Wi’ all my back- slidin’s, *ve been true to you, Dick. The boy knows nuthin’ "beout what you've nm, nor me neyther. He air as innocent as my own gurl Lena, tho’ of a different nater altogether, Tho’ he be three white, he's got the Injun in him as much as ef he’d been the color 0’ copper. Let's see: It alr now nig on six years gone since ye see’d him? Wal; he wond wed up, an’ good-lookin’; an’ thar ain't anythin’ 'beout these parts kin tackle onto hin. for stren’th. He kin bark a ——— wi' the pea-rifie, tho’ thet won't count for much now, ef ye're gwine to set him gatherin’ these hyar donicks ‘an’ durt. Arter all, thet may be best for him. Huntin’ ain't no account any more. I'd gi’n it up myself ef I ked zit ,Some eesier way ©’ keepin’ my in'‘ards “The man to whom these remarks were made did not fee roeng ope ° the a Pn a A prou was in his eye as he listen e eulogy passed upon the outh, who was his son by Mary nobidea é half-breed daughter of a a trader, Perhaps, too, he was thinking the. youth's mother, long Ss dead. ; “ He will soon be here?” he inquired, rousing hint= anit fxs acute “ wi’ r,"’ was the reply. “Only went mp purl tot the store to git some fixin’s. It air in He- ena, 'beout three mile by the old trace. Oughter be back by this. I war expectin’ them afore you kins “What's that?” asked Tarleton, as a huge bear- hound sprung from his recumbent on the hearth, and ran wling to the door. : “Them, I reckon. But it moutn't be; thar's plenty o’ other people abeout. Make safe, Dick, . an’ go in thar into the gurl’s room, till I rickanei- _ The here was about to act upon the hint, whena ~ = iol ootstep outside, followed by the friendly Ww. pering of the hound and the soft voice of her . on whom the dog was fawning, caused him to keep £ his place. In another second, like a bright sunbeam, young ares ee AR; softly over the : CHAPTER VL Lena Roo iene the father f Pi and curtsied’ A K knew the of Pierre, asshe came in. It wassix years since she had ‘ him; but she still remembered ithe man who stayed some days at her father's house, and left bee -
Page 4
steod 4 Ihind him a boy, who had afterward proved such’ a pleasant Whar's erre?”’ asked her father. ‘‘ Didn’t he | kum back from Helena along wi’ ye?”’ : Fil Seay simultaneously asked a similar question, for had noticed a slight shadow on the counte- mance of the girl. “He did,” answered she, “as far as the clearing in the cane-brake just over the creek.” “He stopped thar? What for?”’ “There was a party of hunters—boys.” “Who mout they be?” “There was Alf Brandon and Bill Buck, and you master Randall, the judge's son, and there was Je Grubbs, the son of Mr. Grubbs that mene the store, and Slaaghter’s son, and another boy I don’t remem- ber a seeing meee.” ‘A precious 0’ young scamp-graces—every mother’s son 0’ nen, ‘ceptin' the one you didn’t know, an’ he can’t be much different, seein airin, What war they a-doin’?’”’ “ They had hounds and horses. They had killed a y on a anes ‘aged Fe me lot a weet wicurryin’ up the crik while ago. Durn ’em ey never kiNed the b’ar. The houn’s did it for them. Ye see how it air, Dick? Who the Etarnal ked make his bread out o’ hunting hyar, when sech goslin’s as fem goes screamin’ through the woods wi’ a hull se o’ houn’s to drive the game hellward. How ye know, 1, thet they’ve killed a b’ar?” e *I saw it fin on the ground, and the skin hanging a tree. “Skinned it too, did they?” “Yes, They had a fire, and they had been roast- po ree eating some of it. I think they had been king; too, They looked as if they and I could smell whisky about the place.” < a what a aaee “ om #5 Sie ‘They were trying who co ang longes' C) of a tree. As Pierre was coming past, Alf Brandon stopped him, and challenged him to try too. They offered to make a bet—their rifles, I think—-and Pierre consented, and I came away.”’ “ Pierre shed have kum along wi’ ye, and left them te theirselves. I know Alf Brandon don't owe the boy any will, nor Bill Buck neyther, nor any 0’ thet hull lot. I reck'n they must ’a’ riled him, an’ rousted his it a bit.” As the old hunter said this, he ste pped over the threshold of the door, and stood outside, as if look- out for the coming of Dick Tarleton’s son. f ng that he was listening, the other two, to avoid making noise, conversed in a low tone. “T kin hear thar houn’s,” remarked Rook, speak- ing back into the cabin. ‘Thar’s a gowl! Durn me ef they hain’t started sunthin’. Thar they go, an’ the cars yellin’ arter them as ef hell war let loose. Wonder what it kin mean. Some varmint must 'a’ eravied right into tharcamp. Wal, Pierre ain't like * } along wi’ ’em, seein’ as he’s got no hoss: reck’n we'll soon see him hyar, an’ maybe Alf Brandon's rifle along wi’’em. Ef it’s been who can hang longest to the branch o'a tree, I back him "in’ the toughest-tailed ‘possum in all these parts. that be the tarms o’ the wager, he'll git the gun.” ‘Bhe old hunter returned chuckling into the cabin. ‘Bome att her pe pane a hin = ~ a@aughter a gett nner for their guest; an then, thinking that the expected Pierre was a long ‘time in showing himself, he went out again ands Sstening as before. He had not been many moments i this attitude, when he was seen to start, and listen more eagerly, with an uneasy look, Tarleton, looking from the inside, saw this, and so, the kump’ny he too, the girl. “What is he J ?” inquired the former, moving hastily tow: the door. “ Darned ire ree” I hoerd a enous op “none body war uble, thar "in! Bitarnal, it’s Pierre’s whloa.? = “ who had glided out, and “ It is, father,” said Lena, ng by his side. “‘It is his voice. I could po I fear they have been doing some- sure those boys don’t like him, and I P on’t you go. "1 know you. vil wi’ me, M Sneezer. Some of them young go myself, an’ Lena kin gurl! An’ you may ‘ou'd more’n a match for the hui o’ thar curs. I tell ye, you shan't go, Dick. inside the shanty, an stay thar till we kun Maybe ’tain’t much. Some lark o’ them acam Anyhow, this chile ’ll soon see it all atraicht&. Now, Lena! Arter ya ole dad.” At the termination of this cha, d the eries. For some moments the guest stood outside the door, unresolved as to whether he would stay’ nd or follow his host, But a shadow pass- ing pal his face showed that some sentiment—per- ance of Jerry Rook to the Satyr. He was still under fort while Je ? had outlived the frosts of But the rence between their ages soepared with that existing in other respects. Jerry, crooked in limb, and corrugated in akin, was the beau ideal of an oki_borderer, with a ine hee ad nao in him to boot Tarleton od straight as a lance, and had been handsome as Jerry, clad in ‘his half-Indian costume of The Helpless Hand. streets of that city from which his conversation showed him to have lately come, What strange chance had brought two such men together? And what stranger episode has kept them bound in a confidence neither seemed desirous of di- vulging. It men have been a dark deed on the side of Dick Tarleton—a strong fear that could hinder a father from rushing to the rescue of his son! CHAPTER VIL. THE BODY TAKEN DOWN. Tue glade is silent as a grave-yard, with a tableau in itfar more terribly solemn than tombs. A fire smolders unheeded in its center; and near it the car- cass of some huge creature, upon which the black vultures, soaring aloft, have fixed their éager eyes, And they glance, too, at something upon the trees, There is a broad, black skin suspended over a branch; but there is more upon another branch; there is a man!” But for the motions late made by him, the birds would ere this have descended to their banquet. They may come down now, he makes no more mo- tion, utters no cry, to keep them in the air affrighted. He hangs still, silent, apparently dead. Even the scream of a young girl, rushing out from the under- wood, does not stir him; nor yet the shout of an old man, sent forth under like excitement. Not any more when they are close to the spot, with arms almost touching him—arms upraised and voices ow itis Plorrel Oh, father, they have hanged . ierre ather, the ve him —dead—he is dead!"* rath “ Hush, 1! The you irl has glided forward, and, as direct- ed, taken hold of the ha: ng limbs. It is a terrible task. A trying, terrible , even for a backwoods maiden, But she is equal to it: and, bending to it with all her strength, she holds up what she believes to be the dead of her plesmaste and companion. Her young heart is almost bursting with agony, as she feels that in the limbs embraced there is no mox tion—not even a tremor. “Hold on hard,” urges her father. “Thet’s 9 ak geet I won’t be a minit.”’ While giving this admonition, he is hurrying to get held of his knife. It is out, and open. 3 With a spring upward, as if youth had returned to his sinews, the old hunter succeeds in reaching the rope. It is severed with a “snig,” and the bearing the girl along with it, aN to the ground, The noose is instantly slackened, and twitched off; the old hunter, with both hands, embraces the throat, pressing the windpipe back into its place; then, placing his ear close to the chest, listens. With eyes set in agony and suspense, Lena listens too, to hear what her father may say. “Oh, father! do you think heisdead? Tell me he still lives.” “Not much sign o’ it. Heigh! Lthort I see’d a tremble. You run to the shanty. Thar’s some corn whisky in the cubberd. It’s in the stone bottle. Bring it Tart Go, gurl, an’run as fast as yer legs can Carry ye es girl springs to her feet, and is about starting oO “Stay! stay! It won't do to let Dick know. This "ll drive him mad. Durn me ef I know what ter do. Arter all, he may as well be told on’t. He must find it out, sooner or later. Thet must he, and dog-gone, it won’tdo tolose time. Yemaygo. No,stay. No, go, go, an’ fetch the bottle. Ye needn't tell him what it’sfor. But he'll know thar's sunthin’ wrong. He’ll be sure to know. He'll come back along wi’ ye. Thet’s equilly sartin. Well, let him, Maybe thet’s the best way. Yes, fetch him back wi’ ye. Thar’s no danger o’ them chaps showin’ here—arter this, I reck’n. Hurry him along, but don’t forgit the bottle, Now, gurl, quick as ligt tnin’, ck! If not quite so quick as lightning, yet as fast as her feet can carry her, the young girl starts along the trace leading to the shanty, She is not thinking of the sad tidings she bears to him who hides in her father’s cabin. Her own sorrow is sufficient for the time, and stifles every other thought in her heart. a old pa aa Boe sw not doses: av — her. é is busy e body, doing w e can to re- store life. He feels that itis warm. He fancies it is still breathing. “How hev it come abeout?’’ he asked himself, scanning the corpse for an explanation. ‘Tied one ©’ his hands an’ not the t’other! Thar’s a puzzle. What kin it mean? “They must ‘a' meant hangin’ anyhow—poor young fellar! They've dud it, sure. For what? at ked he hev done to hev angered them? Won the rifle for one thing; an’ thet they've tuk away. “The hul Lenny Roe been a trick—a durned, infer- nal, hellniferous trick, 0’ some “Maybe they only meant it for a joke? Maybe they only intended scarin’ him; an’ jess then that varmint kim along an’sot the houn's onto it an’ ot arter, an’ they sneaked off *ithout thinkin’ o’ m? ‘ Wonder ef that war the way o’t? “ Ef it warn’t, what ked ’a’ pervoked ’em to this drefful deed? me ef I kin think 0’ a reezun! *“Wal—joke or no joke, it hey ended in a tregidy —a crewel tregidy. Poor yo fellar! “An dog-gone my cats ef I don’t make’em for it—every mother's chick 0’ ’em. being ES an’ you, Master Randall, an’ you, Bill Buck, an’ all, every one 0’ ye. “Hal I've got a idea—a durned. splendiferoua — idea! the Etarnal, Ikin make a Souk eng, our. 0’ this Well bine So o’, Jeremiah Rookt Ye’ve hed a hard life o’t lately, but ye’ll be a foolef ye don’t live eezier for the futur’—a durn greenhorn o° a saphead. Ho, ho, ye young bloods an’ bu'sters! I'll make ye Rey, for this joke, in a way ye ain’t thinking o’. Cussed ef I don’t. “What's fust to be done? He mustn’t lie hyar. Somebody mout come along, an’ thet ’ud spoil all. | Ef *twar only meant as a joke, they mout come to see the eend o’t. Iheerd shots. Thet musta’ been the finish ’o’ the an *Tain’t likely they'll kum back, but they may, an’ ef so, they mustn’t see this. T'll tell them They won’t care to inquire too close *beout it. “No, Dick won't object. I won’t let him object, What good would it do him, an’ t’other’ll do me good —a power 0’ good. Keep me for the balance o* my os s. ae Dick go a gold-gatherin’ his own way. "ll go mine. “Thar ain’t any time to lose. I must tote him to the shanty. Load enough for my old limbs. But I'll meet them a-comin’, an’ Dick an’ the gurl kin help me.” iis strange soliloquy does not occupy much time. It is spoken sotto voce, while the ris still en- aged in an effort to resuscitate life; nor is he yet cer- fn that Pierre Robideau is dead while his ee aoee the ground, and bearing it out of the - lade. taggering under the load—for the youth is of no light weight—he re-enters on the trace conductine to his own domicil. The old bear-hound slinks after, with a large piece of flesh between his teeth, tork — lent carcass ny hon ae ers tm } CS) tures, no longer fray y man’s presence, living or dead, penny ath to the earth, and strut boldly up to their banquet. CHAPTER VIII. THE OATH OF SECRECY WHILE ethane | ear are quarreling over the earcass, not far o ere is another carcass stretched weit the prouplng around ft indiffe h ut the grouping arou rent—six hunters on horseback, and double the number of dogs. They are the boy-hunters late bivouacking in the glade; and the bear is the same that had strayed un- wittingly into their camp. The animal has just succumbed under the trench- ant teeth of their dogs, and a bullet or two from their rifles, Nor have the hounds come off unscathed. Two or three of them—the young and rash—lie dead beside the yom ly ged assisted in dragging down. The hunters just ridden up, and halted over the black, bleeding mass. The ch short and hur- ried, is at an end; and now, for the t time since lea’ the glade, do they seem to have stayed for reflection. That which strikes them is, or should be, fearful. “My God!” cries young Randall, “the Indian! We've left him hanging!” © “We have, by the Lord!” seconds Spencer, all six Sreing pale, and exchanging glances of consterna- “ ithe have ~? g0 ag tpl ; * e mus ve let go; ong before this. It’s full twenty minutes since we left the glade. Is = possible or him to have hung so long—not pos- sible.” * And if he’s let er “Tf he has done t, why, then he’s dead.” “But are you sure the noose would close upon his neck?—you, Bill Buck, and Alf it was you two aca a ' ll x, 1 % !” rejoins Buck, ‘ see’d that, same as we. It's bound to tighten ee he course ought o’ a b’ar we didn’t mean that; and who'd ’a’ th ma a maogek ae yong od toni a ag nigger "8 this and there’s an end of it. There’s no help ~ ““What’s to be done, boys?” asks Grubbs. “There'll be an usly account to settle, I reckon.” There is no answer to is question or remark. On the faces of all there is an expression of strange significance. It is less repentance for the act, thar fear for the Seong qucnee, Some of th and less reckless of the party show some ti eigns of sorrow, but among all, fear is the predominams a ae “ t’s to be done, boys?” again “We must do sonia. won't de to ee teees SEE otter = n't we ride back?” su : “Thar’s no use goin’ now,” answers fog the horse-dealer. “That is, for the savin’ of him. If nobody else has been thar since we left, why then the peeer s dead dead as Jule Cesar.” “Do you might have come along— in time t mes him?™ iy a ‘ ra estion is asked with an eagerness in which all are sharers. They would be rejoiced te think & could be answered in the affirmative. make things an “Yes, we better go back,” assen the planter, apy a to strengthen the phen mwhat, Alf?” ask several, —— ‘ i) answ hime we meh help ‘ion If the Indian's hung “You'd make it appear suicide, You that we tied his left arm. Yt would new Leow ine ik He couldn't haye done that himself" ~ don’t ren that.” r ; te fe “If he’s hanged, he's hangod, and dead before, carried the corp away an’ berried it. , oe
Page 5
¢ al We didn’t hang him nor didn’t intend it. That’s “ I don’t think the law can to ” suggests son of the judge.” — ~ “But it may give us trouble, and that must be avoided.” 4 mae do mn, propose to do, Alf?” ** Tt’s an old sto: t dead men buried ones less." em Stee chewy s aawres a good grist o’ truth in that,” interpolates Bue “The suicide wouldn't stand. Not likely to. The cord ht be cut away from the wrist, but then there’s k’s daughter, She saw him stop with us, and to find him swinging by the neck cals half an hour after, would be but poor proof of his ha committed self-murder. 0, boys, he must be pu oe Be uf si all eth $f ’s rig at's the only safe way,” assent all the others. y es “*Qome on, then. We mustn't lose a minute about it. The girl may come back to see what’s keeping him; or old Rook himself may be stra that way, or somebody else traveling along the trace. Come on!” “Stay!"’ exclaims Randall. ‘“There’s something yet—something that should be done before any chance separates us.”’ ** What is it?” “We're all alike in this ugly business—in the same boat! It don't matter who contrived it, or who fixed the rope. We all to it. Is not t so?” “Yes, all I for one acknowledge it.” *And L” “And L” All six give their assent, showing, at least, loyalty to one another. “Well, then,” continues Randall, “we must be true to each other. We must swear it, and now, be- fore going further. I pro we all take an oath.” e’lido that. You, dall, you repeat it over, and we’ll follow you.” “ Head your horses round then, face to face." The horses are drawn into a circle, their heads to- gether, with muzzles almost touching. Randall proceeds, the rest repeating after him: “We swear, each and every one of us, never to make known, by act, word or deed, the way in which the half-breed Indian, called Choe., came by his death, and we mutually promise never to divulge the circumstances connected with that affair, even if called upon in a court of Jaw; and finally, we swear to be true to each other in Reoning this promise till death. We do, so help us, God!” ‘Now!’ says Brandon, as soon as the six young scoundrels have shaken hands over their abo le com “let us on, and put the Indian out of sight. I knowa pool close by deep eno to drown him. If he do get discovered, that will k better than There is no reply to this astute proposal; and though it helps to allay their ap rehensions, advance in solemn silence toward deserted bivouac, There is not one of them, who. Bees get drend to wp back into that glad we ae Oty res Serrano roystering; not one who would not give the horse he is riding, and the gun he carries in his hand, never to have entered it. : But the dark deed has been done, and another must needs be accomplished to conceal it. CHAPTER IX. A COMPULSORY COMPACT. Huavy with oy peers rather than remorse for their crime, the hunters ride on toward the clear- ing. They avoid the traveled track, lest onan tage meet some one u it, and approach through the thick scene ber. their horses so as to make the least noise, and kee’ the hounds in check, they advance slowly and with caution. Near the of the opening, still screened from their view by the in trunks and cane-culms, - halt and council—this time speaking Ww “We should not all go forward,” the son “Better only one or two at Buck and Brandon are pointed out, by the eyes of the others resting upon them. These two have been leaders throughout the whole affair. Without show- ing poltroon, they cannot hang back now. They volunteer for the duty; but not without show of reluctance. It is anyt ut agreeable, ‘* Let’s leave our horses. ell be better without Ges: + eee any one on the ground we can steal ck without Lea seen.’ It dow the young planter’s proposition, and Buck as- sents to it. They slip out of their saddles, pass the bridles to two of those who stay behind, and then, like a couple of cougars stealing upon the unsuspicious fawn, si- lently make their way through the underwood. The ing is soon under their eyes, with all it contains. There is the carcass of the bear, black with b and the skin still hanging from the tree. But the object of horror they expected to see hanging upon another tree is not there, That sight is spared them. There is no body on the branch, no corpse underneath it. Living or dead, the Indian is gone, His absence is far from reassuring them; the more #0. 4S On Scanning the branch, they perceive still | ‘\ The Helpless Hand. 5 suspended from it a piece of the rope they had so an’ I kin see it by the tracks 0’ y’ur critters. Whar’é adroitly set to insnare him. Even across the glade they can see that it has been severed with the clean cut of a knife, instead of, as they could have wished, | giv ™ way nnder his weirht, Who could have cut the rope? Himself? Impos- ee Where was na napa to have ne it? = ad none to spare for such a purpose. Ha or them to have thought that he had. nia They skulk around the glade to get nearer—still going by stealth, and in silence. The buzzards per- ceive them; and though dull birds, reluctant to leave their foul feast, they fly up with affright. Some- thing in the air of the two stalkers seemed to startle them, asif they, too, knew them to have been guilty of a crime, “Yes; the rope’s been cut; that’s sartin,” says Buck, as they stand under it. “A clean wheep o’ a knife-blade. Who the divvel c’u'd ’a’ done it?” “TI can’t think,’’ answers the young planter, re- flecting. ‘As like as not, old Jerry Book, or it might ave been a stray traveler.” d, Whoever it was, I hope the cuss came in time. no ea] “Tf not, we're in for it. Bless’d if I wouldn't liked it better to ‘ve found him hanging. There might have been some chance of hiding him out of the way. But now, if he’s been epee upon dead we're done for. Whoever found know all about it. Lena Rook knew we were here, and her sweet lips can’t be shut, I suppose. If *t had been only Rook himself, the old scoundrel, there might have been a chance, Money would goa long ways with him; and I’m prepared—so would we be— to buy his silence.”’ “Lucky y’ur riddy for thet, Mr. Alfred Brandon. Thet’s jess what Rook, ‘the old scoundrel,’ wants, an’ jess the very thing he means to insist upon hev- in’. Now name y’ur price.” If a dead body been dropped down from the branch above them, it could not have startled the two culprits more than did the li form of Jerry Rook, as it came gliding out of the thick cane close by the stem of the tree, “You, Jerry Rook?” exclaim both sopetier, and in a tone that came trembling through their teeth. “You here?” oe Tm e wan 4 the j ty Phimge Hang Boe wath hy cmt} ead, as the judges say. m hyar by chance an’ cut him down; but not till *twar too late.” “Ts that true, Rook? Are you speaking the truth? Did _you find him dead?” Y? as a buck arter gittin’ a bullet from Jerry Rook's rifle. If you don't b’lieve it, maybe ye’d step down to my shanty and see him streeched out?” **No—no; but we didn’t do it. We didn’t intend it. By heaven—” ‘No sw’arin’, young fellars. I don't care what Met intentions war, re ve dud the deed. Isee’dhow t war, an’ all abeout it. Ye hung him up for sport rt that war—an’ ye run off forgittin’ all abeouw . Y¥’ur sport hev been his death.” ““My God! We are sorry to hear it. We had no thought of such a thing. bear came along and set the hounds up.” “Oh, ab’ar, war it? Ithort so. An’ ye tuk arter the b’ar an’ let the poor young fellar swing” it. We no inten- —putt “Itis true. We can’t den tion of what has happened. “Wal, now ye'll hev to think o’ somethin’ else. What d’ye intend doin’?” “Tt’s a terrible ugly affair. We're very sorry.” “ No doubt ye air, an’ ye’d be a precious sight sor- rier ef the young fellar hed an: kinfolk to look arter it an’ call ye to account. As itis, thar ain’t nobody but me, an’ he warn’t no kin o’ mine—only a-stayin’ wi’me. That may make it eezier for you.” Pea phoma: a you — "heatelingtnns me ye bb randon asks the question, tatingly, an .- ing of Rook’s da’ easer. ‘The 7? I've carried it to the shanty, an’ t itouto’ sight. I didn’t want the hul country to on fire till I'd fust see’d ye. As yet thar ain't no- body the wiser.” “‘An’ what?” “Your daughter?’ “Oh, my darter don’t count. She air a 'bedient gurl, an’ ain’t gwine to blabbin’ while I put the i per on her tongue. m’t ye be skeeart "beout e “Jerry Rook!” says Brandon, recovering confi- ’ dence from the old hunter’s “ hint,” “it’s no use be- ing basket-faced over this business. We've got into a@ scrape and we know it. And you know it too. We had no intention to commit a crime; it was all a lark. But since it’s turned out ugly, we must make the best we can of it. You're the only one who can make it disagreeable for us, and you won't, I know you won't. We're willing to behxve handsomely if — act otherwise. You can say this young fellow has one away—down to Orleans or anywhere else. ve heard you once say he was not to be with you much longer, That will explain to your neighbors why he is missing, To be plain, then, what will be the orice of such an explanation?” ‘**Durn me, Alf Brandon, ef you oughtn’t to be a lawyer or a preacher, or somethin’ o' thet sort. You hit it so adzactly. Wal; let’s see! I risk some’at by keepin’ y’ur secret—a good some’at. I'll stan’ a chance 0’ bein’ tuk up for aidin’ an’ abettin’. Wal; let’s see! Thar war six 0’ ye. My gurl tolt me so. e thought only of the the other four?’ ‘ Wale a bette b all up h: I ‘Wal, ye’ r bring ’em all up hyar. 8'pose they're | *s deep in the mud as you in the mire. Besides, it air too important a p’int to be settled by depity. I'd like all o’ y’ur lot to be on the groun', Sioherted-they chall-ooue, : Bring thes wei Bah BS —they s come, em u 7 Bill does as directed, and the six nates beesiens | are once more assembled in the glade, but with very from those stirring them whem different feeli "hall has told them.ail, even to the pro- there before. | posal made by Rook; and they sit upon their horses | downcast, ready to consent to his terms. “Six o’ ye,” says the hunter, apparently calculat- ing the price of the silence to be im upon him, “all o’ ye sons o’ rich men, an’ all able to pay me a hundred dollars a year for the term 0’ my nateral life. Six hundred dollars. ‘Tain’t much to talk abeout; jess keep my ole karkiss from starvin’. Huntin's gone to the dogs "beout hyar, an’ you fel- lars hev hed somethin’ to do in sendin’ it thar. So, on thet account o’ itself, ye oughter be only too happy in pervidin’ for one whose bizness ye’ve 2 ed. It ar’ only by —. penshun. Hundred do apiece, an’ thet reg’larly paid pre-annum. Ye alt “Sloe ‘t’s for. Do ye consent?” ‘ ion”? “And E™ “And bg And so signify the six. “Wal, then, yemay go hum. Ye'll hear no more "beout this bizness from me—’ceptin’ any o’ ye shed be sech a dodrotted fool as ter fall be’ wi’ y’ur payments, Ef ye do, by the Etarnal—” “You heedn’s, tree. I s’pose ye don’t want to tote that wi' ye? I — it, may I, by way o’ earnest to the bar- No one opposes his request. The old hunter is made welcome to the spoils of the chase—both those on the spot and in the forest further off. They who. obtained them are but too glad to surrender every souvenir that pt ene them of that ill-spent day. Slow, and with better thoughts, they ride off—each toreturn to his own home—leaving Jerry Rook alone, to chuckle over the com “Now!” cries he, branch and striding ng the make things squar’ wi’ Dick Tarleton. thet, I'll sot this day down in the kallinder as bein" the luckiest 0° my life.” The sound of human voices has ceased in the glade. There is heard only the “whish” of wings as the — repast. buzzards return to their interrupted CHAPTER X. VOWS OF VENGEANCE. Tue sun is down, and there is a deep darkness over the firmament; deeper under the forest. But for the gleam of light -bugs, the forms of two men, standing under the could scarce be d ed. su By such fickle light it is impossible to read their teatures but by their voices may they be recognized, mgaged as they are in an earnest conversation. scene is on the bank of the slu stream or 6 hunter, and e e bayou that runs past the dwelling of not twenty yards from the shanty itself, Out of this they have just for the puree my eee ee teks Con teuntlen beyond ear- oo Stain light burning within the cabin—that part e€ —that pa that serves as a sitting-room and kitchen—is from the fire. But there is no one there—no living thing, save the hound slumbering upon the hearth. A still duller light from a dip candle shows through the slits of a shut door, communicating with an inner ——— One gazing in —_ see the silhouette ° Se the side of a low bedstead, on which lies stretched the form of a youth appa- rently asleep. At all events, he stirs and the him in silence. There is just enough ht to show that her looks are full of anxiety or sadness; but not sufficient to reveal which of the two, or whether both. The two men outside have stopped by the stem of a large cottonwood, and are but continuing a dia- logue commenced a kitchen-fire, that had been kindled for the cooking of the eve meal, now still warm autumn er, and the to hibernate. ck,” says the old hunter, whose turn “for you to talk o’ revenge, an’ thet tort o’ thing, air the dyrnedest kind o* nonsense. Take it afore the coort i’deed! What good ‘ud thet do ye? They’d be the coort an’ the jedges—that. is thar fathers w’u’d—an’ ye'd stan’ as much chance o' gittin’ jestice out o’ them as ye w’u’d o’ lightin’ y’ur pipe at one o’ them thar bugs. ‘They’ve got the money, an’ the inflooence, an’ thar’s no Jaw in these parts ‘ithout the one or the t’other.”’ ‘I know it—I know it,” says Tarleton, with bitter emphasis, “I reck’n ye’ve reezun to know it, Dick. Now, a hain’t money #o spare for sech purpiss, an’ thar ore on that score ‘ud stan’ no oh em Besides, thar’s the old churge ag‘in’ ye, an’ ye dasen’t appear secute. It’s the same men, ye see, or the sons o’ the same—” “Curse them! the very same; Buck, Brandon, Randall, every one of them. Oh, God! there is des- tiny in it, “Twas their fathers who ruined me, The of it not; blighted my whole life, and now the sons to have. done this! Strange—fearfully strange!” ows of the-
Page 6
: gece is needed 6 The Helpless Hand. —_— ———s ge such fatal sport for his atrocious tormen- ors. The link between the two men could not have been strong; for the hunter, in taking charge of the boy, had stipulated for his “‘keep;’’ and once or twice during the long absence o ‘his father, had shown a disposition to turn him out of’doors. Still more of late, and doubly more when Lena showed signs of interference in his favor. Ever, while re- ‘d his daughter, he seemed to dread the pres- ence of Pierre Robideau, as if the youth had stood between him and some favorite scheme he had form- ed for wa Se hie allel ‘. There n nothing ear now—surely no Dick Tarleton would but discharge the debt. . Ah! to suppose this would be to make the grand- est of mistakes, The brain of Jerry Rook was at that moment busy revolving more schemes than one. But there was one grand, as it was dire and di Let our next ehapter reveal it. CHAPTER XIL A TRAITOR’S EPISTLE, As already chronicled, Dick Tarleton has started along the forest-path, leaving Jerry Rook under the cottonwood tree, For some time he remains there, motionless as the The eaninonates f chagrin that him, e exclamation o n esca) as the other passed beyond ear-shot, is followed by words of a more definite shape and meaning. It was Dick Tarleton who drew from him the former. It is to him the latter are addressed, though without the intention of their being heard. “Ye durned fool! ye’d spile my plan, w‘u’d ye? An’, I s’pose, all the same ef I war to tell ye o’t? But I ain’t gwine to do thet, nor to hev it sp’iled neyther by sech a obstenat eedyut as you. Six hun- dred dollars pre-annum air too much o’ a geod pull to be let go ag’in, slack as that. An’ dog-goned ef I do let it go, cost what it may to keep holt o' it. Yes, cost what tt may !” eae : The phrase repeated with increased emphasis, along with a sudden change in the attitude of the speaker, shows some sinister determination. “Dick,” he continues, forsaking the apostrophie form, “air a fool in this bizness; a dod-rotted, pur- sumptuous saphead. He git satisfackshun out o’ thet lot, eyther by the law, or otherways! They'd swing him up as soon as see’d; an’ he’d be see’d afore he ked harm e’er a’one o’ them. Them thar don’t go "beout *ithout totin’ thar knives an’ Sg mr ‘long wi’ them—any more’n he. An’ they'll be jest as riddy to use’em. Ef +t kim to thet, what then? In coorse the hul thing ’u’d leak out, an’ whar’d this child be with his six hundred dollars? Durn Dick Tarleton! Jest for the sake o’ a silly revenge he’d be a-sp’ilin’ all—leavin’ me as I’ve been all my life, poor as Job’s turkey-gobbler. “Tt must be preevented—it must! “ How air the thing to be done? Le’s see, “Thar’s one way | knows o’, thet appears to be eezy enuf. Dick he’s goed to the town, an’s boun’ to kum back ag’in from the town. That’sfno reezun why he shed kum k hyar. Thar’s nobody to miss him. The gurl won’t know he hain’t gone for good. He’s boun’ to kum back afare mornin’, an’ afore thar’s sunlight showin’ among the trees. HUe’ll be sartin to kum along the trace, knowin’ thi r’s not much danger o’ meetin’ anybody, or bein’ roco’nized in the dark. Why shedn’s « meet him?” With this interrogatory, an expression, fie adish, ba ir _— af wer eye ail toa face of the cid hunter, en ought ung why ghedn’t I?” he pursues, rei m “Why n ” he es, reiterating tho re- flection, ‘‘ What air Dick Tarleton to me? rime no partikler a. ag’in’ him—that is, ef he’ll do what wee dovined to do. But ef he won’t—ef he * An’ he won't, Te’s said so—he’s swore it. “What thouy Am I to lose six hundred dollars cintew pr _ for the satisfakshun o’ his spite? urned ef 1 do cost what it may! ‘i “The thing ‘d be as easy as tumblin’ off o’ a log. A half an hour's squattin’ among the bushes beside this ‘ere gleed, the pullin’ o’ a trigger, an’t air done, Thar mout be a little bit o’ haulin’ an hidin’, but I kin eezy do the fust, an’ the crik ‘Il do the last. I know a pool clost by that’s jest the very place for sech a conceelmint. “Who'd nore sispect? Thar’s nobody to know, Neery a soul but myself; an’ I reckin thet ’ere secret *u'd be safe enuf in this coon’s keepin’, For some time the old pirate stands silent, as if further reflecting on the dark scheme, and calculat- the chances of sucoess or discovery. mp € at once an exclamation escapes him, that be- tokens a change of mind. Not that he has repented of his hellish design, only that some other plan prom- ises better for its execution. * Jerry Rook! Jerry Rook!’ he mutters, in apostro- he, to himself, “‘ what the stupid hev ye been think. > 9’? Ye've never yit spilt hewmin blood, an’ mustn’t begin that game now. It mout lie like a log
Page 7
m y"ur soul; an’ besides, it’s Jest possible some Doe i bat gitto hear o't. The crack o’ a rifle air a suspishus soun’, at any time, but more espeeshully i’ the dead o’ night, an’ more so ef thar shed chance ter be the gowl o’ a wownded man comin’ arter it. S’posin’ he—that air Dick—wa’n’t shot dead at the fust 80. Durned ef I'd like ter foller it up—nee bit o’ it. As things stan’ thar need be no sec chances, eyther o° fearin’ or feelin’, A word to planter Brandon "ll be as good as six shots out 0’ the surest rifle. It’s only to let him know Dick Tarleton’s hyar, an’ ’a’ direckshun *beout whar he kin be foun’, e’ll soon summons the others to ’sist him, in thet same bizness they left unfinished, now God knows how miny yeer ago. They'll make short work wi’ him—no danger o’ thar givin’ him time to palaver *beout thet, or any thin’ else, reck’n. An’ no dan- gerto me. A hint ‘ll be enuff, ‘ithout my appearin’ among ’em—the very plan, by the Etarnal! ‘* How’s best for the hint ter be konveyed to ’em? Ha! I kin write—fortnite I got schoolin’ enuf for this —a note to planter brandon. The gurl kin take it over to the plantashun. She needn't be know’d, ey- ther. She kin awe up in her cloak, an’ gi’e itto some o’ the niggers as ’!! sure be *beout the wisce outside. Thar’s no need for a answer. I know what Brand ‘ll do arter gittin’ it. “Thar’s no time to be squandered away. By this, Dick hes got to the town. ‘Thar’s no tellin’ how long he may stay thar, an’ they must intercep’ him on his way back. They kin be a-waitin' an’ riddy, in that bit 0’ cleerin’, the very place for that purpiss—con- siderin’ it's been tried arready. “Now there's not a minnit to be lost. I must into the shanty an’ scrape off the letter.” Bent upon his devilish design, he hastens inside the house; as he enters, calling upon his daughter to come into the kitchen. : “ Hyar, gurl! _Ye’ve got some paper ye write y’ur lessons upon. Fetch me a sheet o’t, along wi’ a pen an’ ink. Be quick ’beout it.” The young girl wonders what he can want with things so rarely used by him. But she is not accus- tomed to question him; and without saying a word, egmoplies with the requisition, he péti, inkstand and paper are placed on the rude slab table, and Jerry Rook sits down before it, taking the first betwen his fingers, After a few minutes spent fn silent cogitation, re- flecting on the form of his epistle, it is produced. Badly spelled and rudely scrawled, but short and simple, it runs thus: “ To planter Brandin, esquare: “Str—I guess as how ye recollex a man by name Dick Tarleton, an’ maybe ye won’t be desirous o’ seein’ him. Ef ye be ye kin gratify y’ur desire. He air now at this rent in the town o’ Helena—tho’ what part o’ it I don’t know, But I know whar he will be afore mornin’: that air upon the road leadin’ from the town torst the settlements on White river. He ain’t a gwine fur out, as he is travelin’ afoot, an’ he’s sartain to keep the trace thro’ the bit o’ cl’arin’, not fur from Caney crik. Ef you or anybody else wants to see him, thet w’u'd be as good a place as thar is on the road. “Y’urs at command, ‘A STRENGER BUT A F'r’En’,” Jerry Rook has no fear that his handwriting will be recog So long since he has seen it, he would scarce know it himself. Folding up the sheet and sealing it with some drops of resin melted in the dull flame of the dip, he directs it as inside: “To planter Brandin, uare.”” Then handing it to his daughter, and instructing the oung ety deliver it incog., he dispatches her upon er errand. Lena, with her cloak folded closely around her fairy form, and hooded over her head, proceeds along the path Hoo | to the Brandon plantation, Poor, simple child! Herself innocent as the forest fawn, she knows not that she is carrying in her hand the death-warrant of one who, although but little known, should yet be dear to her—Dick Tarleton, the father of Pierre Robideau! the letter, though fail- She succeeds in deliverin ing te preserve her incognito. The hooded head proes ut a poor disguise. The domestic who takes epistle out of her hand, recognizes, by the white, outstretched arm and slender, symmetrical fingers, the daughter of “ole Rook, de hunter dat live *pon Caney crik.” So reports he to his master, when questioned about the messenger who brought the anonymous epistle, Known or unknown, the nameis of slight signifi- eance. The withhol of it does not affect the ac- tion intended by the writer, nor frustrate his cruel scheme. As the morning sun strikes into the “bit o’ el’arin’,”’ described in J ye Rook's letter, it throws light upon a terrible tableau—the body of a man suspended from the branch of a tree, It is upon the same branch where late hung the young hunter, Robideau. Jt is the body of his father! There is no one near—no signs of life, save the buzzards still lingering around the bones of the bear, and the gaunt gray wolf that has shared with them their repast. But there are the footprints of many men, long scores across the turf that tell of violent struggling, and a patch of more smoothly trampled down beneath the gallows-tree, There stood Judge Lynch, surrounded by his jury and staff of executioners, while above them swung the victim of their vengeance. Once more had the travestie of a trial been enacted; once more con- demnacion pronounced; and that tragedy, long post- poned, was now played to the closing scene, the denouement of dea Vins The Helpless Hand. CHAPTER XIII SIX YEARS AFTER, Srx years have elapsed since the lynching of Dick Tarleton. Six years, by the statute of limitations will wipe out a pecuniary debt, and make dim many areminiscence. But there are remembrances not so easily effaced; and one of these was the tragedy enacted in the clearing near Caney creek. And yet it was but little remembered, In a land where everyday life chronicles some lawless deed, the mere murder of a man is but a slight circum- stance—scarce rep to the proverbial “nine days’ wonder,”’ Richard Tarleton was but a ‘“ sports- man,’ a gambler, if not worse; and as to the mode of his execution, several others of the same frater- nity were treated in like fashion not long after, hav- ing been hanged in the streets of Vicksburg, the most respectable citizens of the place acting as their executioners! Amidst these, and other like reminiscences, the circumstances of Dick Tarleton’s death soon ceased to be talked about or even thought of, except, per- haps, by certain individuals who had played a partin the Ihegal execution. But some of these were dead, some gone away from the neighborhood; while the influx of coloniz- ing strangers, creating a thicker population in the ee had caused those changes that tend to destroy he souvenirs of early times, and obliterate the memories of many a local legend. There was one memory that remained fresh—one souvenir that never slept, in the minds of certain in- dividuals who still lived in Helena or its neighbor- hood. It was of other tragic occurrences that had taken place in the clearing near Caney creek, on the day before that on which the condemned gambler had been dispatched into eternity. The knowledge of this second tragedy had been confided only to a few; and beyond this few it had not extended. The disappearance of young Robi- deau, sudden as it bad been, excited scarce any curi- osity—less on account of the other and better-known event, that for the time occupied the attention of The boy, as if feeling the taint of his Indian blood, and conscious of a distinction that in some way hu- miliated him, had never mixed much with the youth of the surrounding settlements, and for this reason his absence scarce elicited remark. Those who chanced to make this py were told that Jerry Rook had sent him back to his mother’s people, who were half-breed Choctaw Indians, locat- ed on the western border of Arkansas Territory, on lands spree Rapes meee to them by act of Congress, The explanation was of course satisfactory; and to most people in Helena and its ne hborhood, the boy Robideau was as if he had never n. here were some, however, who had better reason to remember him, as also to disbelieve this specious tale of Jerry Rook, though careful never to contra- dict it. These were the six youths, now grown to be men, the heroes of that wild, wicked frolic already recorded. In their minds, the remembrance of that fatal frolic was as vivid as ever; having been periodicall refreshed by an annual disbursement of a hun dollars each. With the exacting spirit of a Shylock, Jerry Rook had continued to hold them to their contract; and if at any time remonstrance was made, it was soon fee te by his pointing to an oblong mound of earth. rudely resembling a grave, under that tree where he his last conversation with his friend, Dick ‘arleton. The inference was, that the remains of Pierre Robi- deau were deposited beneath that sod, and could at any time be terred to give damning evidence of his death. Remonstrance was he made. Most of the con- tributors to Jerry Rook’s income had become mas- ters of their own substance. Still, the compulsory payment of a hundred dollars each, was like the an- nual drawing of a tooth; all the more painful from the reflection of what it was for, and the knowledge that, as long as their creditor lived, there was no chance of escaping it. Painful as it was, however, they continued to pay it more punctually than they would have done it been a debt recoverable by court, or an obligation of honor. They were not all equally i under the screw thus periodically put te go more especially inclined to kick out of the terrible traces that chafed them. These were Bill Buck, the son of the horse-dealer, and Slaughter, who ke ¢ the Helena tavern—his father being defunct. either had greatly prospered in the world; and to both the sum of a hundred dollars a year was a tax worth considering. In their conversation with one another, they had discussed this question, and more than once had been heard to hint at some dark design by which the im- post might be removed. These hints were only made in presence of their partners in the secret compact, and never within ear-shot of Jerry Rook. It is true they were discouraged by the others, less harassed by the tax, and therefore less tempted to take any sinister step toward removing it. They had —- to torment them already. Both Buck and Slaughter were capable of commit- ting crime, even deeper than that already on their conscience. Six years had not changed them for the better. On the contrary, they had become worse, both being distinguished as among the most disso- lute members of the community. A similar account —— be "paver of the other four; though these ng ons of greater ability, kept their charac a little better < Two of their fathers were also dead—Randall, the em. There were two. 7 ju and Spencer, the Episcopalian clergyman rete enete sons, less coped t they, were likely to succeed to their places, Brandon's father still lived; though drink was fast ing him to the grave; and his son was congrat- ulating himself on the proximity of an event that would make him sole master of himself, as also of a cotton plantation. The storekeeper, Grubbs, had gone, no one knew whither—not even the sheriff, loth to let him depart —leaving his son to build = a new fortune extracted out of the pockets of the 1} oar boatmen. The horse-dealer still stuck to his old courses, coping, swapping, swearing—likely to outlive them all Among the many changes, observable in the settle- ments around Helena—there was none more remark- able than that which had taken place in the fortunes of Jerry Rook. It was a complete transformation— alike mysterious; for no one could tell how it came, or whence the power that had produced it. It ap- not only in the person of Jerry himself, but neverything that rh gee to him —his house, his pane ls, his dogs and his daughter—in short, all his omngings, . An old hunter, no longer clad in dirty buck-skin, and dwelling in a hovel; but a respectable-looki citizen of the semi-planter type, habited in decent broadcloth, wearing clean en, living in a neat frame house surrounded by fenced fields, and kept by black domestics! The old scarred dog was no more to be seen; but in his place some three or four hounds, lo lazily about, and looking as if they had plenty to and nothing to do. But in the personnel of the establishment there was, perhaps, no transformation more striking than that which had taken place in Jerry Rook’s daugh- ter. There was no change in her beauty. That waa- still the same, only more womanly, more developed. But the sun-tanned, barefoot girl, in loose, home- un frock, with unkempt hair sweeping over her shoulders, was now, six years after, scarce able in the young lady in white muslin fine thread stocki and tresses plaited, perfumed, and on 8 by the teeth of a tortoise-shell’ com And this was Lena Rook, lovely as ever, and mors than ever the theme of man’s adiniration, Despite all this—despite her father’s prosperity, and the comfort, almost luxury, surrounding her, few failed to remark an expression of melancholy cones Seer aa her countenance; tho none could tell if§ cause. Some dread souvenir must have become fixed in the mind of that young girl—some dark cloud had a a ded over her heart, perhaps to shadow it for-._ ever CHAPTER XIV. STEALING UPON A SHANTY. ‘ Tre breath of autumn had blown over tlie woods of Arkansas; and the first frosts of November, fol- lowed by the beautiful Indian summer, had im: to i foliage those rich tints of red and gold knowm re) to the forests of America, e squirrel down egos tees: dead leaves, active engaged in goers its ter stores, scarce he a footsteps of the hunter heard near by and among e trees. There was one, making his way through the weods” at no at Gatenes from the dwelling of J a, Rook. He was approaching from the w with face in the direction of the house. But al carried a trace or path, he did not ap to be in pursuit of ee Is scampe off before unmo- ested; and, once or twice, turkeys ran across hig track, without ee to draw trigger, or even take the gun from his shoulder. ‘ appearance he would scarce have for a hunter, nor was he dressed after this fashion. His. costume was more that of a traveler; moreover, he had just come from a stand some three miles ak where he had left a horse, and a pair of welt-fill saddle-bags. J The “stand,” a solitary tavern, was not far f, the crossing of White river, on the road leading from Little Rock to the settlements on the Mississippi. He had approached the tavern from the west, as if coms ing from the dere = eb rl = ky Roney still vancing eastward; though not along the road, which ran through the forest at some distance to his ne screened view by thick timber standing een. By the dust still cli to his garments, he ap~ y us nig 7m atin fe ts, nally ough he” and was not traveling upon either to have come a was grad getting brushed off by the leaves of the underwo and the thick canebrakes through which he was com- Pie he avoiding the road? Wash | ‘ was he av ero as he a stranger, who had taken the wrong fork, that had conducted him to a blind trace now run out? No; it could not be that. The main road was not to be mistaken Besides, he had left it at right angles after getting’ out of sight of the stand, and had since been keep; ing el to it, as if acquainted with its direction, Ifa stranger, he was evidently one who had been ow oo a before. being i e the appearance of twenty-five of age; with a complexion naturally dar sail ture ther shaded either b ure to a tropical sun or by a protracted of traveling. His hair was ee ty black and bushy; his upper Pager with a rk, well-jefined whisker on either chee The chin was close-shaven, pag By protrusion indica- tive of great firmness; while profile was of true His the were chr lustrous, and man piereing stature he was full six feet, with a fi of fine proportions, knit as if for strength. I acti displayed by his light, lithe step, as he was th le of trees, : Sisdisahda tasted, the totes Wes not thea of a oie
Page 8
H { Ger, either amateur or professional. The coat was of roadcloth, dark-colored and of good quality, cut frock-fashion. It was worn buttoned, though show- ing underneath a vest of Marsala, with striped shirt %esom and sparkling breast-pin. The hat was of the ikind known as gray felt. This, with green-baize ig re ” around the legs, showing the chafe of the p-leather, gave the costume somewhat of the character of a trayeler’s. The jaded horse and heavy saddle-bags, the tanned complexion and thick «oating of dust over all, had told the tavern ‘people, as he reined up, of a long road left behind him—per- iaaps from the far prairies. ‘The keeper of the lone hostelry had thought it strange—his starting off the moment his horse was stabled, But the horse and saddle-bags were earnest of his coming back; and Boniface had continued to ehew his quid without being inquisitive. As the young man threaded his way through the ‘trees, it was evident he was not stray: ng. His face was continually in one direction; while his glances directed forward, seemed to reach for some objec bee Pr to 4 red before him. at once he made astop, at sight of a “break”. among the trees. It indicated a tract of open ground or clearing, that extended athwart the path he was pu . He seemed surprised at this: and glanced uickly to the right and left, as if to assure himself that he had been going right. “Yes,” he mutter apparetnliy satisfied on this head, “Right before me is the t—the creek and the cabin. Ican’t be mistaken. These old trees i remember well—every one.of them, But there’s a clearing now—perhaps a plantation, and the old shanty: gone altogether.” Without finishing the reflection, he kept onward, though slowly and with great caution—increasing as he drew a rhe ie yon gromne, He appeared to approach it stealthily, step by & herd of deer. He was soon on the edge of the opening, though #till under cover of thick woods. Astream made dine of demarcation between them. On its opposite side, about twenty yards from the @ saw a neat frame house, with a spacious porch in front, and surrounded by fields. There were utbuildings at the back, with sheds and corn-cribs; while in front a fenced inclosure, half-garden, half- orchard, extended down to the stream, which formed its bottom boundary. Just opposite this inclosure the st er had apres, © moment he caught sight of the house, anticipated,”” he muttered to himself— “changed; everything changed! The cabin cleared oway, and the trees. Jerry Rook gone, perhaps @éead—some stranger in his place; and she gone, too —grown up—and—and—” choking sigh forbade the pronunciation of some word that struggled for utterance—the expression of #ome painful t ought, made manifest by the dark ehadow that swept across the countenance of the speaker. “Oh! what an unfortunate fate. Fool that I was, to go and leave her. Fool, to have listened to the counsels of her wicked father, When I learnt what he had done, I should haye come back, if not for love, for revenge. It may not be too late for the last; but for the first—oh, God! the I have loved ed long years; to come back and find her—per- in the arms of another. Oh, God!” ‘or some moments the young man stood with clouded face, his strong frame quivering under the ahock of some painful emotion. “Shall I cross over and make inquiry?” was the reflection that followed, as he became calmer, The people can, no doubt, give me some information ‘whether he be dead, and if she be still in the neigh- borhood. No—no; t will not ask, I dread the an- ewer to be given me. “But why not? I ma worst, whatever it be, not at once? “There is no danger of my being recognized. ven she would not know me; and these people are perhaps strange to the settlement. The country shows @ change—clea everywhere around, where I re- member only trees. I wonder who they are? Some of them should soon come out of that door. The ony is inviting. I shall hold back awhile and see.” uring all this time the young man had been Fir persot: front night. “He only chanel ie post n from s € only c - tion, so that his face should be also invisible to an one upon the other side of the creek, and thus with eyes fixed intently upon the house, He had not been many minutes in this atcitude of expectation, when the front door, which stood open, was filled by a form, the sight of which sent the blood in a lava current through his veins, and caused his heart to bound audibly in his breast. The apparition that had produced this effect was @ young mg lady, she might be called—in light, summer dress, with a white kerchief thrown loose ever her head, only ey concealing the thic: coil of shining hair, held by the to: ell comb, underneath i Standing on the step of the door, with the dark ackground behind her, she appeared like some fair portrait suddenly set in its frame. Changed as she was since he had last seen her—a step, as ifs as well know now the must learn it in time. : bine girl in coarse, copperas-dyed gown of home- ' un stuff—bareheaded, stockingless and shoeless— he who stood pgs J the trees might not so readily have recognized her had he met her elsewhere, But there upon that spot—where stood the old cabin, ander whose roof he had lived and loved—loved her— ®ecognition came at the first glance, He knew the fair vision before him was Lena Rook, still living— @till lovely as ever! now traced t The Helpless Hand. CHAPTER XV. LOVE’S RECOGNITION, Tue first impulse of the young man was to spring forth from his ambush, leap over the creek—a mere rivulet—and rush into the presence of the fair crea- ture who had shown herself in the doorway. He was restrained by a crowd of thoughts, that came surging up at that moment—doubts and mem- ories, bo ul. Her father might be still alive and inside the house, The stranger had serious rea- sons for not wishing to see him. ee he might be | te) dead, and she now under the contro another! The last thought was agonizing; and he gazed in- tently upon the young girl, as if searching for some sign that would release him from the torture of sus- — Scarce twenty yards from where she stood, e could see the sparkle of jewelry upon the fingers of her left hand. id one of them carry that thin yore of gold to show that she was lost him for- ever His glance, instinctively directed to her hand, he contour of her person, and once more mounted to herface. Form and features were alike scrutinized—the color in her cheeks—the ex- pression in her eyes—the air that pervaded all. It was that of one still single, whose fresh, virginal charms had not given place to the staid demeanor roduced by the solicitudes of wedded life. It pleased im to fancy so. He too noted the melancholy air, and wondered at its meaning. There was en. besides, to wonder at, in the changes that had taken place. How had Jerry Rook, the r white, become a proprietor? He must be 80, the house were his. And if not, then back came the painful thought, that it—and she, too—might be the property of another. What had he best do? Retire without showing himself, and seek information elsewhere? Some one living near, who could tell him all, Or, he might learn what he wanted from the landlord of the tav- pe where he had stopped. Should be return to it, and stay till circumstances favored him with an eclaircissement? Why not have it at once, and from her? Maid or ed, she would not be likely to remember him. A skin changed from the soft smoothness of boy- hood’s day—a complexion deeply bronzed—the dow- ny cheek and lips now roughly ed—stature in- creased “4 at least six inches, and a dress altogether rom that in which she had been accistom- ed to see him. “No, she will not yo man, as he completed this self-examination. “T go round by the gate, make some excuse for a call, get into conversation with her and ther—”’ He was about turning to make the circuit unob- served, when he saw that she had stepped out of the rch, and was coming toward the creek. It was or this that the kerchief had been spread over her crown, as a shade against the sun. He could not safely retreat without having his am- bush discovered. He resolved to keep his place. She came on down the walk, and turned in amon the trees of the orchard. Most of them were peac trees, laden with their luscious fruit, now ripe and falling. e ground was strewed with the golden globes, affording food to the honey-bee and hornet. She was now out of his sight, or seen only at inter- vals, her white dress gleaming through the leaves, as she moved through the orchard. The yo man was thinking how he might pre- sent himself without seeming rude, when, all at once, a cry came from the lips of the young lady. It was @ short, sharp exclamation, oe ly ed forth by some ay danger. It seemed a sufficient ia ta itas, ok, tb biaials h , ccepting it as such, the ger sprung across the creek god rushed into the orchard. In a few seconds he stood confronting the girl, who had turned toward the house, “T heard yon sty. out,” he said. ‘* Was there any danger, may I ask—”’ But before he had finished the interrogatory, he saw what had elicited the exclamation. A largesnake + coiled under one of the trees, t had been feasting on the fallen fruit, and, near- ly trodden upon, had thrown itself into the defensive attitude, The ‘‘skirr’ caused by the vibration of its tail told it to be a rattlesnake, Without inquiring further, he raised his rifle, and sent a bullet through his head, Its coils flew out, and, after piruggling a few seconds on the grags, the reptile lay dead, ‘Thanks,”’ said the lady, as soon as she had re- covered from her surprise, “I came near setting my foot upon it; and perhaps would have done so, if I'd not heard the rattle. You're a good shot, sir; you've killed it outright. ze me," muttered the “T’ve had a deal of practice, miss,” he replied, lay- & marked em on the Jast word. is heart thrilled audibly as he awaited the re- joinder. Would she accept the title, or correct it? He had already glanced at her left hand, holding a peach she had plucked. There were rings; but among them he saw not the plain circlet nor its keeper, Their absence inspired him with hope, **One can easily see that,” she rejoined, ‘ Besides, I am not unacquainted with the ways of the woods. My father is a hunter, or was.” “You say ‘was,’ miss. Is your father still living?” This question was asked with a double design. Would she still permit herself to be called “miss?” Was Jerry Rook the owner of the pretty house that had supplanted his rude shieling? “My father living! Certainly, sir. But he does not go hunting any more—or only at times, He has enough to keep him occupied about home—clearing the ground and planting the crops.” “Ts he at home now?” ——— | “To-day, no, fe hasridden overto Helena. lIex- | pect he will be back soon. Do you wish to see him, sir?—you have some business, perhaps?’ ‘““No—no. I was merely wande th h the woods—squirrel shooting. I had strayed to the oth- er side of the creek ,when I heard your ery.” “Tt was very kind of you to come to my assist- ance,” said the young girl, giving the stranger a lance, in which she did not fail to note his graceful ring. Then, observing the dust upon gar- ments, she added: “If I mistake not, you're a stran- ger to this part of the country?” aor once knew it well, and especially around this ace.” it Indeed?” “Yes. If Iremember right, there wasa cabin here —upon the very spot on which your house is now standing. It was inhabited by an old hunter of the name of Rook—Jeremiah, or Jerry, Rook.” “That is my father’s name.” “Then it must have been he. Whatachange! KH sa all standing timber around—scarce an acre of clearing.” “That is true. It is only sptety, thet my father bought the land, and cleared it, e are better off than we were then.” “Has your father any family beside yourself?—a Son, ft san tea sinh ti girl, ‘Not any, sir,’’ replie e yo sexnipg & on the questioner a look of some surpriee. e an the only one—his only daughter. Why do youask?"” ion thought I remembered—or had heaid-—sotne- t in 2? ‘Heard what, sir?’ asked she, cutting short the stammering s “ —_Of a young man—a boy, rather—who lived in your father’s cabin. Was he not your brother?” “*T never had one, sir. He you speak of was no relative to us.” “There was some one, then?” “Yes. He is gone away—gone years ago.” The serious tone in which these words were spoken —something like a sigh which pocomperset. with a shadow that made its appearance on the face of the a wee were signs pleasing to the interrogator. s inte heart beat joyfully as he put upon them own retation. Before he could question further, the —— girl, - os en by a sudden thought, looked ‘inquiringly is face. “You say you knew this place well, sir. When did you leave it? Was it a long time ago?” “Not so long, either; but, alas! long enough for you to have forgotten me, Lena!” “Pierre—it is you!” CHAPTER XVI. ABSENCE EXPLAINED. Ir was Pierre Robideau who stood once more in the presence of Lena Rook. Not in her presence omeed for they were locked in each other’s em- race, From the first moment of peeing him, the young girl had felt strange —— stealing oven heme weird memories awakened das manly presence that scarce seemed unknown to her, She knew that Pierre Robideau still lived; and that her father had compelled her to keep it a secret. But why, she knew not; nor why her fa- oa had sent him away. It was well she Ss, Equally ignorant had she been kept as to where he had gone. California, her father told her, and this was indeed true. But what knew she of California? Nothing beyond the fact of its being a far-distant land, where people went to gather gold, This much was known to every one in the settlements around— every one in America. Lena Rook thought not of the gold; she thought only of her old playmate, and won ered why he was staying so long away. as he never going to return? He who had won her girl’s heart—the firstlings of her young love— had stood under the forest tree, clasping her in his arms, and telling her she had won his! And on that dread poy ee he lay upon the couch, slowly recovering from the dreadful st 4 lation, was not the first word breathed forth from his lips her own name, Lena? And to have gone away, and staid away, and for- gotten all this! Tt was not perenge that she wondered—nor that she grieved; or that the cloud of melancholy, already remarked upon, sat almost continually on her countenance, ; She had not forgotten him—not for a single day. Throughout the long, lonely years, there was scarce an hour in which she did not think. though not per- mitted to speak of him. She had been true to ‘ah. pes in — om hand—true = t amare pes fa all ions, including that of Alf: randon, now seeking ber band in marriage, determined upon obtaining it. But she had resisted his suit, even braving the dis- pleasure of her father, who was ba it. And all for the memory of one who had gone away ba iw explaining bre cause of his departure, or makin mise to return. Often fad she thought of him, and with bitterness; and at times, too, with a feeling akin to spite. But now, with Pierre once more in her presence, his tall, uceful form before her eyes, she instantly forgot and threw herself sobbing upon his breast. ere was no reservation in the act; no pretense or prudery. Love’s instinct told her he was still loyal; and the firm, fervent pressure of his sehr as he received her in that sweet embrace, confirmed it ew not For some time both remained silent, their hearts h for speech, bgt ‘Tonsth it returned to them, Lena taking the tnitiative.
Page 9
* not “But tell me, Pierre, why did you stay from me, wand for such a time?” “Your question is easily answered, Lena. I have made a long journey, to begin with. I have been to California, and spent some time there, in searchin for gold. But that is not altogether what delaye me. I was for three years a prisoner among the Ae - De an A Ge are they?” “A tribe of India’ I ht have been st J of Choctaws—my mother’s people, you know—who chanced to come among the des, 4 te They res- cued me by paying a ransom, and brought me back with them to the Choctaw country, west of here, whence I have just come, almost direct.” “Pierre! Iam so happy you are here again! And you have grown so b B and so beautiful. But you were always beautiful, Pierre. And you have been to California. I heard that. But tell me: why did you go there at all?” ‘“‘T went to find my father,” he answered, ina grave tone, “Your father! But he—” The ae girl checked herself at the thought of a fea ineident that only now rose to her remem- brance—another episode of that night of horrors. She repented of her speech: for she believed that Pierre knew nothing of what had then . He had not been told, either by her father or herself, that Dick Tarleton had been there, as he was still in an unconscious state when the latter left the cabin, never more to return to it. 7 She had said nothing of it to Pierre after his re- hurried king the the h how she id to some other subject, when Pie inter- rupting, relieved her from her embarrassment. , eed not tell me, Lena,” said he, his voice trembling. “Iknow the sad tale—all of it, Perhaps more than you; though it was later that I learned of it. My sweet innocent! you little dreamt when— a “yr ae Let us b sey Fo 7 more of — m ut only of the presen now, —_ do h to see your fat. , nor do I want him to Ow that I am in the neighborhood. Therefore you must ’ not say you have seen me.” Tey | not,” answered she, in a tone that spoke more of sorrow than surprise, “Alas! it is too easy to obey your request; for I dare not even speak of utohim. My father, I know not for what reason, s forbidden me to mention your name. If, by chance, I ever asked after you, or a of your coming back, it was only to get scolded. Will you ‘believe it, Pierre, he once told me you were dead! But, I grieved so, he afterward repented: and said he had only done it to me! fo 8 so of my “T cannot That is a mystery to me; and so, his me away, and so, too, several other but— ose voice is that?”’ “My father’s! And the tramp of his horse! He is coming along the lane. Oh, Pierre! you mustn’t let mT Noe shall b I t off I came, under or e. I can off as un cover of the trees, ‘Adien, dearest, Meet me to morrow night. Come out late, when all are to bed—say eleven. You'll find me nt. or you here—no, by the big cottonwood yonder. ow wee sit ar = vapors APM a res erre e's u the i Te a ae s c Ips me ;.and they too — “the girl very, B toward poe eee, and the youn man stealing among the peach-trees, to see eafer co ent in the shadowy woods beyond. CHAPTER XVII. FA’ AND DAUGHTER. “I've got good news ie Te gurl,” said J Rook, alin’ out his saddle,’ and joining dau ter in rch. “Darnation good pews.” news, “Thet the liquor , planter Brandon be done its work, an’ ole news’ “ An’ sh sone ee I do—the best o' news. Alf air now ie lace, an’ thar’s nothin’ to hin you from bein’ full mistress o’t, I know he intends makin an a offer o’ marriage, an’ I've reezun to b’lieve it'll be dud this very . . Brand buried day afore Jong Ms jon war “If he does, father I shall refuse him,” “Refuse him!” cried the a si , half starting out of the chair in which he just seated himself, “Lena, gurl! hev ye tuk leave o° y’ur senses? Air ye in airnest?”’ “Tam, father. I mean what I’ve said.” “Mean darnation! Ye’re eyther mad, gurl, or else talkin’ like a chile. D’ye know what refusin’ means?” “I have not thought of it.” “But I hev, over an’ over ag’in, It means beggary “Ye w’u'd, w’u’d ye? Then ye may hev a chance yA ganar *n ye think for, Verve gone idea y’ur ole ; many other whoroam over the big prairie. , in their hands but for a party | The Helpless Hand. “Father, I was as bappy In our old cabin as I’ve ever been in this fine house—ay, far happier.” “Ye war, war ye? But I warn’t—not by a long chalk; an’ I don’t want to squat in any o’ yer shan- | ties ag’in—not ef I kin keep out o’ em. Hyar’sa — by which you may be rich for the rest o’ yer fe; an’ there’d be no need for me sturvin’, eyther. Alf Brandon kums in fur a good plantation, wi’ three-score niggers on it; an’ there’s nothin’ to hin- ou from bein’ mistress o’ the hul lot.” “T don’t wish it.” |. But I do, an’ [mean to hev it so. Don't git it in ‘ur head, good-lookin’ as you may think y’urself, het the world air a stick o’ sugar candy, and ye’ve ot nothin’ to do but suck it. I tell you, gurl, I’ve | drifted into difeequilties. I've had some rasources | you know nothin’ *beout; but I can’t tell the day the supplies may be stopt, an’ then we've got to go under. Now, d’ye unnerstan’ me?” “Indeed, father, I know nothing of your affairs, How should I? But I am sure I could never be happy as the wife of Alfred Brandon.” ‘An’ why? What hev ye ag’in’ him? He’s a good- lookin’ feller—dog-goned -lookin’.” “*Tt has nothin’ to do with his looks,” “What then? His karracktur, I s’pose?”’ “You know it is not ‘e “ Durn karracktur! at signify thet? Ef all the Are, Sah sae in these parts war to wait till they got a husband o’ good karraktur, they’d stay a long spell single, I reck’n. Alf Brandon ain’t no worse nor other ae what's o’ far more konsequince, he air richer most. Ye'd be a fool, gurl—a dot- rotted eedyit, not to jump at the chance. An’ don’t you git into y’ur h that I'm a-gwine to let it sli Willin’ or not, ye’ve got to be the wife o’ Alf Bran- an’ by don. e Etarnal, ye shall be no lon- ger my darter! You hear thet?” “T hear you, father. It is ve to hear you. And too, for me to you, that your threat can not change me. I’m sure I have n obedient to you in every thing else. Why should you a oy Rs! e m a) nt- ing, “I acknowledge ye've beat ry gurl; t w y shed ou now spiile all the chances o' our get- tin’ a x livin’ by y’ur obstinateness in this ness? I tell ye ar yy air, jest at this time, a leetle us. i owe Alf Brandon money—a good o’t—an’ now his father’s dead, he may be on me for’t, Besides, you're o’ full an’ oughter ra liced to somebody. Who's better’n Alf Bren on ” Had Jerry Rook gs ee ee a house, or approached it with poet caution, might have received a more satisfactory answer to his question, As it was, he got none—his daughter aoe ae 7 not caring to Saeed a pif av er eyes, — some 8 t embarrassment. Some of this The old man — re neticed, as evinced by the remark that crowed, “ Poor white ye ain't a to marry wi’ my con- sent, I don’t care what his karracktur; ae ef Any promise, yerve got to gic out O° It the best was ye any ye out 0” way ye kin.” Neither was there any rejoinder to this; and he sat for a time in silence, as if reflecting on the probahil- a Ang some such complication. e had never heard of his daughter having be- stowed her heart on any one; and indeed she had some celebrity for having so long kept it to For all that, it might have been secretly surren- dered; and the world neh account for her aversion to the man he most her to marry. “T heerd a shot asI war coming along the road. It war the crack o’ a rifle; and sounded as if’t war — near the house. Has anybody been rary’ The question was but a corollary to the train of thought he had been pursuing. Fortunately for the young girl, it admitted of an evasive answer, under the umstances excusable. “There has been no one at the house since you left. There was a shot, though; I heard it myself.” “] thine, down b the creek be in the woods own —may be in w beyond the Sechand” ‘Thar ain’t nothin’ in them woods bei ne squrr’L, res ee wer: otin’ this time o' day?” “ me ”» Hey! what's that dog torte ol out the Etarnal! An’ arattler, too! The hound hain led thet mirhe old hunter, yielding to curiosity a é old hun or some unde- clared impulse PIE bene Se from the porch, and out to where the hound had come to a stop, and was standing by the body of the snake. Driving the dog aside, he stooped over the dead reptile to examine it. ‘Shot through the skull!” he muttered to himself, “an’ wi’ a rifle, o’ sixty to the pound. Thet ’ere’s been a hunter's . Who k e be? It’s been done this side o’ the crik, too, seein’ as the dog hain’t wetted a hair in fetchin’ o’t.”’ Turning along the trail of the snake—which, to his experienced eye, was discernible in the he fol- ere tbl he came to the spot where the reptile had been “Shot hyar, for sartin. Yes; thar's the score o’ the bullet arter it had passed through the varmint’s brain- pan; an’ thar’sthe shoe-tracks o’ him as fired the shot. No boy that; but a full-growéd man! Who _ be pee hez been trespass’ *mong my peach- rees?’ He bent over the tracks and carefully scrutinized them. Then rising erect, he followed them to the bank of the creek, where he saw the same foote prints more conspicuously outlined inthe mud, __ “ Boys— from ’mong the peach trees? Snake, b: var- $ “Strenger, for sartin!” muttered he; "no sech futmark ge thet "beout these settlements—not as I knows op. Who the durnation kin it ’a’ been?” It was strange he should take so much trouble about a circumstance so slight, or show so much anxiety to discover who had been the intruder. He was evidently uneasy about something of more im- rtance to than the trespass among his peach rees. “That gurl must ’a’ heerd the shot plainer than she’s been tellin me 0’; an’ see’d more’n she’s con- fessed to. Thar’s somethin’ on her mind I hain’t po meets wos to make en. She shall be put h a chapter o’ katty “Tena, gurl!” he eee ee back toward the porch, still occupied by daughter; “d’ye mean to say ye see’d nobody ‘beout hyar to-day?” “T see some one now,” said she, by the rarest bit of — enabled to evade giving an answer to the question. % some ong now. Whar?” “There. A friend of yours coming along the ” “Alf Brandon!” exclaimed the old hunter, hur rying forth to receive the individual thus an a weg a Aeony Meg eo a nee wares was seen e on of the For Lena Rook it was an opportune arrival; for a time at leazt, she was spared that aoeskonad “chapter 0’ kattykism.”’ CHAPTER XVIIL AN ANGRY ADMIRER. For the first time in her life, Lena Rook saw Ak fred Brandon approach her father's house without a fs) ite she saw through the character of lieved him to be both a pretender and a poltroon. She knew that he was cruel—a to all who had the misfortune to be under and a hard taskmaster to the black-skinned slaves that toiled © man, and be- stigator; and she had, all along, Pierre’s absence was in some way ry ape ner had that day transpired. She was pleased to see Brandon now, only because pe Sake aae nee eee romised te become em q t answer could she have made to that her father had asked? The was — She mn, “she’s heard I’m now my own master, ree dividual from a Rook will have the with me in the Now that she sees y I guess she’ll not stand -shally any longer. here goes for the ” This of ections was made after Alfred entered the gate, and was making his reh in which the young lady was ee hey were finished as he set foot on 6 step. There was no one to interfere with the conversa- tion that after. J Rook, the ~ ory Misti, had stayed vehind ne rt of the Ritch ” his horse; and atterward found excuse to stray to the back of the house, leaving the two alone. “‘I suppose you have heard of my affliction, Miss Rook ? enid Hrendon, after enhutaticns had wees ex- c “iM father has just been telling me of it.” waraeome a way tow e still sta “ Ah! yes, my old dad’s dead and gone. Buried him — before yesterday. Can't be ees fe ee know. It’s the way of us all. We've all got to die.” To this lugubrious declaration Lena Rook yielded ready assent. There was a pause in the conversation. Notwith- standing his plenitude of power, tending to ire him with sufficient assurance, the suitor fae at at ease, It was not to be wondered at, considering the errand on which he had come, Moreover, the pleasant look had forsaken Lena's face, and he had begun to doubt of success. She knew what he had come for, and was seriously | reflecting on the answer she sliould give him. She of course intended it to be negative; but she remembered her father’s words, and was t' as hat she ht reject the disagreeabl: tor / vichout Meer en his spire. She so well ,
Page 10
10. The Helpless Hand. . his nature as to know that he would be contemptible enough to use it. It was no thought of herself that dictated the affa- bility with which she was entertaining him; though she could scarce conceal her disgust for the man be- fore her, talking in such strain of a father so recent- ly deceased. She too had a father who was not what he ought to be. And she knew it. But still was he her father. After remaining for some time silent, not knowin, what to say—Brandon at length summoned sufficien edurage to stammer out his purpose. It was done with some fear and oh yen oan He was more himself after he had received the re- fusal; which was given in as delicate terms as the young lady could command. But delicacy was thrown away upon the spiteful lanter, who, stung by the thought of being refused y the daughter of a * poor white,”—he knew the se- cret of Jerry Reok’s altered circumstances— upbraiding, in.terms of opprobrious wrath, the woman from whose feet he had just arisen! The young girl, thus grossly outraged, would have called te her father for protection; but again re- membering his words, she remained silent under the infliction—not even making an answer to her cowardly insulter. “Somebody e I suppose,” said the rejected gentleman, spitefully pronouncing the words, ** some por ‘trash ’ of your own sort has got a hold of you! y !’—the ruffian swore a frightful oath—* if it be so, when I find out who it is, and I don’t care who it is, T'll make these settlements too hot to hold him. Zena Rook, yow ll rue this refusal /”’ Not a word said Lena Rook in reply to the coarse invective. A disdainful curl upon her lip was all the answer she vouchsafed, which stayed there as she stood wa him along the walk, and until he his horse and galloped off from the de away; rring of his horse, and the reckless air he rode, the old hunter conjectured the sort of answer that had been given him. “ Durn the 1!” mutte he, as a black shadow swept across wrinkled brow, “she’s played fool an’ refused him! Looks as ef she’d sassed him! Never mind, Alf Brandon! I'll make it all right for you. This chile ain’t a-gwine to let thet fine planta- shun o’ yourn slip through his fingers—not ef he know it. You shall hev the gurl, an’ she you, ef I hev myself to drag her up to the halter. So then, my Lena lass, when I’ve done gi’n these hogs thar corn, I’m a-gwine to read you a lectur’.” {f the abrupt departure of Brandon had brought _anger into the eyes of Jerry Rook, there ba pel ag an- other pair watehing it that me suffused with joy. They were the eyes of Pierre Robideau. Alter from the sweetheart so long — rated from him, the young man had recrossed the ereek, and as he had intended, 4° on through the woods toward the stand where he had left his horse, Before going far the thought occurred to him that he might as well have a look at the quondam squat- ee see if he, too, was changed, like cunyteing It was only to place himself in the ambush that y proved so serviceable to his purposes, and stay there till Jerry should show himself. Knowing that the “‘ porch ” of a backwoods dwell- usually supplies the place of sitting-room, he did anticipate any severe trial of patience. It was not the gratification of mere curiosity that — him to return, He had other reasons that rendered him desirous to. look upon his host of former an fe at the same time that he was equally desirous to let that host see him, Nor was it exactly a desire that counseled him to this act; but a sort of involuntary impulse, such as with whi pe bird feels to approach the serpent that would de- Pierre Robideau had returned from California better informed about the doings of Jerry Rook than he had been on fing out there, It was the old hunter that had indu him to undertake that distant journey. He had counseled, almost com- od. it, by a false story that his father had gone there before him, and had intrusted Jerry to send him after in all haste. For this purpose his former host had furnished the outfit directions, and had even seen him some distance on his way, As already stated, the gers gore be youth, before starting, knew nothing of what occurred that night im the giadie-—-not even that, while he was himself eae beg his father had been so near him! The story of the lynching had been kept from him previous to his departure, Jerry Rook alone ee ‘access to him, and carefully Pusriing. agains, other @ proach, It was only after arrival in California, and failing to find his father at the ap- inted place, that he had heard of the tragedy on Raney creek, and who had been its victim. ‘The tale had got ances the 1 Fold-diggers, brought out by some new arrival from Little Rock, Why Jerry Rook had been so anxious to get him away Pierre Robideau could never tell, Though he some terrible suspicions about it, almost pointing out the old squatter as one of his father’s murderers, It was this sort of curiosity that caused him to turn among the trees and s back to the conceal- ment he had so recently forsaken. Perhaps, too, he may have wished once more to gratify his as by gazing on.that loved form so unceremoniously hur- ried out of his sight. Whether or not, he was soon in his old position, and gazing intently through the curtain of leaves. So far as Jerry Book was concerned, be obtained the satisfaction he had sought for, His quondam host was in front of the house, in conversation ; | with his daughter, who stood in the porch above m, Pierre had arrived at the moment when that estion was put, so nearly concerning himself. He id not hear it; but he noticed the embarrassed air of the young lady, and the = change that came over her countenance as she adroitly evaded the answer. From that moment Jerry Rook was no longer re- garded. A third personage had appeared upon the scene, and the pleased look with which Jerry Rook’s daughter ay eee to receive him sent a pang through the heart of Pierre Robideau. The exclamation had told him who the new- | comer was. But he did not need that. No time | could efface from his memory the image of one who had so poy! outraged him; and six years had roduced but lit ew him on sight. With heart beating wildly he remained, a silent witness to the scene that ensued. At first it beat bitterly, as he marked and misinter- preted the complaisant look with which Lena re- garded his rival. Ere long came a delightful change as he listened to the dialogue—plainly overheard where he stood; and when he he the final speech, and saw the dis- comfited lover start off toward the gate, he could scarce restrain himself from a shout of joy. He would fain have sprung across the creek, and once more folded that fair form in his ionate embrace. But he saw that mischief might spring from such improvidence; and turning from the spot, he walked mange yy his heart now swelling with triumph, now subsiding into sweet contentment. CHAPTER XIX. A CONCLAVE OF SCOUNDREIS, THERE was a time when “Slaughter’s Hotel” was the first and only house of its kind in the town of Helena. That was when Slaughter, senior, presided over its destinies. Now that he was no mcre, and his son walked rather slip-shod in his shoes, it had sunk into a second-rate place of entertainment—an estab- lishment more respectable, or at all events more pre- tentious, having swung out its sign. In Slaughter’s hostelry dona fide travelers had be- come scarce. Still was it not without guests and eg hag in en There were enough “ sportsmen” n the place, with adventurers of other kinds, to give the house a custom, and these principally tronized it, From a family hotel it had changed into a drink- ing and gambling saloon, and in this t was it prosperous enough. It was the resort of all the dis- sipa oung men in the neighborhood, and old on too, It had its public and private parlors, and one o the latter, the landlord’s own, was accessible to the select of his acquaintances—his cronies of a special n the evening of that day in which Alf Brandon had received his dismissal from the daughter of Jerry Rook, this apartment was occupied by six guests, in- cluding the landlord himself. They were the same who had figured in the hanging frolic, of which hae Poop eau had come so near being the victim. n t account it is not necessary to give their names, nor any description of ame Soxthes. than to all six were as wild and wicked as ever; or, ae th greater exactitude, wilder and more It might seem strange that chance had brought men together, without any other com- say that to these you y; but the closed door, and the order for no one be admitted, showed that their meeting was not by mere accident. Their conversation, already com- menced, told that they had met by appointment, as also the purpose of their assembling. , It was Alfred Brandon who had summoned them to the secret conclave; and he who made the o speech, declaring his object in having done so. - ter a drink all round, Brandon had said; “Well, ee sent for you to meet me here, and here we are. I guess you know why?” * igoeee we don’t,” bluffily responded Buck. “ Choc.?” suggested Slaughter. ‘Well, we know it’s about Choc.,” assented the son of the horse-dealer. “Any fool might guess that. But what about him? Let’s hear what you've got to say, Alf.” “ Well, not much, after all. Only that I think it’s hich time we took some steps to get rid of the infer- nal tax we’ve been paying.’ “Oh! Lge come to that, are you? I thought you would sometime. But for you, Alf Brandon, we might have done something long ago. I'm out o’ ocket five hundred dollars, and hang me if I intend y another cent—come what will or may.” * Ditto with you, Bill Buck!’ indorsed Slaughter. - Grubbs, Randall, and Spencer were silent, though evidently inclined to the same way of thinking. “I’ve sworn every year I'd stop it,’’ continued Buck; “and I'd have done so but for Alf, there. It’s all very well for him. He’s rich an’ can stand it, With some o’ the rest of us it’s dog-gone different,” “Nonsense!” exclaimed Brandon; ‘“ my being rich had nothing to do with it. Iwas as anxious as any of you to get the Joad off v’ shoulders; only I could never see how it was to be done.” “Do you see now?” asked Spencer. “Not very clearly, I confess,” “Tt’s as clear as mud to me—one way is,” said Slaughter. “ And to me,” chimed in Buck. “What way? Tell us!” demanded the storek er. “I’m ready for most anything that'll clear us of this Yop att ‘You can get clear, then, by making a clear of the Tne ccs Slaughter’s, the last part of it e su on was Slaughter’s, the part o made In a significant whisper. *Them’s just my sentiments,” said louder and with more determination. tle change in Alf Brandon. Pierre | | ‘em In practice before this, if Alf Brandon had shown the pluck to agree to it. Darned ef I wouldn't.” “What?” said the young planter, affecting igno- rance of the suggested scheme. ‘ Carry the col- lector off? Ts that what you both mean?’ “Oh! you're very innocent, Alf Brandon, you are, 7 sucking dove!’ t was Slaughter who spoke. “Yes,” said Buck, in answer to the interrogatory; “carry him off, and so far that there’ll be no danger o’ his comin’ back again. That’s what we mean. Have you got any thing better to _- If you have, let's hear it. If not, what’s the use of all this palaverin’?” “Well,” said Brandon, ‘‘I’ve been thinking we might carry something else off that might answer our purpose as well; and without getting usinto any scrape worth talking about.” ‘ e Carry what off? The girl—Rook’s daughter?” “No, no. Brandon don’t mean that, nor don’t need it. He’s goin’ to take her to church, and there's no danger about his gettin’ consent.” It was Buck who made the remarks, and with some bitterness—being himself one of Lena Rook’s unsuc- cessful admirers. Brandon felt the sting; all the more keenly from what had that day occurred. Moreover, he knew that Buck was upon the list of his rivals, and saw that the speech was meant fora slur. The lurid light in his eye and the pallor Sey overeP reading his lips, showed the depth of his c But he said nothing, fearful of defeating the scheme he had traced out for himself in tion to Lena Rook. “Come, gentlemen!” said Randall, for the first time entering into the conversation, “ This taik on wastes time, and the subject is too serious for that. Let us hear Brandon out. I’m as anxious as.any of you to settle this unpleasant matter, and if there be any safe plan we can all agree about, the sooner it’s carried out the better, needn’t remind you the time’s close at hand when the old Shylock will call for another pound of flesh, If any one ean sug- gest a way to escape g it, I think the rest of us would be but too willing to stand the best Toseeregne eager Slaughter can get up, and a ‘pony "into e ain.” we'll go snacks for that,” - aes out, Brandon!” “The fact 5" said Brandon, thus sorue to, ‘we've been all a set of fools, to stand this thing so long. tp Sees we brave the old scoundrel, and him to do his worst, what evidence has he got against us? Only his own oath,” “ And the girl's!” “No, The girl saw nothin t least only what was circumstantial. She couldn’t swear to the deed; nor he, neither, as far as that goes, though he makes pretense that he can. Suppose he does swear to it what then? There are six of us—six oaths to one! I needn't ask whether you are all willing.” “No, you needn't,” was the unanimous rejoin- der. “Good so far. Well, you all know that Je Rook’s oath wouldn’t go far in these parts, and we stick together, and deny the thing in tote, I'd like to know how a jury could "3 against us. We've been fools not to try it. I'd have proposed it long ago, only that, like some of the rest, I've been too thin-skinned about it, and didn’t like to stir up stinking water.” “Yes, you’ve been thin-skinned "bout it. No mis- take o’ that, Your deuced thin-skinness, as you call it, has cost me five hundred silver dollars.” ** Me the same,’’ said Slaughter. “Well, for that matter, we all had to poy aleee and now let us gp gid! all share alike in law ex- penses, in case it should come to that. For my part I don’t think it will,” “And why won’t it?’ asked Randall, whose law experience, himself being a practitioner, guided him to a different conclusion. “You don't suppose that the old Shylock will yield without a trial? Trust me, fellows, he'll fight hard to stick to that six hundred dollars per annum, he’s been so long pulling out of us.”’ “Ourse him! let him fight. What can he do? Let him tell his story, and what evidence can he bring to support it? As I’ve said, his oath won’t count for anyt ng against all six of ours.” But, Alf, you forget the body?” This reminiscence, called up by Randall, caused all the others to start; tor all forgotten it—Brandon alone excepted. ‘No, I don’t,” replied the latter, with an air of tri- umph at his own astuteness. ‘Well, he’d bring that up, wouldn’t he?” hin No doubt he would, if we’re fools enough m.”’ ** Ah! I see what you're driving at.” “So do we all.”’ ““We know where #¢ lies; we’ve had good reason to. We've been fools to let it lie there so long; and “What do you A peg nny! Alf?” ¥ we'd be softer still to let it lie there any longer, “Darn it, there’s something in what he says, “That we go in for a bit of exhumation, and trans- fer that body, or bones, or whatever relics be left of it, to a safer aleeping-place. After that’s done, let Je k do his best.” “ ~ aoa!” “ Jest the . “ Let's carry it out then!” “When?” “To-morrow gg We're not ared now, or it might be to-night. Let us provide the tools for to- morrow night, and meet about midnight. We can come together in the glade, and go from there. Ye must all of you come, and all have a hand in it,” - We'll do the grave-digging |” . Enough, boys! Let’s fill up and to lot to our suc- ! FO eng t Amidst the clinking of glasses was sealed the singue
Page 11
The Helpless Hand. ———CCCCQaaesesS=qeuq@uaeaeaeaESsaeaoasasaouoomoomomomoooaoaoaooooooeeeQQQ eee lar campact; and the body-stealers, that were to be, soon separated, to come together again upon the morrow. CHAPTER XX. THE TRYST UNDER THE TREE. Unper the canopy of the great cottonwood the tryst of the lovers was to be kept. erre was there first, and stood within the shadow of the tree, expectant. . There had been nothing to interfere with his com- ing, either to hinder or retard it. He had left the tavern at an early hour, telling them that he might not return that night; and, slowly sauntering through the woods, had reached the place of appointment some time before that agreed upon. Having arrivea under the tree and taken a survey of the ground, ha regretted having chosen it as a rendezvous. Better need not have n desired had the night been dark. But it was not. On the con- SS a clear moon was sailing through the sky. When Pierre Robideau last stood under that tree there was brushwood around it; with a cane- brake along the edge of the creek, burnt off long ago to enla the little cltaring that had suffic for the claim of the squatter. ere were the stumps of other trees still, and a rough rail fence running up to the corner of the house; but, with the exception of these, any one approachin from the house side would find nocover to preven them from being seen. It occurred to Pierre Robideau that his sweetheart might be watched. He had reason to believe that her father kept a close eye upon her, and might be suspicious of her movements. What he had seen and heard the day before told him how things stood between Jerry ‘Rook and Alf Brandon. Once under the cottonwood there would be nodanger. Even the white dress of a woman could not be descried in the deep shadow of the moss-laden branches—at least not from any distance; and in case of any one - ing accidentally near, the young man knew that the tree was hollow—a huge cavity o' core eg its trunk, capable of holding a horse. More once. when a boy, had he and little Lena played hide and seek in this capacious tree-chamber. On the other side—that opposite the house—the tree could be approached under cover, along the edge of the creek, where a thin strip of cane had been left standing undisturbed. It was through this he had himself come, after crossing the creek some tance above, even o’elock came, as he knew by a clock strik- ing inside the house, then a long aoa that seemed nearly a da; though it was not quite an hour, Still no sign of sweetheart, nor of living thing any- where outside the dwelling of Jerry Rook. He could see the porch, and one of the windows beyond it. Through this came the light of lamp or candle, indistinct under the bright s er of the moonbeams. Upon the window his eyes were habitually kept, and he indulged in conjectures as to who was the oc- cupant of the lighted room, At first he nee it to be Lena; but, as the time passed without the 4 ponies being kept, he began to fancy it might er father, He had no knowledge of the interior of the house. But, if the lighted window belonged to the kitchen, it was like enough the old hunter was inside, sitti eS ee arm-c and smoking his prpe, a hab t Pierre knew him to indulge in, in days long past. ht_sit very late up into the morn- Moreover, he been often accustomed to do in hours—as he ose same days. The remembrance made Pierre uneasy—especially as the time stole past, and still no appearance of the sted one. He was beginning to despair of an interview that night, when the light, upon which his eyes had been fixed, ap to have been put out, as the glass showed black under the moonbeams, “It was she, then,” he muttered to himself. “She has been waiting till all were well asleep. She will come how.” Forsaking the window, his became fixed upon the porch, within whose shadow he expected her to 7, e did Mee not until another 1 interval had expired—a h trial of the lover's patience. Before it was exhausted, however, a form was outlined in the dark doorway—the door having been silently ned—and soon after the moon shone down upon drapery of a woman’s dress, The white kerchief upon her head would have en- abled Pierre Robideau to recognize her. But that was not needed. The direction she took on stepping out ee: the porch told him it was she whom he ex- pec’ She came on, but not as one who walks without fear, She kept along the fence, on its shadowy side, and close in to the rails. Now and then she stopped, looked behind, and listened. What she feared was evidently not abroad, but at home, Some serious cause had detained her beyond her time. Pierre watched her with caper eyes—with heart arm impatiently, until he felt hers beating against Once more they stood heart to heart, with arms entwining ! “Why was she so late? What had detained her?” The questions were put with no thought of re- proach; only fear as to the answer. As Pierre suspected, Jerry Rook had been sit- ting up late, and, as she suspected, with some idea of watching her. The lighted room was his; and it was he who had extinguished the candle. She had waited after, till he should be well asleep. She had nad a terrible time of it, both that day and tery teett Her father had been very ey with several had been er about He had out that Pierre He had cross-quegtiongd her, and ! made her confess it. It was no use denying It as her | father had found his tracks and saw the snake that had been shot; and besides, one of the negroes had | heard a man’s voice along with hers among the trees | of the orchard. It made it all the worse that she | had tried to conceal it, and been found out. Of | course she did not say who it was—only a “ge oe) | she had never seen before. ‘‘Oh, Pierre! 1 told that ee lie about you; God forgive me!” Her father ad gone furious. There was something else, too that made him so; about Alf Brandon, who had come over to see them just after Pierre had oF Sne- “What was it about Alf Brandon?” asked Pierre, rather calmly, considering that the individual spoken of was his most dangerous rival. The young girl noticed this, and answered with some pique. “Oh, nothing much!” she said, relaxing the pres- sure of herarms. “ At least, nothing, I suppose, that you would care about,” “Nay, dear Lena,” he hastily rejoined, noticing the hurt he unconsciously occasioned, and drawing her back to his heart; ‘‘ pardon me for the apparent coldness of the question. I only asked because I wished to tell that I know all.” ** All what, Pierre?” “All that occurred between you and Alf Bran- “And who told you?” “No one. I’m going to make a confession if yeu’ll promise not to be an; with me.” “ An with you, Pierre?” ; dh 4 then, it was thus: After leaving you yes- terday, I came back ‘ain, and took stand under the cover of the t ust over there, at the bot- tom of the garden. course, I could see the house and all in front of it. I got there just as your father was leaving to meet Mr. Brandon by the gate; and Inot only saw what passed between you two, but heard most of what was said, It was as much as I could do to restrain myself from springing across the creek, and laying the fellow at your feet; but I kept back, thinking of the trouble I might get you into, to say nothing of myself, with your father. I own to all this meanness, Lena, without being able to let you know my motive for it, One reason for my returning was to look again upon you. ‘Oh, Pierre!” said the girl, once more reciprocat- ing the pressure of his embrace, “if I had only known you were there! But no. Perhaps it was better not. I might have done something that would have betrayed us both!” “True,” he said. ‘‘And from what I know of your father's designs, I see that we cannot be too cautious, But promise me, love—promise, before we er no matter what may arise, nor how long t may be before I can gain your father's consent, = will still keep true teme. Will you promise ‘*Promise it! How could you doubt me? After six years—more, I may say; for I loved you ever since I first saw you—ay, Pierre, when I was only a little bit of a barefooted girl—after being true all time, et wd gy oven not doubt me now. Promise it? Anyt ng tre, anything!” Firmer and faster became the fo of their arms —closer and closer came their lips, till meeting, they remained together in a long, rapturous kiss. CHAPTER XXL i boc age Aer igh Loné, rapturous kiss, and a at came n betraying them, Fortunately it had ended before any one was near enough to witness to it, or ~ its sweetness by rude interruption. he lovers were about taking leave of one another; their arms were once more free, and they were ar- ran, the time and oom for another interview, when the quick ear of the young man, attuned to take notice of suspicious sounds, was caught by one that appeared to be of this character. It was a rustling among the canes that bordered the creek, with now and then their culms crackling together, as if something—man or animal—was mak- ing way through them. e sounds proceeded from a point at some dis- tance; but as the lovers stood listen they could tell that whatever made them was drawing nearer. And soon they saw that they were not made by an animal, nor yet by a man; but by several men, who, under the clear light of the moon, could be seen ap- proaching the spot. And it could be a that they were not com- ing on openly and boldly, like men on an honest er- rand; but skulking along the edge of the creek, here and there crou under the cane, whose thin growth only partially concealed them, The noise they made was inadvertent. They were not makin more than they could help, and if there was any between them it must have been in whispers, as no words were heard by the two standing under the tree. For these it was too late to retreat unobserved. They might have done so at first, but not now; and any attempt to get away from the t would ba) rn the lovers under the full light of the moon, eir only chance to remain undiscovered was to keep wa 2 ronal pd me tree. aoutite ot long ore, this, too, appeared dou ; as they now saw that the dark ‘forms advancing along the edge of the stream must pass close to where they mes AY ay close as to see them, in spite of the ob- BC A Who the cautious travelers were, or what their de- sign, neither had the slightest idea. But it mattered not what. room for the lovers to know that they were in danger of being surprised, and under circum- stances to cause them chagrin. : What was to be done? The skulkers were coming on, They would soon be under the tree! The returned gold-seeker had taken the young girl in his arms—partly with the idea of protecting her, should any rudeness be ateempted, and partiy to m- spire her with sarees He was thinking w them to step boldly out, and show themselves in the open light. It would less expose them to ridicule; though the lateness of the hour—it was now after midnight—would still render them liable to that. A young lady and gentleman—they had markedly this appearance—indulging in a moonlight stroll at nigh one o'clock of the morning, were not likely to escape scandal—if seen. What was to be done? At this moment a pappy thought came up to an- swer the question. It flashed simultaneously through the minds of both. Both remembered the cavity the tree; and without a word to one another—both acting under the same impulse—they glided inside, and stood in the shadow dark as the dungeon itself. They had scarce time to compose themselves ere the party of intruders came up, and stopped right under the tree. To their chagrin they saw this. They had hoped that such early travelers might be bent upon some distant journey ; and that once the spot, they would be themselves free to continue their affectionate leave-taking. They soon perceived that this was not to be, The new-comers halted close up to the trun in front of the cavity; and though envelo in deep shadow, their figures were disti e from the deeper shadow surrounded two spectators, Either of these could have touched them by stretch- forth a hand! either had a thought of doing this. On the con- trary, they stood motionless as marble, both silently striving to keep baek their breath. Six figures there were—six men—several of them carrying implements, at first taken for guns, but which, On more prolonged scrutiny, proved to be es and shov From the way they were ma- pulating these tools, it was evident they intended making use of them, and on the spot! The occupants of the tree-cave were puzzled by these preparations. For what were they going to dig?” ihe blood of both ran cold at the thought of a . And both had it. What co they have thought? Six men, armed with exca- — & implements, at that unearthly hour ef the ight And a secret grave, too; for the body of some one whom they had murdered}! Else, why their stealthy movements, and their talking in louder than a whisper? Who could they be? And what their ? These were the questions that came belore the minds of Pierre Robideau and Lena Rook. Only in thought. They dared not interrogate one another— even in whi ! a stood ailens, watching the development of even ‘““Where can the darned thing be?’ asked one of the men, stooping down, and cape | searching for something along the grass. “‘ Who of ye remem- bers the agit “A little low tones, scarce * Alf Brandon!” whispered the girl, with her lips close to her ee sear, " inn others g: around the spot indicated by randon. Two, who carried es, commenced while a like number of shovel-men, followed, - ing out the loose earth, “Wonder how deep the old skunk has buried aK nee don I reck J Rook's too lazy “ Not very deep, nm Je 's to’a’ dug fur down. We'll acon come to it,” These were the voices of Bill Buck, and mag: eee the hotel-keeper, recognized by Lena Rook, though not by her re “Do yout there's a coffin?’ inquired one who had ae yet awoken It Nese ne age oo ; “No,” answe another new er, ble as lawyer Randall, “I should say not. The squatter wasn't likely to take that trouble for su acreature as Choc.; and as the fellow had no friends, I op you'll find him in his deer-skin shir aoe Jerry hasn’t taken the pains to strip Oe ee the pebegy Pe oe om “The w ae ou, Pierre!” whispered girl to him by his side. “The very same!” ‘ Rage wodeg tay ie ee endeavorin, nterpre e Ss talk i Detore thin. lar scene p' “It’s getting down here,” d one of the spadesmen. “It seems to me I've touched bot tom. ” “Old Jerry must have trampled him tight down!” remarked another, adding a ht laugh. “Don’t speak so loud, boys!” commanded Bran- don. “Look at the house, “ *Tisn’t twenty off; and there’s a weasel in it that seldom If we’re heard, you know what'll follow. Keep sh lent; it may save each of you a hi dollars a ear year. At this appeal the diggers turned their eyes to- ward the house; but only to give it a cursory glance, and back to the ground again. Lena Rook looked longer in that direction; for there was the thing she nrost feared—her father, Intimately nted with the precincts of dwelling, and of course better e to tell if any» thing was Hegre she saw, what had escaped the notice of the iy-stealers, the front door stan open! It should have been shut; for, on co; out, she had carefully closed it behind her, ether it would not be best for . a
Page 12
| | | { upon the space 12 She had scarce made the discovery when she saw a figure in the doorway, that, after standing a mo- ment, as if to reconnoiter and listen, stole out into the perch, and then stealthily descending the steps, glided crouchingly toward the cover of the orc ‘Only for a moment was it under the moonlight; but the young girl had no difficulty in recognizing the form of her father! Something in his hand glistens in the moonlight. It eters to be a gun. : ith his attention called to it by a significant pres- sure on his arm, Pierre also saw the flitting figure, and knew whose it was. The weasel, as Alf Brandon termed him, had not been asleep! And just like a weasel he had acted—in sight only for six seconds, as he shot across the open space between the porch and the peach trees. Once among these he was invisible to the only eyes that had seen him—those of his daughter and Pierre Robi- deau, But both expected soon to see him again. He had aot gone into the orchard for nothing, and his cat- like: movements told that he had suspicion of some- thing astir under the cottonwood, and that he was 8 g around by the creek to approach it unob- served. Whether he yet saw the excavators could not be known; but he must have heard the clinking of their tools as he stood in the doorway. out , they continued their work, Brandon once again having counseled them to silence. “Darned if ‘tain’t the bottom! I told you so!”’ said Bill Buck, striking his spad ground bebeeea hisfeet. ‘Thar’s nor spade into this—not since the da: clghtoms inches below the einen panes 6 tried it in several places, all of which gave back ‘the same sound! “ Clear out the lower mold!”? commanded he. This was done; and once more was the test ap- ied. wm There's no grave there,” remarked Randall, “Nor body!” said Spencer. “Not as much as a bone!” added Buck. “No, nor ever has been! Dog-gone my cats if old Rook hasn’t ‘been humbuggin’ us! “Hal ha! ! He! he! he!” ‘The sounds thus represented were intended for a ‘laugh, that came from the other side of the tree, and = voice that did not belong to any of the excavat- atever mirth eae been in the man who uttered them, it failed to communicate itself to any -of the six grav ers, allof whom started at the sreaee voice, stood staring wildly around them, If the body for which they had been searching had sudde: appeared in their midst and given utter- ance to unearthly cachinnation, they could not have been more astonished. And their astonishment lasted until a man well ‘known to them Soe from behind the tree, and discovered himself in the clear moonlight. “Jerry Rook, by the Eternal!” CHAPTER XXIL THE DIGGERS DISMISSED. “Yrs, Jerry Rook, by the Etarnal!’’ exclaimed ‘the oki hunter, with another mocking laugh. ‘An’ he heerd Bill Buck amo e. Yes, Billee, thet’s you, an’ Mr. ter B on, an’ as thar’s four more o’ ye, I reck’n I kin guess who the others air. An’ ‘what mout ye ‘a’ been doin’? Spades an’ shovels! Ho! ho! Ye've been a grave- d hev ye? Well, I hope ye’ve sens ve 3 enough, ye - Youre a-gwine to berry somebody, There Th “f what ye hev no ie aga “ An’ so, Mr. Bill Buck, ye think thet Jerry Rook hez been a-humb , du. “T do,” replied Buck, doggedly. “and so do Fd * Yes; so all of us,” “Oh! ye’re a "beout thet, air ye? Wal, ye in’t a e umbug me, as ye’ve been now ain’t to b ‘ve been jest _a-tryin’. I warn’t sech a precious fool as to put the poor young fellar’s karkiss whar you ked kum an’ scrape it up ag’in whenever you’d a mind. Ne’er a t. I’ve got it safer stowed away than thet; an’ I'll take care o’t, too, till you refuse to keep to your contract. When any 0’ ye do thet, I’lithen do a bit o’ dissenterry myself; you see if I don’t.” The discomfited excavators had once more re- lapsed into silence. Having nothing to say by which they could justify themselves, they made no attempt. It was no use to deny either what they had been a0: ing or its design. Jerry Rook saw the one, and essed the other. “Ye ‘pear very silent beout it,” he continued “Wal, Seatlayaee got nothing to say i ee Teck’n you'd better all go hum to y'ur beds an’ sleep the thing over. Perhaps some 0’ ye may dream whar the bofly air laid, Ha! ha! ha!” They weré not all silent, though their speech was The Helpless Hand. not addressed to him. There was w ring amon op enone in which Bill Buck and ughter took the principal part; and had there been light enough for Jerry Rook to see the faces of these two men and the demoniac fire in their eyes, as the glanced at him and then toward the spades, he might have changed his hilarious tone, and perhaps made a hasty retreat into the house. There was a sar gen that the half-du — should be ee ep ,and a body put into it—the y of v4 8 Rook! It came from Slaughter, and was backed by Bill Buck, But the others were not plucky enough for such an extreme measure, and the old squatter was spared. Perhaps his rifle had some- thing to do with the decision. They saw that he had it w him, and, although Jerry Rook was a sexa- genarian, they knew him to be a sure and deadly shot. He would not be conquered without a strug- gle. ““ What the ole Nick are ye whisperin’ *beout?”’ he asked, seeing their heads together. ‘ Plottin’ some kind o’ a conspyracy, air ye? Wal, plot away. Ef ye ken think o’ any way that'll git ye cl’ar o’ pa in’ me y’ur hundred dollars apiece pre-annum, I'd Tike to hear it. Iknow a way myself. Maybe you'd like to hear it?” * Let’s hear it, then!” “Well, I'm open to an offer, or I'll make one to you—whichsomeever you weesh.” “* Make it!” “ Durn it, don’t be so short "beout it. I only want to be accommodatin’, Ef you'll each an’ all o' ye pay me five hundred apiece, down on the nail, an’ no uckshin, I'l) gi’e you a cl’ar receet, an’ squar’ up the hull bizness. Now!’ “We can’t give you an answer now, Jerry Rook,” interposed the planter, without wait: for the others. ‘“ We shall consider your pro and tell you what we will do some other time. ““Wal, take y’ur time; but remember, all o’ ye, that Saturday next air the day o’ the annual settlin’ an’ don’t fail to meet me at the usooal place. I hain’t no spare beds, or I'd ask ye all in. But I s’pose ye'll be a-goin’ back wi’ Mr. Slaughter thar, an’ havin’ a drink by the way o’ ee Don’t ng = y’ur spades—they mout git stole you left *em hyar. This bit of irony terminated the scene, so far as the disappointed resurrectionists were concerned, who, like a band of prowling jackals, scared from a car- ber prom sulkily as. “ He! he! he!’ chuckled the old pirate as he stood watching them out of the field. “He! he! he!” he continued, stooping over the fresh-turned earth, and i their work. “They war playin’ a game wi’ poor cards in thar hands—the set o’ cursed green- horns. “ Durnation!” That this last exclamation had no reference to the episode just ended, was evident from the cloud that ssed over his countenance while giving: utterance it. Something else had come into his thoughts, at once changing from gay to grave, “ Durnation!”’ he repeat stamping on the ground and glanciag an. around him; “I’d most forgot- ten it! Whar kin the gal be gone? * Ain’t in her bed, nor hain’t been this night! Ain’t in the house neyther! Where kin she be? *T thort I mout ’a’ foun’ her hyar; but this hain’t hed nuthin’ to do wi’ her, It kedn’t ’a’ hed. “Durn me if I don’t believe she’s goed to meet some ’un; an’ maybe that same fellar as shot the snake. Who the red thunder kin he be? By the Ftarnal, ef’t be so, I'l) put an eend to his snake- sh ootin’! “Whar kin the gurl be? I shell look all So or I'll find her. She ain’t in the orchard, or I'd see’d her comin’ through. An’ shurely she hain’t acrosst the crik? Maybe she’s strayed up be the stables, or the corn-cribs? Ill thar.”’ The hearts of the lovers, so long held in a nse almost agonizing, began to beat more tran as they saw him pass away from the spot. It was but a short respite—lasting only the time occupied by Jerry Rook in taking ten steps. A hound, penis about the field, had strayed up to the tree and poked his snout into the cavity where they stood concealed. A short, sharp yelp, followed by a growl, pro- claimed the presence of some r4 t ought not to be there, ““Yoick! good dog!” cried the ci-devant hunter, quick harking to the cry. ‘* What you got thar?” Hastily returning to the tree, and stopping in front of the dark entrance, he continued; pan Someb’dy inside thar? o air it? Lena, gurl, ou?” ence, broken only by the baying of the hound. “Hush up, you brute,” cried his master, driving off the dog with a kick. ‘‘ Hear me thar, you inside! ‘Tain’t no good playin’ ‘possum. | Ef it’s you, Lena gurl, I command ye to come out!’ Thus summoned, the girl saw it would be no use disobeying. It could serve no purpose, and would only end in her father stepping inside the cavity, and dragging her angrily forth. “T'll go,”’ she whispered to her companion, “ but stay you, Pierre, and don’t stir. He think I’m alone. Pierre had no chance to remonstrate; for on aking the words she stepped hastily out, and 5 fce to face with her father. “So, so! I’ve foun’ you at last, hevI? An’ thet’s the hole in which ye war hidin’, is it? Nice place thet for a young lady, as ye think y’urself, at this time o’ the night! An’ a nice party ye've been hevin’ clost to ye! Come, gurl! No denial o’ what you've been doin’, but give an explanation o’ y’ur- self! How i to be hyar?” “Oh, father; 1 was walking about. It was such a beautiful night, and I couldn't sleep. I fhought I'd | ’ come out Into the fleld, and have a stroff down nere to the oldtree. I was standing under it when I saw them coming up—Alf Brandon and the others—” “Toul . ts k without their seei couldn’t get bac out their seeing me; and, as I was afraid of them, I slipped inside the hollow." “‘ An’ ye war there all the time, war ye?” “Yes, all the time.” “Wal, an’ what did youbear?” _ A tdeal, father. It’lltake time to tell it all If you'll come on into the house, I can repeat better what was said by them. I’mso frightened after what I heard, I want to get away from this horrible place,” It was a commendable stratagem, to secure the re- treat of her lover. Unfortunately it did not succeed. The ae squatter was too astute to be so easily de- ceived. “Oh, yes,” he said, “I'll go ‘long wi’ ye into the house; but not afore I’ve just see’d whether thar ain’t somethin’ else in the holler o’ this tree.” His daughter trembled as he faced toward the en. trance; but her trembling turned to a convulsed agony as she heard the coc of his rifle, and saw him point it toward the dark cavity in the trunk. With a wild cry she sprung forward, placing her- self right before the muzzle of the gun. Then, in the terrible agitation of the moment, forgetting all she shouted: “Come out, Pierre! come out!” ‘ Pierre!’ cried the furious father. ‘‘ What Pierre?’ “Oh, father, it is Pierre Robideau!” It was well Leva Kook 1a. grasped the barrel of the rifle, and turned it aside, ese along with the last speech a bullet would have been sent inside the tree. But it was now too late, and Jerry Roek saw it. The young man had sprung out, and was stan by his side, Any mesa’ at violence on his would have ended in his being dashed instantly to the earth, Beside Pierre Robideau he was like an old wasted wolf in the preaenee ofa young strong panther, He felt inferiority, and cowered upon the in- stant. He even assumed the counterfeit of friend- ship. “On, *t air you, Pierre, is it? I wouldn't ’a’ know- ed you, it’s so long since I see’d ye. You kin go in, gui I want to hev some talk wi’ Pierre.” Lena looked as though she would have stayed. It was a look of strange meaning; but it wore off as she reflected that her lover could be in no danger now, and she walked slowly away. CHAPTER XXIL A COMPROMISE. For some seconds Jerry Rook stood in the shadow without saying a word, but thinking intently. His thoughts were black and bitter. The return of Pierre Robideau would be nothing less than ruin to him—depriving him of the support upon which, for ye he had living. Once Buck, Brandon & Co., should ascertain that he they supposed dead was still living, not only would the payment be stop but they ht demand to be recouped the sums of which he had so cunningly mulcted them. He had not much fear of the last. If they had not actually committed murder, they would be still in- dictable for the era and though, under the cir- cumstances, they might not fear any severe punish- ment, they would yet shrink from the exposure. Tt was not the old score that Jerry Rook was troubled about, but the prospect now before him, No more b i—no money from any source; and Alf Brandon, his creditor, now released from, the bondage in which he had hitherto been held, spited by the rejection of nig aheg f would lose no time in coming down upon for the debt. The quondam squatter saw before him only a fu- ture of gloom and darkness—ejectment from his ill- gotten house and clearing—a return to his lonely life —to toil and poverty, along with a dishonored old *SMingled with these black thoughts there was one oe regret that he had not pulled the trigger me Had he shot Pierre Robideau inside the tree all would have been well. No one would have known that he had killed him, and to his own daughter he could have pleaded orance that there was any one inside. Much as she ht have lamented the act, she could scarce have believed it willful, and would have said nothing about it. It was too late now. To kill the young man as he stood—in the darkness it might still have been done —or even at a later time, woull be the same as to murder him under the eyes of his daughter. From what she now knew, the of the assassin could not be concealed. These thoughts occupied Jerry Rook scarce any time. They came and passed like lightning. His prolonged silence was due to other thoughts, He was reflecting on what course he would take with the man whose unexpected appearance had placed him in such a dilemma. Zoran to the latter, heat rf gaa ‘How long ’ve ye been bac 3 rte tones of pretended kindness did not deceive e returne -seeker. " 1 came into the neighborhood yesterday,” he re- lied, coldly. Pi Hev ye aee'd any one that know’d ye?” “ Not that lam aware of. “Ye'll excuse me for being 8 leetle rough wi’ ye. I war a bit flurried "beout the gurl bein’ out, not knowin’ who she war with. Thar’s a lot o’ fellers arter her, an’ it’s right I shed be careful.” Pierre could not object. to this, “O' coorse,” proceeded Jerry, after another pause of reflection, “‘ye heerd all’t passed atween me an’ that lot o’ diggers?” | “Bvery word of it. “An’ ‘Tsuppose you know who they war?”
Page 13
$ | The Helpless Hand. “Yes: I have good reasen. | “Yur right thar. Ye'll be knowin’ then, why this chile ain’t livin’ any more in the ole shanty, but in a good comf’able frame house wi’ a claim roun’ it?” “Yes, Jerry Rook, I think I understand that mat- ter.” “You won't wonder, then, why I tuk so much pains six yeern ago, to send ye out o’ the way? No doubt ye wondered at thet?” “T did. Idon’t now. It’s all clear enough.” “ An’ I reck’n it'll be equilly cl’ar to ye, thet ee eomin’ back ain't a-gwine to do me any good, Jest ruinates me; that’s all.”’ “T don't see that, Jerry Rook.” “Yedon't! But this chiledo. The minute any o’ them six sets eyes On you, my game’s up, an’ thar’s nuthin’ more left fur me but cl’ar out o’ this, an’ | take to the trees ag’in. At my time o’ life, thet ere "ll | be Pleasant.” “You mean that by my showing myself you would lose the six hundred dollars per annum I have heard you mention?” “Not only thet, but—I reck’n I may as well tell ou—I'm in debt to Alf Brandon, an’ it was only by believin’ in y’ur deth I hev been able to stave it off. Now, Pierre Robideau!” In his turn the gold-seeker stood reflecting. “Well, Jerry Rook,” he rejoined, after a time, “ as to the black-mail you've been levying on those six scoundrels, I have no particular wish to see them re- lieved of it. It is but a just punishment for what they did to me; and, to tell you the truth, it has to some extent taken the sting out of my vengeance; for I had come back determined upon a terrible satisfaction, While serving yourself, you've been doing some service to me!” < be,"’ suggested the old pirate, pleased at the turn matters appeared to be taking—** maybe, Pierre, ye'd like thi to go on as they air, an’ let me gi’e you more o’ the same sort o’ satisfackshun? Thar’s a way o’ doin’ it, ’ithout any harm to y’urself. It’s only for you to keap out o° sight ?” rre was again silent, as if reflecting on the an- swer. He at length gave it. “You speak truth, Jerry Rook. There is a way as yon have said; but it must be coupled with a condi- on,” “What condishun?”’ “ Your daughter.” ““ What o’ her?” ‘“*T must have her for my wife.” Rook recoiled at the proposal. He was thinking of Alf Brandon, and the plantation—the grand estate he had so long coveted and set his heart upon hav- ing. "On the other side were the six hundred dollars a year. But what was this in comparison? And eoupled with a A pe man for his son-in-law who was not even a full- looded white—poor, perhaps penni- less. No doubt he had come back without a dollar in his pocket. Was this certain? He had been to California, the eountry of gold. From what could be seen of him in the dim light, he appeared well-dressed; and his speech proclaimed him well-instructed. He had cer- tainly c much from the time of his departure. He may not have returned either so fortuneless or friendless. These conjectures ig Jerry Rook from orga J an immediate answer. Taking advantage of his si- lence, the young man continued: nae | know, Jerry Rook, you will be wanting for your son-in-law some one with means; at least enough to support your daughter in a decent position of society. I am fortunate enough to have this, obtained by hard toil in the gold placers of California. If you wish satisfaction on t head, I can refer you to the Pacific Banking Company of San Francisco, where, three years ago, I deposi my three years’ gather- ings— all, I believe, about fifty thousand dollars." ‘Fifty thousand dollars! D'ye mean that, Pierre Robideau?" “I mean it. If I had a light hereI could show you the proof of the de hs" bie ome into the house, Pierre! I don’t mean for a light. Ye'll stay all night? Thar’s a spare bed; an’ cag ‘ll see to y’ur having some supper. Come along tion to the utes after, he CHAPTER XXIV. ' ANOTHER EAVESDROPPER. Jerzy Rook and his guest had scarce closed the door behind them, when a man who had been behind the cottonwood, came out into the front, and paused is the spot they had left. He had on the other side of the tree from the time they commenced their conversation, and heard it all. suddenly taken it into his h ment ot the annuity to Jerry Rook. A word he the hope—perhaps the expecta- tion—of success of his suit with the fair Lena, had made the thralidom in which Jerry Rook held him an may Ago But that hope no songse existed—at least, his last memorable interview with Lena Rook had pengtuoed hans that the usual methods of wooing were no Pp o the present emergency: 6 therefore turned to theta extreme measures which nts of To emancipate himself from the relentless clutch of Jerry Rook must be the first step of all. This im- portant point gained, he would then be free to adopt any course which seemed best adapted to the ac- complishment of his ulterior purposes. As affairs stood at present, Jerry Rook was mas- ter. But, once free from his control, the position would be reversed. As the old hunter had more than once intimated, Brandon had the power at any mo- ment to sweep away the pleasant home of which he had become possessed, and to send him back to the original poverty from which he had so adroitly em- erged. And this power the young planter—it need not be said—was well disposed to use—either to hold it, in terrorem, over the daughter, to induce her to reconsider her refusal and so save her father and herself from pecuniary ruin, or, failing in this, to exact, like ae the payment of his bond, and thus reduce them to beggary. Hence his sudden change of tactics. But what had brought Alfred Brandon back to the cottonwood? The explantion was easy enough. The six resurrectionists did not all go to Helena, as a Rook hinted they might do. On getting out of Jerry’s clearing, only five of them had turned toward the town—Brandon toward his own home, | not far off in the opposite direction. The planter, on parting with the others, instead of continuing homeward sat down upon a stump by the side of the path, and taking out a cigar com- menced smoking it. He had no particular reason for thus stopping on his ren lee J that, after such a disappointment, he knew he could not sleep, and the cigar might do something to compose his exasperated mind. He was still within ear-shot of Jerry Rook’s house; and he had scarcely ignited his cigar when a soun reached his ear from that direction. It was the yelp of a hound, followed by the animal’s howling. Soon after was h the voice of a man speaking in harsh accents, and soon after this, another voice —a woman’s! On the still, silent night they were borne to Bran- don’s ears with sufficient distinctness for him to recognize them as the voice of Jerry Rook and his daughter. a up from the stump, and flinging himself over the fence, he proceeded toward the place where the voices were still heard in excited and earnest conversation. Had Brandon not feared discovering himself to the eakers, he might have been up in time to see ierre Robideau step forth from the cavity of the tree, and Lena Rook protecting him from the wrath of her father. But the necessity of approaching un- observed, by skulking along the creek and keeping under cover of the canes delayed him; and he only arrived behind the cottonwood as the young lady was heig ordered into the house, For red Brandon there was surprise enough without that. The presence of Pierre Robideau, whose name he had heard distinctly penepanced, with the — of a tall form dimly shadowed under the tree, which he knew must be that of the mur- dered man, was sufficient to astonish him to his heart's content, It had this effect; and he stood behind the cotton- wood whose shelter he had reached, in speechless wonder, trembling from the crown to the toes. Though this fear soon forsook him, his wonder was scarce diminished, when the dialogue between Jerry Rook and Pierre Robideau furnished him with a key to the mysterious ioe) pal anata of the latter upon the banks of Caney creek. “God ‘a’ mercy!’ gasped he, stepping from be- hind the huge tree-trunk, and looking after them as they were entering the house, ‘“‘Here’s news for Messrs. Buck, ene aml Grubbs, Spencer and Ran dall! Glad they'll be to hear it,and at least ge* relief from their debt. This I reck’n ‘Il cancel it. “Ah!” he exclaimed, adding a fearful oath, “it’s all very well for them, but what matters the money tome? I'd pay it ten times over, and all my life, to have that girl; and hang me if I don’t have her yet, for wife or for worse. “Choc still alive and kic ! Cut down, then, before he got choked outright! Darned if I didn’t more than suspect it, from the way old Rook talked about the burying and the body. The pre- cious old pirate! hasn‘t he bilked us nicely? “Mr. Pierre Robideau! Se that was his name, and this is the same fellow. 1 remember his voice as if it were but P hapeopcdine. Missing for six years in California! And’s picked up fifty thousand worth of yellow vel! Lodged it in a bank, too—San Fran- cisco. No doubt going there again and will be want- ng te take Lena k with ” t this thought another fierce oath leaped from his Bhs, end his face showed an expression upon it that mig. t have done credit to the stage of a suburban eater. ‘Never!’ he ejaculated, “never shall she go, if I can find means to prevent it.” He stood for a time reflecting. “There's a way "he again broke forth, “a sure way. Buck wou d be the man to lend a hand in it. He's crazed about the girl himself and when he knows there's no chance for him, and thinks it’s this fellow stands in the way—! Besides, he wants got te and wouldn't mind risking something to “Tf he don’t I'll do it myself. I will, by the Eter- nal! I'd rather die upon the scaffold than the Indian should have her—he or pay one else. “There can’t be much danger if one only gets the chance. He’s been missing once, and nobody missed him. He can go gold-hun : time never to return. He shall do it!” _ oath fea clincked eis cokes hog dotecmaination, he proceeded. it a culiner tockss 13: SEES ee ee “Won't they be glad to hear of this resurrection! I wonder if they're still at Slaughter’s? They went there. Sure to be there yet. I'll go. It'll make their hearts happier than all the liquor in the tavern. Good-night, Jerry Rook, Take care of your guest. Hort pene goes off, it won’t be by your sending of him.” After this sham apostrophe, he struck off acrose the field, and once more bering over the fence, took the road leading to Helena. CHAPTER XXV. THE STRANGER GUEST. Tue fifth installment of ‘hush money” that had been paid to Jerry Rook proved to be the last. On meeting the contracting parties and appl for the sixth, he found to his great surprise, as w as chagrin, that the grand secret was gone out of his ~~ and his power over them was at an end! They were not only prepares to repudiate, but talked of his refunding so far, and even threatened to lynch him on the spot. So far from his claim, he was but too glad to get out of their com- pany. It is probable they would have insisted mn re- re and put the lynching in practice, but for ear of the scandal that either must necessarily cre- ate in the community. To this was Jerry indebted for escape from their vengeful indignation. Who could have told them that Pierre Robideau still lived? This was the question put by Jerry Rook to him- self as he rode back to the house with morti- fication. It could not have been Pierre himself, who was now his welcome guest, and had been so ever since. the night of that strange encounter under the cot- tonwood? Though the returned gold-seeker had strolled about the clearing, with Lena for his com- panion, he had never once gone beyond the bounda- ries, and could scarce have been seen ae Sof out- sider. No one—neighbor or stranger— been near the house. The half-dozen negroes who be- ra to Jerry Rook, had no previous acquaintance with Pierre Robideau’s person; and even had it been otherwise, they could scarce have recognized him now. Who then could have been the informer? For the life of him Je Rook could not guess: and Pierre himself, when told of it, was equally puz- zled upon the point. The only conjecture at all probable was, that some one had seen and identified him: one of the themselves; or it might have been some indi totally uninterested, who, by chance, had seen and recognized him, soon after his arrival at the stand. Now that his being alive was known to them there was no longer any object in his keeping concealed, and he went about the settlements as of yore, at times visiting the town of Helena for the purchase of such commodities as he required. He had taken up his stay at the house of his for- mer host, and was so often seen in the company of his host's daughter, that it soon became talked of in the neighborhood. Those who took any interest in the affairs of Jerry Rook’s family were satisfied that his daughter, so long resisting, had at length her heart to the dark-skinned, but handsome stran- ger who was staying at her father’s house. There were few accustomed to have ccmmunica- tion either with the quondam squatter or his people. It was a time when there were many new-comers in the surrounding ed tat atone a stranger of what- ever kind attracted but ht attention. Under these circumstances, Pierre escaped much notice and many remarks that otherwise might have been made about him. There was more than one, however. pny wok sible of his existence—his rivals with Lena Rook— who saw with black bitterness that the smiles of the youn; sedy. were being bestowed upon him. Bill Buck was among the number of these disap- inted me yo but the chief sufferer was Alfred randon. With heart on fire, aud bosom brimful of ealous rage, he heard all this talk about Jerry k’s daughter and her oy sweetheart. It in no way tranquilized irit when Jerry Rook returned him his loan of the thousand dollars, It but further and peomanty on the first demand. embitte t; for he could not help kno whence the money came. He saw that his weal would no lon avail nis There would be no chance now of reducing the t to that penury that would give him over the child. His scheme had fallen through; and he set himself to the conception of some new plan that would help him either to Lena Rook or revenge. He ages mearity the whole < his time in : upon a ous purpose—brooding over it a Lm eicepa to the determination of committing. mur Several times he had thought of but om each occasion had recoiled at the eceht ie from hor- ror of the crime itself than from fear of the conse- seeker taken up residence at the house of sory Rook, when an errand called him to the towm of It was the mending of his bridle-bit,
Page 14
~ The Helpless Hand. a eT nn a a Ee nC NL oS Se Se a ee ars Stee lea Jerry Rook's hter at the door—looking lovingly after, and to to come soon The distance was not great, and in less than an hour a he was a aod in fhe Dieckonns ag a tran spectator to the welding of his broken bit. There was one who saw him there, whose spirit was less composed—one who had seen him entering the town. ont had sauntered after at a distance, eareless-tike, but closeiy watching him. This was not a citizen of the place, but a man in planter cos- tume, who, by the spurs upon his heels, 1 evi- dently ridden in from the country. He carried a rifle, a3 was common at the time to all going abroad, no matter what distance, on horseback, The man thus armed and accoutered was Alfred don. There were plenty of other people in the streets, and but few took note of him as he walked carelessly along. No one noticed the lurid light in his eye, nor the tight oe. of his lips, that spoke of some us % ich less were these indications observed by the man who was calling them forth. Standing beside the blacksmith’s fo etly watching the work Pierre Robideau no thought of the Byes that were upon him, nor did he even know that Brandon was in town. Little t he at that moment pow near was a treacherous enemy, thirsting for his lood. Brandon's d was to ane a@ quarrel with the , and before the latter could draw in his de- fense, shoot him down in his tracks. In this there would be nothing ee oT ad streets of Helena, nor anything very reprehensible. Pierre wan et With knife and pistol; but both svere carried unseen, AW at once the planter ong ee to recoil from his Looking askant, he had spent some time qn se rutinizing his intended victim, as if calculatin the chances of a renconter. Perhaps the stalw: frame, and strong, vigorous arms of the ci-devant wwold-seeker rendered him apprehensive about the is- jsue, and caused him to change his resolution, The prowadine breast of Pierre Robideau’s coat told of istol, or other weapon, and should thé first fire fail, fis own ate P me bg = 4 “4 unsuspecting ad- 0 forfe 6 affray. vevuile thus communing with his own mind, a still fouler thought came into it, kindling in his eye with .& still more sinister light. uddenly turning away, as if from some c of he strolled along the street, entered the where he had left his horse, and, mounting dnside the stable-yard, rode hastily out of the town, QHAPTER XXVL A REVANCHE. Axsovr half am hour after the hunter had taken his departure from Helena, Pierre Robideau paid for the mending of his bridle, and, ha no other errand to detain him in the town, omeward—afoot, as he had come The road to Jerry Rook's house still corresponded with that leading to Little Rock; only that the latter, now much traveled, no longer passed through the well-known glade—a better crossing of Caney creek having caused it to diverge before it entered this natural clearing. The old trace, however, was that taken b one going to Rook’s house, and by it ‘Pierre Robiteau was making his return from the town. With the bridle lashed belt-like across his he was w: unsuspectingly along thinking how pleased Lena k would be at seeing ‘him so soon back. On entering the glade, a wes came over his spirit indicated by my cloud suddenly overspread- father, whom he could not think otherwise than in- n had been sacrificed to the madness of a fana- “tie There still was the branch extended toward him. as if mockingly to remind him of a vengeance still unsatisfied An impulse came over him he was unable to resist; an ding to it, he ped in his tracks, and stood upon the tree, a e, lurid light showing his eyes. All ae once he felt a shock in the right arm, accom- panied by a stinging sensation, as if from the bite of aninsect. But it was not this, for almost at the same instant he heard the “spang” of a rifle, and saw a puff of smoke floating up over some bushes We pooh acting te Swe wat fired; an ) rom rn coa sleeve, left no doubt of its having been fired at him- Nor eould there be any as to the d intention, though the damage done was only a slight abrasion of the arm, scarce deeper than the thickness of the Pierre ao — not = ae — ment he saw the smo © sp) orwai et on till he had poached the gpot where the bushes were still enveloped in the slow-scattering, a ape vapor. sathpstea sts dun woe Use dha® pads seyantente t was n q an ass to be dincovetet But he must still be a wg trees. Suspending his mn. For a time he could hear nothing, not even the rustling of a leaf, and he was beginning to fear that he might again be made the mark of an unseen mur- derous bullet, when the screech of a jay came sharp- ly through the trees. It gave him instant relief, for he knew by the continued scolding of the bird that Some one was intruding upon its haunts. It must be the retreating assassin, Guided by the clattering of the jay, he recommenced the pursuit. He had not gone twenty yards further when he heard footsteps, and the “swish” of leaves, as if some one was making way through the underwood. Directed by these sounds, be rushed rapidly after. Ten seconds more and he was in sight of a saddled horse standing tied to a tree, and a man in the act of untyi i is man was making all haste, hin- dered by a heavy rifle, carried in his hand. It was the that had just been discharged; and Pierre Robideau recognized the man who had made at- tempt to murder him, * Alfred Brandon!” With a shout such as only an Indian-born could give, he bounded forward; and before the retreating assassin could climb into his saddle, he seized him by the throat, and dashed him against the trunk of atree. The horse, frightened by the fierce onslaught, gave a loud neigh, an alloped off. “Thank God!” cried Mr. Alf Brandon, for giving me this chance. I’ve t you exactly where I wanted you! For six years ‘ve been longing for this hour; and now it has come, as if I had planned it myself.” Brandon, by this time recovered from the shock, threw down hi n, drew pistol, and was about to fire. But before he could get his finger on the trig- ger his antagonist seized him by the wrist, and, wrenching the weapon from his hand, dashed him a second time against the tree-trunk. Reeling and giddy, he saw the muzzle of his own ear pointed at head, and expected nothing else but the bullet through his brain, The cry of the coward came mon lips as he writhed under the terrible antici- on, PiTo his astonishment the shot was not fired! Pierre Robideau, flinging the pistol away, stood before him a ey unarmed! “No, Mr. Brandon,” said he, ‘‘ shooting is too good for such a dog as you; and a dog’s death a shall have. Come away from here! Came on! I want to see which of us can hang longest by the hand. We tried it six years ago; but the trial wasn’t a fair one. "Tis your turn now. Come on!” More than ever astonished, Brandon hesitated to comp The calm but determined air of his an nist told him that it was no jest, but that something terrible was intended. He glanced stealthily to the right and left, and seemed of esca calculate the chances Robideau read his thoughts. ; “Don't attempt it,” said he, throwing hack the lapel of his coat, and showing: the butt of a pistol. ne thaws J, and will use it, if you make any effort to get off. aying this, he seized the cowering ruffian by the wrist, and half leading, half dragging, hurried him away from the spot, In five minutes after og stood under a tree—the same upon which Pierre Robideau had endured all the horror of hanging. “What do you mean to dof" asked Brandon, in a Rain, Ha Id you. I'm curious to see how long you can stand it.” As he said this, he unloosed the bridle-reins from his body, and rn his knife, commenced cut- ting them from the bit. It was a double-rein, com- posed of two long pieces of closely-plaited hair, tak- en from the tail of a horse. Brandon stood pale and trembling. He could not fail to interpret the preparations that were being made. Once more he a a of flight; and once more Pierre read his though “Itis no use,” he said, sternly. ‘‘ You are in m power, Attempt to get out of it, or resist, and I dash — brains out ag that tree. Now, your wrist the rope. Feeble with fear, Brandon allowed his left hand to be seized, and the wrist drawn into a noose made on one of the bridle-reins. The other end of the cord was passed around his thigh, and then brought back and secured by a firm knot, so as to hold the arm help- less by side. This done, the other rein, with a running loop, was adjusted around his neck, and its loose end thrown over one of the higher branches. “Now,” cried Robideau, “‘ mount upon the log, and take hold as you made me do. Quick, or I jerk you up by the neck!”’ Bewildered, Brandon knew not what to do. Was his enemy in earnest?—or was it only a grim jest? He would fain have believed it this; but the fierce, determined look of Robideau forbade him to ho for mercy. He remembered at the moment how lit- tle he was deserving of it. £ te bn left no bye to aye tae Me the noose F4 ng aroun neck, © cord stretching taut above him. In another instant he was drawn from the ground; and, mechanically throwing up his right arm, he caught hold of the branch to save himself from al- ON ow. cried Re taban, Wilo find ** Now,” c eau, who sprung upon the log, and made the rope fast to the upper litih pow. Mr. Alf Brandon, ra just as you left me ears oA hope you'll enjoy the situation. Good-day to you And with a scornful laugh Pierre Robideau strode away from the iy the agony that can be endured by man—who sees death before him and sees no chance to escape it, was at that hour endured by Alfred Brandon. In vain he shouted until he was hoarse—till his could no longer be heard a hundred yards from bideau, ‘‘ and you yourself, me!’’ the tree so soon to become his gallows. There was no response, save the echo of his own voice. Noone oe had, anon tat f being saved e no expectation 0 Saved by the man who had pe lett him. That scornful laugh at part- ing pres age ee ge cre ging in his a hed ruggle he be aloud for mercy, calling upon Pierre Robideau by name, Pe Pierre Robideau came not to his assistance; and after a long struggle—protracted to the utmost power of endurance—till the arm, half-disjointed, eould no longer sustain his body, he let go his hold—and drop- ped—io the ground / The peal of derisive laughter that rung in his ears as he lay unharmed upon the earth, was not pleasant —the less so that a female voice was heard taking art in it. But even this was endurable after the read agony through which he had passed; and hur- riedly springing to his feet, and re easing his neck from the rope, he sneaked off among the trees, with- out staying to cast a look at Pierre Robideau or Lena Rook, who, standing by the edge of the glade, had been witness to his unnecessary contortions! Our tale is told, so far as it might interest the reader. What afterward happened to the different characters who have figu n it, were but events such as may occur in everyday life. There was nothing remy re a young man, with a taint of In- dian blood in , marrying the ae of a back- woods settler, and carrying her off to California: strange, either, that nothing the father of the girl should sell off his “improvement,” and malre far-western migration along with them, And this was the history of Jerry Rook, his daugh- ter, and _ his cme husband; all three of whom in less than twelve months after, might have been seen settled in their new home, on the far shores of the Pacific, and surrounded with every comfort re- quired upon earth, There Pierre Robideau had nothing further to fear from the hostility of early enemies, or the vengeance of jealous rivals; there Lena k, no longer ex- 1 to social humiliation, had the opportunity of ming that for which nature had intended her— an ornament to society; and there, too, her father found time to repent of the past; and dete him- self for that future which awaits alike the weary and the wicked. Of his crimes, both committed and conesived, Jer- ry Rook died repentant. The fate of Alfred Brandon was somewhat similar to that of his father. Drink brought him to a pre- mature grave; though unlike his father he died with- out heir, and almost without heritage, having spent the whole of his property in the low d tion of the tavern and the gambling-table, His executors found searce sufficient to pay for the hearse that carried him to the grave, death, but fe tale of * w, if any, Tas Herre The Saturday Journal, “The Model Family Paper —AND— Most Charming of the Weeklies.” A pure r; good in every thing; bri brillian Z bint aaiaative. ery thing; bright, Serials, Tales, Romances, Sketches, Adventures, Biographies, Pungent Essays, Poetry, Notes and Answers to Correspondents, Wit and Fun— All are features in every number, from such celebrated writers as no paper in America can boast of. What is best in POPULAR READING, that. the paper always has; hence for Home, Sxop, La- BRARY and GENERAL READER it is without a rival; and hence its great and steadily increasing circulation. : The SATUKDAY JOURNAL is sold everywhere by newsdealers; price six cents per number; or to subscribers, post-paid, at the following cheap rates, viz. : Four months, one dollar; one year, three dollars ; or, two copies, five rs. Address BEADLE & ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William Street, New York.
Page 15
— 32 Large Three-Column Pages. 1.4 Hard Crowd; or, GENTLEMAN | Sam’s SrsTzr. By Philip S. Warne. 2. The Dare-Devil; or, Tor Wincep Wires or THe Ses. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. 8. Kit Carson, dr., THz Crack SHOT or var West. By Buckskin Sam. 4. The Kidnapper; or, Toe Great SHANGHAI OF THE NorTHWeEsT. By Philip 8. Warne. 5. The Fire-Fiends; orn, HERCULES, THE Huncupack. By A. P. Morris. 6. Wildcat Bob, Tur Boss BRUISER ; or, THE BorpDER BLoopHouNns. By Edward L. Whee- ler, author of “‘ Deadwood Dick,” “ Double Daggers.” 7. Death-Notch, THe DesTROYER; OR, Tse Spmir Lake Avencers. By Oll Coomes. 8. The Headless Horseman. A strange story of Texas. By Capt. Mayne Reid. 9. Handy Andy. By Samuel Lover. 10. Vidocg, THe Frencu Po.ice Spy. Written by himself. 11. Midshipman Easy. By Capt. Mar- ryat. 12. The Death-Shot; on, TRACKED TO Deatru. By Capt. Mayne Reid. 13. Pathaway; 0, Nick WHIFFLEs, THE OLD TRAPPER OF THE inson, 14, {hayendanegea, Toe Scource : or, Tae War-EAGLE OF THE MoHAwES. By Ned Bunt- ine, author of “‘ The White Wizard.” 15. The layer; or, EAGLE- HEAD To THE Rescug. By Gustave Aimard. 16. The White Wizard; or, Tux Great PROPHET OF THE SEMINOLES. By Ned Buntline. 17%. Nightshade, Tue Rosgeer Prince oy Hounstow Hratu, By Dr, J, H. Robinson, 18. The Sea Bandit; or, THE QueEn or THz Istx. By Ned Buntline. 19. Red Cedar, THE PRarrRig OutLaw. By Gustave Aimard. 20. The Bandit at Bay; or, Tue Pr- RATES OF THE Prairies. By Gustave Aimard, 21. The Trapper’s Daughters OR, Des Ovrtaw's Fare. By Gustave Aimard, 22. Whitelaw; or, Natt or THE LAKE SHore. By Dr. J. H. Robinson. 23. The Red Warrior; or, STELLA DeLorme’s ComMANcHE Lover. By Ned Buntline, 24. Prairie Flower. By Gustave Ai- mard, author of “ Tiger-Slayer.” etc. 25. The Gold-Guide; or, Stren Arm, Tax Recuuator. By Francis Johnson. 26. The Death-Track; or, THE Ovrt- LAWs O¥ THE Mountarn. By Francis Johnson, 27. The Spotter-Detective; or, THE @reis or New York. By Albert W. Aiken. 28. Three-Fingered Jack, Tur Roap- AGENT ov THE Rockres; on, Toe Boy MINER or HARD Luck. By Joseph E. Badger, Jr. 29. Tiger Dick, Taz Faro Kiva; or, Tue Casnier’s Crome. By Philip S, Warne. 30. Gospel George; or, Fiery Fre, Tue OvTtaw. By Joseph E. Badger, Jr. 31. The New York ‘S. ;’ on, THE Frases or Licutnrinc. By Albert W. Aiken. 32. B’hoys of Yale; on, Tak Scrapers er A Harp Ser or Cotuecians. By John D. Vose. 83. Overland Kit. By Albert W. Aiken, 4. Rocky Mountain Rob. By Al- 3 bert W. Aiken. 35. Kentuck, the Sport. By Albert W. Aiken. 36. Injun Dick. By Albert W. Aiken. 27. Hirl, the Hunchback; ox, THE MAKHR OP THE SANTER. By Dr. J. H. Robinson. ORTHWEST., By Dr, J. H. Rob- ) IBRARY. Price 10 cts. 38. Velvet Hand; or, Tue [Ron Grip oF Insun Dick. By Albert W. Aiken. 39. The Russian Spy; or, THE Brota- | ERS OF THE Starry Cross. By Frederick Whittaker. THE TARTARS OF THE PLAINS. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr. 41. Gold Dan; oR, THe WHITE SavaGe oF THE GREAT SALT Lake. By Albert W. Aiken. 42. The California Detective; or, THe WitcHes oF New York. By Albert W. Aiken, 43. Dakota Dan, THe RecKiEss RANGER; or, Tae Bee-Hunters’ Excursion. By Oll Coomes. 44. Old Dan Rackback, Tue Great EXTARMINATOR; or, THE TRIANGLE’s Last Trar. | By Oll Coomes. 45. Old Bull’s Eye, Tse Licutnine Ssor oF THE Priains. By Joseph E. Badger, Jr. 46. Bowie-Knife Ben, Tue Litre Hunter or THE Nor’-west. By Oll Coomes. 47. Pacific Pete, THe PrINCE or THE Revotver. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr. 48. Idaho Tom, THE Youne Ovutrnaw OF SILVERLAND. By Oll Coomes. 49. The Wolf Demon; or, Tue QUEEN oF THE KANAWHA, By Albert W, Aiken, | | > KIT CARSON, JR.—No. 3. 50. Jack Rabbit, Tae Prams Sport; or, THe CHILDREN OF THE LLANO Estacapo. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr. 51. Red Rob, THe Boy Roap-AGEnr. By Oll Coomes. 52. Death Trailer, Tae Curer or Scoors; or, Life and Love in a Frontier Fort. By | Hon. Wm. ¥F. Cody, (Buffalo Bill.) 53. Silver Sam; or, THe Mystery or Deaidwoop Crry. By Col. Delle Sara. 54. Always on Hand; or, Tut Sportive Sport or tHe Foor Hi1s. y Philip 8. Warne. author of ‘A Hard Crowd,” ‘“‘ Patent Leather Joe.’ 55. The Scalp Hunters. A Romanceor THE Piatns. By Capt. Mayne Reid. 56. The Indian Maszeppa; or, THE MAD Man oF THE PLAINS. By W. Aiken, 57. The Silent Hunter ; or, Taz Scow. Haut Mystery. By Percy B. St. John. 58. Silver Knife; or, WICKLIFFE, THE Rocky Mountarn Ranger. By Dr. J. H. Robinson. 59. The Man From Texas; or, Tur OvTLAW or ARKANSAS. By Albert W. Aiken. 60. Wide Awake; or, Tse Ipror or THE BLack Hits. By Frank Dumont. 61. C By Ned Bun in Seawaif, THE PRIVATEER, |_ 40. The Long Haired ‘Pards;’ or, | Each Number Complete, 62. Loyal Heart; or, Tux TRapryrs or ARKANSAS. By Gustave Aimard. | 63. The Winged Whale. | W. Aiken. 64. Double- Bight, the Death Shot. By Joseph E. Badger, Jr. 65. The Red Rajah; or, Toe Scourcr OF THE INDIES. By Captain Frederick Whittaker. | 66. The x Barque. A Taz oF THE Paciric. By Captain Mayne Reid. 67. The Boy Jockey; or, Honxsry veRSUS CROOKEDNESS. By Joseph E. Badger, Jr. 68. The Fighting Tra '; or, Kit CARSON TO THE Geen: By Cameo i C. Adams. G9. The Irish Captain; A Tas or Fontenoy. By Captain Frederick Whittaker. 70. Hydrabad, THE STRANGLER; er, ALETHE, THE CHILD oF THE CorD. By Dr. J. H. Robinson. 71. Captain Cool-Blade, or, Taz Man SHARK OF THE Mississiprr. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr. 72. The Phantom Hand. A Srory or New York HeartHs AND Homes, By Albert W. Aiken, Knight of the Red Cross; By Albert 7 or, AGICIAN. 0 A Tale of hambra. By Dr. d: ft. ara ter ; - 74. Captain of the Rifles. A Romance ov THE Mexican Vatiry, By Captain Maytie Reid. 75. Gentleman George, or, Parton, Prison, STAGE AND STREET. By Albert W. Aiken. 76. The Queen’s Musketeer, or, THISBE, THE PRINCESS Patmist. By George Albony, 7%. The Fresh of Frisco, or, Tuz HEIRESS OF BUENAVENTURA. By Albert W. Aiken. 78. The Mysterious Spy; or, Gotpmw ae some THE BuccaNEER’s DavGuTer. By A. M. 79. Joe Phenix, tax Pouce Spy. By Albert W. Aiken. 80. A Man of Nerve; or, Carrmax, THE Dwarr. By Philip 8. Warne. 81. The Human Tiger; or, A Heart oF Fire. By Albert W. Aiken. 82. Iron Wrist, the Swordmaster. By Col. Thomas H. Monstery. 83. Gold Bullet Sport; or, raz Kyicnrs OF THE OVERLAND. By Buffalo Bill 84. Hunted Down; or, tHe Wars Wrren. By Albert W. Aiken. 85. The Cretan Rover; or, ZuLErkan, THE Beavutirut. By Col. Prentice Ingraham. 86. The Big Hunter; or, Tar Quresw OF THE Woops. By the author of “ Silent Hunter.” 87. The Scarlet Captains or, TH . Delle Sara. PRISONER OF THE TOWER. By 88. Big George, THE GIANT OF THE GuLcu; or, Tas Frve Ovrnaw Broruers. By Joseph E. Badger, Jr. 89. The Pirate Prince; or, Prerry NELLY, THE QUEEN oF THE IsLE. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham, 90. Wild Will, Trz Map Rancueno; or, Taz Terriste TExaN. By Buckskin Sam. Ready March 24th. 91. The W Oar; or, Tax Inx- KEEPER’s DavauTEer, By rt W. Aiken. Ready April 7th. $2. Captain Dick Talbot, Kina or THE RoapD; or, THE BLACK-HOopSs oF SHASTA. By Albert W. Aiken. Ready April 2ist. A new issue every two weeks. Beadle’s Dime Library is for sale by all Newsdealers, ten cents per copy, or sent by mail on receipt of twelve cents each. LE & ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William Street, New York.
Page 16
BEADLE’S HALF-DIME LIBRARY. Every one of them “Live” Stories by ** Live®? Authors, Each number a Complete Novel, at the extraordinary price of a HALF-DINE, 4 2 Yellowstone Jack; or, Tot Trapper Hanv. By Buffalo Bill (Hon, Wm. F, Cody). 5 Vagabond Joe; THe Young WANDER- + vHE Nortuwest. By Edward S§. Ellis. Seth Jones; or, THr CAPTIVES OF THE The Adventures of Baron Mun- Sroux Captive. By Edward §. Ellis. 1 THs Fortunes of A Bowery Girt. A.W. Aiken. 1 3 The b Spy. By Ol Coomes, author of “ Vagabond Joe,” etc. Darien. By Capt. Frederick Whittaker. 16 Surprising Adventures, illustrations.) 1 Sindbad the Sailor. His seven voy- oF THE Pratriz. By Buffalo Bill, 21 Frontier Angel. A Romance of Roprnson Crusor. By Col, Juan Lewis. Spy or °76. By T. C. Harbaugh. The Boy Vaptstns or, THE PiraTe’s Y 26 Cloven Hoof, the Demon. By By Oll Coomes, IN D1sevisE. B. Edward L. Wheeler. 30 Roaring Reckiess Ranegr. By Harry St. George. vA 32 Bob Woolf, the Border Ruffian; Rep PrRaTes oF THE CaRIBBEES, 8. W, Pierce, Boy Spy. By Capt. J. F, C, Adams, vue ARENA. By Frank 8. Finn. 39 Death-Face, the Detective. By Lasso Jack, THz Youne MusTanc- Rider. B pt. F. Whittaker. 1 Deadwood Dick, Tae Prince oF THE Roap. By Edward L. Wheeler, OF THE ENCHANTED Ground. J. E. Badger, Jr. Kansas King; or, THe Rep Ricar The Wild-Horse Hunters. By Capt. Mayne Reid and Capt. Frederick Whittaker. Inc Jew. By Oll Coomes, 6 Bill Biddon, Trapper; or, Lirz In The Flyi Yankee; or, THE OCEAN Outcast. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham Frontier, By Edward §. Ellis. 9 chausen, 10 Nat Todd; or, THe Fare or THE The Two Detectives; or, 12 Q@aulliver’s Travels. A Voyage to pe Voyage to Brobdingnag. 14 Aladdin; or, THe WonpDErFuL Lamp, 1 The Sea-Cat; or, THe WiTcH oF Robinson Crusoe. His Life and 1 7 Ralph y, The Bay Bucca- neer. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. ages, From the Arabian Nights. 19 The Phantom Spy; or, THz Piror The Double D rs; or, Drap- 20 woop DIck’s Dares By E. L. Wheeler, Kentucky Rangers’ Life. By E. 8. Ellis. 22 The Sea Serpent; or, THe Boy 23 Nick o’ the Night; or, THE Boy 24. Diamond Dirk; or, THe Mysrzry OF THE YELLOWSTONE, By Col. Ingraham. 25 DAUGHTER. Roger Starbuck. Edward L, Wheeler. Q7 Antelope Abe, the Boy Guide. Qe Buffalo Ben; or, Drapwoop Dick 29 The Dumb e; oR, THE Doaer’s DaveuTer. B apt, F. Whittaker. ph Rockwood, THE 3 Keen-Knife, THe PrINcE OF THE PRAIRIES. Oll Coomes, or, THe Girt Deap-Suor. E. L. Wheeler. 33 The Ocean Bloodhound; or, THE 34 Oregon Sol; or, Nick WuiFFtzs’ Wild Ivan, Tue Boy CLaupE DuvAL; 36 The Boy Clown; or, THE QUEEN oF The Hidden ge; or, THe Lirrie 38 Ned Wylde, Tz Boy Scour. By Texas Jack. Edward L. Wheeler. American. By John J. Marshall. eR, By Oll Coomes, The Phantom Miner; or, Drap- 43 Dick parity, We Pony Express Rattlin R b THe NIGHT ube; or, - HAWKS aikisientt. nihilator. By Edward L. Wheeler. 46 Glass Eye, the Great Shot of the Nightingale Nat; on, Taw Forest 47 aprains. _By T. py nee By Jos. B. Badger, Jr. Oll; or, Dzapwoop Dick In By Edward L, Wheeler. 37 Hunter or THe AprnonDAOKS. Harbaugh, Roving Ben. A story of a Young woop Dick’s Bonanza, By Ed, L, Wheeler. St. George. Af} Old Avalanche, the Great Am- West. By Capt. J. F. C. Adams. Black John, the By Edward L. Wheeler. 50 Burt Bunker, THE Trapper. A Tale of the Northwest. By ©. E. Lasalle, 5 1 The Boy Rifles; or, THE UNDER- Grounp Camp. By Archie C. Iron. 5 The White Buffalo. A Tale of Strange Adventure. Charles E. Lasalle. 53 Jim Bludsoe, Jr., THz Boy PHENIX; or. THROUGH TO THE DeaTH. E. L. Wheeler. 5 4 Ned Hazel, THE Boy TRAPPER; vr, THE PHANroM Princess. By J. F. C. Adams. 5 5 Deadly-Eye, [ua UNKNOWN SCOUT; By Buffalo Bill. 56 Nick Whiffles’ Pet; or, IN THE VaLLey or Deats. Capt. J. F. C. Adams, 57 Deadwood Dick’s Eagles; or, Tae Parps or FLoop Bar. E. L. Wheeler. 58 The Border King; or, Tuz SECRET For. By Oll Coomes. 5 Old Hickory, or, Panpy ELLIs’s Scatp. By Harry St. George. 60 The White Iodias't or, THE ScouT OF THE YELLOwsTONE. By J. F.C. Adams. 61 Buckhorn Bill; or, THe Rev Rirtz Team. By Edward L. Wheeler. 6 The Shadow Ship; or, THe Rrvau Lyevrenants. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. 63 The Red Brotherhood; or, THE TwELVE AVENGERS. By W. J. Hamilton. 64 Dandy Jack; or, THe OvTLAW oF rEGON Tram. By T. OC. Harbaugh. 6 Hurricane Bill; or, Mustanc Sam AND HIs ‘*Parp,”’ By Jos, E. Badger, Jr. 66 Single Hand; or, A Lirz ror A Lirz. By W. J. Hamilton. 67 Patent-Leather Joe; or, OLD Rat- ag re THE CHARMER, By P.S.Warne. G The Border Robin Hood; or, Tur Prarriz Rover. By Buffalo Bill. 69 Gold Rifle; or, Taz Boy Detective or THE Back Rancu. By E. L. Wheeler. 70 Old Zip’s Cabin; or, THe GRrEEN- HORN IN THE Woops, By J. F.C. Adams. 6 | 1 Delaware Dick; Tor YounG Ran- Ger Spy. By Oll Coomes, 712 Mad Tom Western, Tat Trxan Ranocer. By W. J. Hamilton. 73 Deadwood Dick on Deck. By Edward L. Wheeler, 7 4 Hawk-eye Harry, THE Youna Trapper Ranger. By Oll Coomes, ys 5 The Boy Duelist; or, THE CRUISE or THe Sea Wor. By Col. P. Ingraham. 76 Abe Colt, the Crow-Killer. By Albert W. Aiken. 77 Corduroy Charlie; or, Taz Last Act or Drapwoop Dick. By E. L. Wheeler. ty Blue Dick; or, Taz YELLOw CurEr’s Venaeaxcs. By Captain Mayne Reid. 79 Sol er, THE Giant TRAPPER. By Albert W, Aiken. SO Rosebud Rob; or, Nucert Nep, THE KNIGHT oF THE GuicH. By E. L. Wheeler. S11 aK my Jo, THK TERROR OF THE y Captain J. F, C. Adams, §2 Kit Harefoot, THz Wocp-Hawk; or, Rollo hi seme By T. C. Har h. ° Boy Ranger; or, THE § Herress or THE GOLDEN Horn, Oll Coomes. ts 4 Idyl, the Girl Miner; or, Rosrsup B oN Hanp, By Edward L. Wheeler. fe, 5 Buck Buckram ; on, BEss, THE FE- MALE Trapper. By Capt. J. F. C. Adams, 6 Dandy Rock, THE-MAN-FROM-T'Ex- As. by G. Waldo Browne. 7 The Land Pirates; 0x, THE LeAcuE oF Drvit's IsLanp. By Capt. Mayne Reid. RS Photo h Phil; or, Koszenup Ros’s EARANCE. By Ed. L. Wheeler. S9 Island Jim; or, Tae PET or THE Fammy. By author of “Jack Harkaway.” 90 The Dread hider; on, Tuk ‘lexan Dueust. By George W. Browne. 91 The Captain of the Club. By Bracebridge Hemyng, (Jack Harkaway.) 92 Canada Chet; or, OLD Anaconda In Sirrive Butx’s Camp. By BE. L. Wheeler. 9 3 The Boy Miners; or, THe Enchanrep Isuanp. By Edward 8. Ellis. 94 Midnight Jack, Tue Roap-Acenr. By T. C. Harbaugh. 9 5 The Rival Rovers. By Lieutenant Col, Hazeltine. Watch - Eye, Toe Derecrrvz. 96 Edward L. Wheeler. By 97 The Outlaw Brothers; or, Tux Oaprive of THE Harpes. By J. J. Marshall. Robin Hood, THe OuTLawep Haru. By Prof. Stewart Gildersleeve. 99 The Tiger of Taos. By George Waldo Browne. 100 Deadwood Dick in Leadville. By Edward L. Wheeler, 1 O 1 Jack Harkaway in New York. By Bracebridge Hemyng. 102 Dick Dead-Eye, Txr Boy Suve- GLER, By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. 103 The Lion of the Sea. By Col. Delle Sara, 10 4 Deadwood Dick’s Device. By Edward L. Wheeler. 10 5 Cid Rube, Tur Hunres; or, Crow Captive. By Capt. H. Holmes. 106 Old Frosty, the Guide. By T. C. Harbaugh, 107 One-Eyed Sim; or, Tus Asan- DONED Forest Home. By J. L. Bowen. 10 beg Daring Davy, THE YOUNG BEAR Kimuier. B St. George, 109 Deadwsed Dick as Detective. By Edward L. Wheeler, 1 10 The Black Steed of the Prai- ries. By James L, Bowen. 1 1 1 The Sea-Devil; or, Taz Mmsurr- mAN’s Lecacy. By Col. P. Ingraham. 1 1 The Mad Hunter; or, Tos Cavz or DeatH. By Burton Saxe. 1 1 3 Jack Hoyle, Tux Youne Spucv- Lator. By Edward L. Wheeler. 1 1 4 The Black Schooner. By Rocrr STARBUCK. 1 1 5 The Mad Miner. By Grorcs Wa.po Browne. 1 16 The Hussar Captain. By Cor. ; Prentiss INGRAHAM, 1 1 « Gilt-Edged Dick, Tux Sport-Dr- TECTIVE. By Edward L. Wheeler. 1 1 boy, Will Somers, THz Boy Derne- tive. By Charles Morris. 1 1 9 Mustar g Sam; or, Toe Kina op THE Piains. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr, 1 20 The Branded Hand; or, THz Max or Mystery. By Frank Dumont, 121 Cinnamon Chip, THE Giru Sport. By Edward L, eeler, 122 Phil orem The Boss Boy. By Charles Morris, 1 23 Kiowa Cumereys THE Wurre Mus- TANGER. By T. C. Harbaugh. 124 Tippy: the Texan; or, Tox Youne HAMPION. By Geo, Gleason, 12 5 Bonanza Bill, Miner; or, Tue Fremate Forcer. By Ed. L. Wheeler. 126 Pleayune Pete; or, NicopEMvs, THE Doc Derective. By Chas. Morris. 12 Wild-Fire, Tun Boss or THE Roap. Frank Dumont. 128 The Young Privateer; on, THE PrraTES’ STRONGHOLD. H. Cavendish. 129 Deadwood Dick’s Double. A Story of Wild-Cat City. E, L. Wheeler. 130 Detective Dick; or, Tuz Haro in Ragas. By Charles Morris. 131 The Golden Hand; or, Danpy Rock To THE Rescur, G. W. Browne. 1 32 The Hunted Hunter; or, THE SrrancE Horseman. By Ed. & Bilis. 1 33 Boss Bob, rue Kine OF THE Beorsuacks. By Edward L. Wheeler. 1 34 Sure Shot Seth, Tuz Boy Ririz- MAN. By Oll Coomes. 1 3 5 Captain Paul, Taz Moonsamven or Kentucky, By C.D. Clark. 1 36 Night-Hawk Kit ; or, Taz Daver- TER OF THE Ranouz. J. E. Badger, Jr. 137 The Helpless Hand; or, Bacn- woops Retrizution. Capt. Mayne Reid. 1 3 Blonde Bill; or, Deapwoop Dier’s Home Base. By Edward L. Wheeler. 1 39 Judge Lynch, Jr.; oR, THE Bor GILANTE. T. CO. Harbaugh. os By T “ Ready Mareb %3d. 140 Blue Blazes;,0or, THE Break & Day Boys. By Frank Dumont. Ready March 30th. 1 Al Solid Sam; or, THE Boy Outiaw. By Edward L, Wheeler, sich aeh. 1 42 Handsome Harry, a Boot- BLACK DerecTivz. By Chas. Morris. y April 13th. A new issue every week, The Half-Dime Library is for sale all Newsdealers, five cents per cop er sent by mail on receipt of six cents each, YADLE & ADAMS, Pub 98 William Street, New, York.