Beadle's Half Dime Library (no. 31) (1878 02 26)
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iT tt Vok LE. age. Keen-Knife, PRINCE OF THE PRAIRIES. BY OLL COOMES, AUTHOR OF ‘'VAGABOND JOE,’ “THE DUMB SPY,” “ ANTELOPE ABE, THE BOY GUIDE," ETC., ETC. CHAPTER LI. THE PRINCE TO THE RESCUE. It was mid-September and the day was near its close. The air was balmy, with {ust breeze enough | torustle the forest leaves and stir the tall prai- rie-grass into gentle continuous billows, e wooded aisles were rife with that mingled | sweetness so peculiar to the woods at this season | of the year; while u laden with the odor of a hundred different kinds of beauteous flowers. Not a sound could be heard in the forest—not a living ob- ject could be seen upon the great prairie; but as the mo- ments wore on, the figure of a youth emerged from the forest shadows and paused upon the edge of the plain. He was not over eighteen years of age, and his buck- skin garments and numerous weapons told that he was one of ti daring, hardy fel- lows—a hunter and trapper of the great North-west. He was of medium hight, with a (parmesan form, sinewy limbs and muscl and a face as handsome as i was clear in its ——s of the predominant traits of character. His eyes were of a dark-brown, and although mild and pleasant in expres- sion, they were as quick and as the eyes of a hawk. ith his rifle resting in the hollow of his left arm, his head erect, and his brows knitted in a manner denot- ing close scrutiny, the ae swept the plain before him. But a single object appear- ed upon its green m, which stretched away for miles and miles ina gently undulating expanse, That object was a mere white speck, and appeared on_ the summit of a hill over three miles away. With steady eye he watch- ed it, wondering what it could possibly be. In a few minutes, however, a second and third white object a peared on the crest of the rairie wave, and then a fight of recognition beamed in the young hunter’s eyes. “It’s a party of ime- grants,” he said to himself, I ALD ANAT WAN WN Copyrighted in 1878, by BEADLE AND ADAMS, SS on | MANS No. 98 WILLIAM STREET, NEW YORK. AMS, PUBLISHERS, 5 Cents. “or m white objects are their covered wagons, and now it strikes me they’re goin’ to have trouble, for the Sioux are rampagin’ everywhere after scalps. It may be only a party of men able to take keer of themselves, but if there’s any wo- men ’mongst them, may God protect them. Surely they’re not ignorant of the danger into which they’re goin’. If I thought they were, I'd o straight and tell them to turn tail and git. ey’ll "bout make the river to-night and camp; then [ll try and go down and see who they are and whare they’re goin’.” The youth turned and glided into the forest and moved away at a brisk pace through its leafy aisles. A few minutes’ walk brought him to the _edge of a large opening, or glade, several hundred acres in area. It was of an ellip- tical form, and cut in two by the Rac- n the prairie, the air came | coon river, which, flowing in a north-east- name is not Rob Radcliff. Them ’are In the dense thicket, borderin yous again paused and gazc at was presented to his view. Upon the banks of the river nearly half a mile away, stood a goodly-sized log-house of no mean pretensions, with front facing tke river and a trellised pexch overgrown with wild ivy and honeysuckle. It was inclosed by a rail fence, which, also, encircled scme forty acrcs of the rich valley land, that were in a gocd state of cultivation, as a promising crop of maize bore witness. Beyond the river a herd of cattle tend- ed by a negro boy was grazing. Not far from the main building were two or three others, quite small and hovel-like, ‘hese were the cabins of the servants who tilled the land and tended the herds of the man who claim- ed all, and who dwelt in the large hcuse with the vine-clad the glade, the upon the scene But, what wasmoststrarge about this little cettlement, was neglect of defensive measures, such as a b!eck- house, stcckade and Ilcop- holes in the buildirgs; and the absence of ikem was suf- ficient evidence of their cwn- er being on terms of peace and friendship with the In- ans, But were those terms of peaceable intercourse honor- able? or were the owner of that place and his servants in league with the dusky den- izens of the forest? These were the questions that the young hunter bad often asked himself, but with- out a definite answer. He was satisfied, however, that the tall, dark-faced man that owned the Hidden Home, as the place was called by the hunters and trappers, was not altogether rigbt, and his having thus secre himself and family in such an out- of-the-way place, was an act enshrouded in some mystery. The youth had every reason to believe that his professed honorable calling was only a scheme to cover up scme evil work. He had only been there about two yeair, and, as yet, no words of suspicion had been carried to the ears of the Tcrritorial cfficial hence his peace from tha quarter, Only the hunters and trappers thereabouts were in a cloud, not so much from his secret location and calling, as his being on friendly terms with the In- ans. Rob Radcliff had been to the house of Don Manuel La Mort, as he had heard the lord of the Hidden Home called, but had met with such a cool reception from the strangers as told him at once
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2 Beadle’s Half-Dime Library. that his presence was not desired, and boded | the free, open countenance, and the honesty of him no good. And now, as he paused within the edge of the thicket that frin the valley, it was in hopes of gaining some clew to the mys- teries of the Hidden Home. He had not watched long when suddenly the clatter of hoofs broke the silence of the hour. Then, from the woods on the right, a snow-white pony galloped into the opening. Upon its back was seated a young white girl of some eighteen summers—a being as fair as ae trapper had ever gazed upon.._A graceful and rounded form with every feature handsomely developed ; red cheeks and lips; dark, brilliant eyes, and hair that was black as the raven’s wing and hung in wavy tresses down her back—all these made’ her a being of rare beauty to the eyes of Rob Radcliff, the Boy Hunter. For a moment he feasted his eyes upon her, then he involuntarily stepped from his. covert into the opening. The beautiful girl saw him, and at the same moment drew rein and turned her animal’s head toward the stranger. The Boy. Hunter approached her with a puz- zled expression upon his face. ' * Pardon me, miss,” he said, a “for ei ged your peaceful ride. ‘*T was not aware that you had, young man,” | logeticall y; the maiden replied, kindly; ‘‘but your face looks familiar, and if L mistake not, you have been at our house.” ‘“‘ Tf you live yonder,” he replied, pointing to- ward the house of Manuel La Mort, ‘‘ you prob- | ably have seen me there, but I’m sure I never met you before, and would be pleased to know who you are,” The maiden smiled at his rude politeness, and | et having glanced. uneasily around her, she said: “My name is Camilla La Mort. I am the | daughter of Manuel La Mort, the owner of this ‘Lone Estate,’ as we call it; and it would not _ be weil for me to be seen holding communica- tion with a stranger.” “Ah! then your privileges are limited?” Rob | saicl. ‘* Yes, sir; that fully expresses the fact of my ease. Iam not allowed to speak to any one un- less it is one of our seryants or the Indians. I | cannot say why it is that I am refused this | privilege.’ “Then your folks are on friendly terms with the Indians?” ‘Yes, sir.” ‘“How does that come, when us trappers can’t | muscles twitching with anger. say our scalps will be our own the next hour?” ‘TI cannot say, wnless my father exerts great influence over them. We have lived here two ears, and have never had any trouble from hat source.” “ And may I ask where you're from to this country?” “Such information I have been forbidden, under penalty of the lash, ever to breathe to any one.” “By whom were you forbidden?” ~ My father.” “He must be a monster!” the youth exclaim- ed, though he had scarcely uttered the words ere he regretted having done so, and was about oo aire ae for his rash speech, when the maiden said: “My father is a Spaniard by birth and an American by education. He was born and bred in Louisiana, from whence he came to this country. He is of a fiery and impetuous na- ture, and it would be death to you and me both were he to know of this conversation, so I must awe “ ” One moment, Camilla,” said the Boy Hunt- er; ‘‘does not your father follow some evil call- ing here in this secluded spot?” ‘he face of the maiden became slightly flush- ‘ed, and in a tone in which there was a tinge of | scorn, she said: j “ Would you ask me to convict my father?’ ‘No, no, Miss Camilla,” the youth cried, re- ! eretfully, “not forthe world; yet the nature of | hunter’s head. the youth’s questions, she saw that she could place confidence in him. “Tf you will ai me your promise that you will never breathe the source from whence you received the information, I will tell you all. Also, promise to do me a favor in return by car- rying a message to one many long miles from here.” “T promise you both, upon my sacred word and honor,” returned the youth. ‘“‘Then come nearer; there may be prying ears around,” she said, and when the Boy Hunt- er approached nearer, she continued: ‘‘ For over a year father has been following the evil call- ing of a—” he did not finish the sentence, for just then there came a crashing through the thicket be- hind them, followed by the massive tread of eet. Filled with sudden fear, Camilla gave her po- ny the reins and dashed away; but our hero calmly turned to see who the intruder was, A tall, dark man, with clouded brow and flashing eyes, was approaching him. It was Manuel La Mort. In one hand he carried a heavy rawhide rid- ing-whip, and as he advanced toward the young hunter, he raised it aloft and fairly hissed be- tween his set teeth: ‘*Curses upon you, a young buck-skin! Pll cowhide the life out of you! Pil teach you the rice of loafing about my premises like a sneak- ing whelp, and meeting that girl in secret to worm from her that which does not concern you—my business here.” He Lake our hero and grasped him rudely by the shoulder. The youth saw the vindictive gleam of his dark eyes, and the facial He knew the fire of the man’s impetuous spirit was raging within his breast, and that he had a terrible foe to deal with. Boldly the hes confronted his adversary. He never flinched from his strong grasp, yet he seemed like a child by the side of the giant, Manuel La Mort. “Be careful, Don La Mort!” exclaimed our hero; ‘fone lick of that whip will be your death-warrant!” The giant did not heed the warning, but sum- moning all his strength, he brought the whip downward through the air. But the youth was on the alert, and as the rawhide descended, he threw up his hand and caught it near the giant’s hand, and arrested its further descent, Quick asa flash his fingers closed upon the stock of the oes and then, with a movement squall as quick, he snatched it from La Mort’s = : n Springing lightly backward, the youth raised the scourge and Eere his enemy a cut across the eyes that sent him staggering away, howling with rage and blinded with pain. The Mt ay" oa was about to follow up the advantage y gained, and apply the whip upon the giant ine 3 until he begge for quar- ter, but at this juncture three half-nude figures lided from the thicket, with yells that could ave been heard for miles. a was a party of La Mort’s friends—Sioux In- ians! Before the Boy Hunter could draw a weapon, the foremost savage was upon him, but quick as a flash of lightning he struck the savage across the face twice in succession with the whip, and sent him to the earth, writhing and howling with agony. The second savage closed upon the youth, and before he could strike again, pinioned his arms ati his side. The third reas now rushed up, the youth by the hair with the left sealping-knife with the other. The next moment the weapon was at the young One circling sweep of the blade, anda cry of fiendish triumph burst from the red-skin’s lips, as he flourished aloft the Boy and grasping hand, drew a your question is an affirmative answer to my | Hunter’s scalp! question. I know you are not entirely happy | here in this secluded home, and it has But it was the last scalp-cry of the warrior. been sus- | The next moment he fell dead, with a bullet peers among us hunters and trappers that | through his brain. Jon Manuel La Mort is not what he pretends to | be ” “You are right in that, young man. Fath- Then forth from the thicket leaped another ae Indian, in the hand om whose muzzle a thin form—the form of a of whom wasa rifle er’s calling here is one in opposition to the laws | wreath of smoke was curling. of our country; and I am unhappy—very un- ha mi Bince you have admitted that his business is an evil one, would you re to tell me what it is? Perhaps 1 might do something to alleviate your unbappy life.” s The face of the maiden grew brighter, for in It was the white man’s friend, Keen-Knife, the Prince of the Prairies! CHAPTER II. | A DOUBLE SCALP. As Keen-Knife leaped from the thicket to the rescue of his young friend, he uttered a peculiar and terrible war-whoop that was ay oe. nized by the Boy Hunter, as well as his ene- mies. Then he sprung ae his friend’s captor, bringing a tomahawk down upon his tufted head , burying the weapon to the eye in his rain. The savage that Rob had struck with the whip, as well as Manuel Mort, hearing the cry of the terrible young Prince of the Prairies, struggled to their feet and beat a hasty retreat toward the cabins of the Lone Estate. Keen-Knife would have given pursuit, had not the condition of his young friend demanded his attention: The Indian youth, although a few years older than Rob Radcliff, was apparently much young- er. His face was devoid of paint, and that usual silent and low cunning expression so character- istic of the Indian, He was of medium hight and build, yet with firm-knit limbs, powerful muscles, a deep, full chest, and wide, massive shoulders. His eyes were black, and bright as polished ebony; and his hair, of the same hue as his eyes, hung in a long, flowing mass down his back to his hips. Around his head, flaring outward at the top and set with a number of small silver stars, was a fillet of red leather, to which was attached two or three white eagle- plumes, His garb was made after the prevailing fash- ion of the »white hunter, though of .a material that would have dazzled the eyes of an old bor- derman. © His tunic was made of deep-blue cloth, trimmed with yellow fringe around the skirts, and confined at the waist by a belt of wampum. Around the shoulders was a cape of spotted fawn-skin, to which was attached a neck- lace of bear’s-claws. The feet were incased in buck-skin moccasins highly ornamented, and the leggings were of some green material, fringed up the side with yellow Back win and stained feathers. Keen-Knife was no Indian dandy. ‘The pure blood of a once powerful, but not extinct tribe coursed his veins. He had been raised from in- fancy by a white family; for years he had been the boon com on of that noted youth, Ante- lope Abe; he imbibed many of the princi- ples of the white man, and was known as the white man’s friend. From those whom he had served in the capacity of scout, had he received those fancy articles of clothing, made by nim- ble white fingers whose fair owners vied with each other for the good graces of the young Prince of the Prairies. “Is Bold-Heart hurt?” he asked, turning to young Radcliff. “*No; but by the blue blazes, Keen-Knife!” exclaimed the Boy Hunter, “ your comin’ was just in the nick of time to save that varmint goin’ one skitlp deeper.” “* What does my young friend mean? Did not the Sioux get his scalp? ‘‘Ha! ha! ha!” laughed the youth, “he got one of them, Prince, but not the one id think the most of. That’s twice that old rig of a wig has been mistaken for a genuine skulp. It pays to wear two skulps, Prince. See here.” The youth placed his hands to his head and removed the remnant ofa wig, revealing a head of short, crispy hair of a dark brown color, A low, silent laugh escaped the lips of the 7 Indian when he saw how artfully Bold- eart, as he called Rob, had cheated the savage and the scalping-knife. Then turning, he drew his own keen blade and completed his victo over the two fallen Sioux by removing the scalps, which he fastened at his girdle, then said: ‘‘ Let us hasten from this spot, Bold-Heart, or other dangers may come soon. The dark-eyed man living yonder escaped, and he will strike for revenge.’ “* Let him strike,” replied the youth, “and I'll strike back. He'll be more cautious hereafter, for he has already felt the weight of my blows. But lead the way and I will follow you, Prince.” The young Indian turned and glided into the thicket, closely followed by Rob, and soon they were threading the cool forest aisles. Keepin to the left of the Lone Estate, they soon reached the river-bank a short distance from the open- ing. Wats they paused to listen, but not a sound broke the silence of the hour save the murmur of the river flowing at their feet. oy Will we go to our homes now?” asked Keen- ife. ‘No, Prince,” oe the youth, thoughtfully. “T shall not leave this place until I have had an- other interview with the maiden I met awhile a I believe she’s not the darter of old La Mort. She don’t favor him a bit, and I feel certain she’s a
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Keen-Knife. kind of free prisoner, willing to escape if she only knew where to go. I must know moro about her, Prince, and shall hang around the place till I gain tho desired information.” Keen-Knifo shook his head negatively, and re- plied: “Tf the dark-browed man heard her speak with you, he will put bonds upon her and you will sea her then only in the wolf’s den.” Tho Boy Hunter’s brow knitted with anger. “Curse him!” he exclaimed. ‘I will take his life, but what I release her!” Tho Indian smiled and said: ‘‘ Bold-Heart loves the daughter of the dark- browed man.” ‘No, no, Prince, I can’t say that: but I must say my sympathies havo been aroused in her behalf. She’s young and handsome, Prince, but never, never has the passion called love dis- turbed my breast. [Ive a curious heart that way. It never has, nor do I believe it ever will, throb in unison with any other heart.” ‘* Time brings chan to the body and mind, Bold-Heart,” said Keen- Knife. “That may all be, Prince. I consider it no disgrace for a feller to love a purty girl. Bu see here: awhile ago I saw an emigrant-train o several wagons comin’ over the big prairie, and, judging from their course, they will strike the river bout two miles below here. It may be emigrants wanting a guide, and if so we might secure the job and make a few extras, as pelt- ries are not worth anything nowadays. If ou’ll down tho river and see who it is, rince, I’ll make a scout ’bout the Lone Estate, as the gal called it. I'll meet yowhere again at midnight.” ‘¢ 7 will go down the river and look after the train, asmy young friend desires, but hate to see you go alone about the Lone Estate. Dan- gers hover around it. But Bold-Heart has keen eyes and ears, and let him keep on his guard. I will be here at midnight.” “That's you, Prince,” replied the Boy Hunter, ‘‘and now I will lean out for tall timber.” They separated, one going down the river and the other up. . The face of Keen-Knife wore an expression of regret and anxiety. He did not entirely favor the project of his young friend reconnoitering about the Lone Estate. He was satisfied that every approach to it was guarded by the tools of La Mort. But, with his rifle at a trail, the red youth glided briskly along the river with every faculty on the alert. He had gone thus some distance when sudden- ly the prolonged reverberation of a rifle came booming down the valley and died away in faint echoes trough the sores. It came from up the river, and what was most alarming about the report, was its being closely followed by a wail as of human agony. Keen-Knife stopped. He knew it was not the report of Bold-Heart’s rifle, and a cloud of fear swept over his fave. : He believed his young friend had got into trouble, and turning, he glided rapidly up the river. Soon he came to where they had parted. He stopped and listened. All was silent—si- lent as the grave itself. . Looking up Bold-Heart’s trail, he set_off to follow it. It was, however, with great difficul- ty that he did so, for the white youth was al- most as in hiding a trail as Keen-Knife was in following one. He moved on several hundred and was nearing the edge of the Lone te, when he discovered that the trail suddenly became deep- er and plainer. The steps were further apart, which fact alone convinced Rob’s red friend that Rob had set off at a rapid run. Still a few steps on, he saw numerous other tracks in the yielding soil, and where the old leaves been torn up as if by the feet of persons in a hand-to-hand en- counter. This satisfied Keon-Knife that his yal friend met with a savage foe—probably a dozen of them, and had been slain. He looked around and was nota little to see drops of blood spattered over the leaves, Some one had been wounded, either Bold- Heart or an enemy. The young Indian halted and gazed around him. It was now almost sunset, and twilight shadows were gathering in the woods. A deep, dread silence prevailed--a silence that was eminous as death itself to the ear of Keen-Knife. With his hands clasped over the muzzle of his , and his neck craned f he around him with a steady eye. Suddenly he started and a low cry issued from s to the heart as well as | | his lips, as his cyes fell upon a heap of old, dank leaves and twigs that had been raked quite dogs fd two in hight by five or more in len What was the meaning of it? to entrap him? For a moment the young Prince of the Prairies stood and “1 at the object. But he soon satisfied himself that there was no life beneath it, and advanced cautiously toward it. Before he reached the pile of leaves he saw where some heavy body had been d alon, upon the ground. The trail was marked wit streaks of clotted blood, and ended at the heap of leaves. Keen-Knife’s worst fears were in a manner realized when he suddenly discovered a human moccasined foot protruding from beneath the pile of decaying vegetation. Then he knew a lifeless human body lay buried there. He halted almost sick at heart. There was not a doubt in his mind but it was the lifeless ter of his young friend, Bold-Heart, the Boy unter. together into an elongated pile, a foot or as it a snare CHAPTER III. THE FAIR FUGITIVE. Just at sunset, three days previous to the opening of our story, a party of emigrants went into camp on the banks of a little stream that found its way into the Raccoon river. There were eight or ten canvas-covered wagons, besides a two-wheeled vehicle contents were hidden by a a wooden box. The general appearance of the emigrants and their outfit, was not of the rougher and meaner sort. On the contrary, they were a pleasant, bright and intelligent-looking party, and their wagons and stock were of a superior grade. e party was com of some forty persons, including several African servants and teamsters. The presence of the negroes was evidence of itself, that most of the party hailed from the Southern States, as was, in fact, the case. The eldest of them, and the apparent leader of the party, had passed the meridian of life, yet | he was a tall, powerful man in whose air and deportment there was a strong military bear- ing, which evidently came as much of nature as habit and disciplinary training. is face wore a few wrinkles, and his hair and long flowing beard were white as snow. ) There was a remarkable degreo of firmness and dauntiless reat manifested in his steel-gray eyes and upon his stern. bearded face. This was Major Thomas Bronson, or more familiarly known as Major Tom. He had won the title of major by invaluable services as a soldier; and as an old campaigner, there were none in the party better - ified to lead it into — dangers of the Great West, than Major Tom ronson. He was a widower, and in fact, it might have been said he was alone in the world had it not been for his adopted daughter, Dora Barnwell, a bright-eyed little maiden of some sixteen summers. In her the old major found much joy and happiness, for she was a merry-hearted and vivacious little creature, full of innocent mischief and enthusiasm, which had a tendency to gain the love of every one, and which kept an air of cheerfulness around all. There is another quires our present notice. It is Frank Hey- ward, a youth of some two-and-twenty years. He was not only pre ing in appearance, but a man whose whole bearing indicated intel ligence and mental culture. He was tg to all, full of life, brave and daring toa ault; and like Dora Barnwell, he was one of the bright attractions of the little party. Frank had no relations in the company, but between him and the major there existed a mutual friendship. The young man’s father and Major Bronson had been friends from early boyhood, and when David He died, the major found a true representative of his old friend, in his son Frank. ' During their journey, Frank and the major were noticed, upon many occasions, in private consultation, which was invariably ended when- ever any one approached them. ‘And although not the shadow of a suspicion of any wrong was entertained by any of the party, they all believed the two had some secret object in view in coming West, far more important than the major’s colonizing scheme. But what it was, no one could form the slightest conception. As before stated, the party hailed from the kind and whose | abet in the party who re- | 3 South, with one or two exceptions, Th y had the fertile valley of the Raccoon river in view for planting a colony, although they were breasting many dangers in their undertal‘ng- The creek upon which they had encam was covered on one side by a dense grow. th of cottonwoods, beneath whose arcading lLcughs and foliage, the wagons were drawn au'i the tents pitched. The animals were corra’:d at the edge of the prairie, and a guard pestcd om either side of the encampment. During the preparations of the evening meal, those that were not engaged passed the mc ments in various ways. A group of four were seated at ono side; look~ ing over a map of the Great West. “You see, major,” said Ethan White, “we must be nearing the Raccoon—I should judge we were not over a day’s journey from it, at | furthest.” - “That is my opinion, exactly,” said Major Bronson, “and if we are in the right latiiude, I am almost certain we will strike the very point of which I spoke. It has been some ten years since I et up the river with the party of explorers; but at that time, I remarked upon the great natural advantages offered for a mes upon the river where we are going.” ‘“‘ Then the tract of land lies contiguous to the river?” |. “It is a vast plain rising from the river's | banks, and extends eastward for miles, where it | meets a low escarpment of table-land, or rollin prairie. There is timber in abundance north the little creek that forms the northern Loun- dary of the plain.” * But I fear, major,” said White, ‘we will be too far inland to make agriculture a suc cess, “Why sof” ** We will be too far from a market for our products.” “That depends entirely upon circumstances. | If MA make stock-raising a specialty, it would—’ “ A horseman! a horseman, coming this way at a rapid speed!” These words rung in stentorian notes from the lips of the guard stationed at the edge of the prairie; and the next moment the whole camp was in a state of general excitement. Men, women and children rushed to where the ard was on duty, and gazed with anxious and inguiring looks in the direction indicated. “ar away upon the plain, over a mile distant, | they could see through the gathering twiliy ht, the dim. outlines of an approac hoise- | man. Almost simultaneous with this discovery, Hien saw another horseman far behind the f. This was followed by a third, fourth, and se on, until fully a dozen appeared in sight, and were | apparently in pursuit of. the one furthest im | advance. This was suddenly verified by a wild, savage. yell. They were Indians, and that solitary horseman a fugitive. Yes, and by Heavens, that fugitive is a woman! This the settlers cculd plainly ree in the flying skirts of her dress, the flowing hair and elise white face. “To arms, men!” cried Major Tcm. “Let us to the rescue of the fugitive! It isa woman, and God only knows what a tale of horror her | lips may unfold. There must be, or have Leen, _a_scttlement near, and she alone has escaped. Where else could he have come from?” “From an emigrant train, perhaps, ma< 1,” said Frank Heyward. “Well, we'll scon know,” replied the mejor; “forward, boys, to meet the savage foe!” The next moment the men, with rifle in hi nd, issued from the grove onto the prairie. Bui ne sooner had they dcne so than the Indians \ ere seen to ccre to a sudden halt, evidently tekem by surprise at sight of the armed emigrants. But the fugitive seemed to take new courage, | and came on directly toward the camp. In a few minutes she drew rein in the midst of the excited emigrants, from whoce lips a ery of surprise and pity, raingled with _issa- ed in low accents. The fugitive was a young wcemen scarcely twenty summers cf age; and, although her face wore an expression of despair, she wasa being of rare and wondrous heauty. : Her eyes were black as midnight. and shaced by long, drooping lashes that gave them a timid and languid expression. Her hair, hke her eyes, were black as ebon, and bung in long, flowing tresses to her animal’s back. Her dress, cast of features, complexion and small white hands and _ tapering evidence, satisfactory, ngers were that she was mob & ba
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ak Beadle’s Half-Dime Library. der maid, but.a lady—one that had been raised in wealth and refinement. And there was that ia her dark eyesand silken hair which satisfied Major Bronson, without considering her com- plexion, that the blood of a southern creole— such as were usually met with in Louisiana— coursed her veins. She was mounted upon a fine-looking animal ef the American stock, and when she w rein it fairly staggered with exhaustion. The fugitive was the first to Seek cs ou friends to me—a helpless fugitive?” she asked, in a tone which must have been musi- eil when not rendered harsh by fear and excite- ment. “Yes, yes; you can rely upon rage d in our camp, young woman,” said Major Bronson; “here, Heyward, assist this young lady to dis- mount,” Frank Heyward advanced and assisted the fair fugitive to the ground, and giving her ani- mal to one of tho servants, ho conducted her to camp. She was tall and queenly, graceful of move- ment, seeming to float along upon the air by Frank’s side. “How does it como that you are a fugitive, fair lady?” asked young Heyward, when ho had seen her soated in bie a All gathered around her, and in breathless anterest listened to her tale of woe. “Father and I,” she said, ‘‘in company with ‘two other families, were journeying from a point on the Mississippi river to a settlement on the Missouri. At dawn this morning, just as we broke camp, we were attacked by a band of Indians. I was mounted upon my horse, and slightly in advance of the train when the first shot was fired. I saw father go down under the blow of a tomahawk. His last words were for me to flee. I—” Here the maiden broke down and sobbed bitterly. Majer Bronson spoke words of cheer to her, ‘and tendered her the heartfelf sympathy of the whole He promised to look after her father on the morrow, and if he could not be found, to return her safe to her friends. “Bat, kind sir,” she moaned, ‘‘my father was the only friend I had in the world, that I iknow of.” ; : “Then I hope you may find him still alive, But what is your vame?” “ Mildred Cleveland.” “‘ Cleveland!” exclaimed Bronson. ‘I had a dear friend once by that name, He lived in Tennessee.” ‘Father was formerly from that State,” re- lied Mildred, a ray of hope beginning to shine sam the liquid depths of her dark eyes. “From ‘Tennessee!’ exc the major; “was his name Orville Vane Cleveland?” “The same.” ‘Great Heaven! is it thus that I meet the of my beloved old friend, Orville Vane? fest assured, Mildred, that you will have a and protector in Major Tom Bronson as as his life-lamp holds out to burn.” “Bronson? I have often heard father speak of Thomas Bronson.” “No doubt of it, no doubt of it,” returned the major; “‘but hero, Mildred, is my ward, Miss Dora Barnwell, who will keep you com- pany, and in her society I nape you will find some relief for your beréaved The major left Dora and Mildred ther and alone—the others having already wi wn— and went to see about strengthening their posi- ion against the Indians, who he feared would iaake a night attack upon their camp. But, tho night wore away without any de- monstration on the part of the foo. During the short time they were together, Dora and her companion became strongly at- tached tc each other; as much so, perhaps, #3 was possiblo for two of such opposite na- tures. Dora was a little, petite creature, full of sun- shine and merriment. Mildred was tall, grace: ful and queenly in proportions, with features slightly traced with hauteur —just enough thought Frank Heyward, to enhance her pecu- liar style of beauty. A party was sent out in search of Mildred’s father, but after an absence of two days they returned, having found no trace of the unfortu- nate man nor. of any of the party. Poor Mildred! she gave up all h of recov- ering the remains of her father, and quietly submitted to fate. She Major Tom Bronson’s proffered Rabsrbary 4 and Wadi aicys and on the third day, when the party resumed ean journey, Mildred Cleveland went with CHAPTER IV. DORA’S SURPRISE. ‘““ BEHOLD the promised land!” This was the exclamation of Major Tom Bron- son, as the whole train came toa halt upon the summit of a long range of low hills looking westward for miles and mites. Before them lay a vast plain whose green bosom was traversed by the . presi river and some of its adjuncts. Here and there a tiny lakelet lay slumbering upon the vast expanse, reflecting the sun-rays like mirrors. Groups of deer and prong-horned antelopes could be seen in the distance. The plain was bounded on the west by the river, on the north by a dense body of timber, and on the east by therange of hills upon which they stood. “Tis a grand and beautiful plain,” said Frank Heyward. ‘‘ What say you, Mildred and Dora?’ ‘“My opinion coincides with yours exactly, Mr. Heyward,” said tho dark-eyed, queenly Mildred. “And mine, too,” added merry-hearted Dora; “‘ but if yonder woods are full of ugly Indians, it might mar the natural beauty of the plain.” ‘*T hope we will have no trouble with the In- dians, daughter,” said Major Bronson. ‘‘Wo have presents and gold enough to buy their and good-will, at least, until our colony omes strong enough to defy their hostile proclivities.” At this juncture young Heyward noticed that Mildred Cleveland started quickly, and lanced toward the different wagons with an inquiring look. “ What is the matter, Miss Cleveland? You seem agitated,” said I’rank. Mildred’s face showed no little confusion as she replied: “‘T was startled by Mr. Bronson’s remark. I heard our guide tell father it was very danger- ous traveling through this wild land with money and valuables. The robbers, or prairie-pirates as they call them, are said to be numerous, and if an emigrant-train has any valuables they man- ago to find it out and get them.” “T hope we will meet with no such loss, for all our earthly pcssessions, amounting to some thirty thousand dollars, we have with us. To lose it, our colonizing scheme would be ruined.” Again Mildred Cleveland involuntarily ran her eyes over the wagons, and as they wander- ed from one to the other, stopped when they came to that two-wheeled vehicle with its broad tires and its rude, closed box, as though her fears had singled it out as the treasure-vehicle. The train now descended into the green, fer- tile valley, which they crossed to the north-west extremity where the timber reached down to the river. Here, almost upon the banks of the stream, the train halted. It was the point se- lected by Major Tom for their permanent camp; and it was an admirable one for that purpose, being flanked on all sides by water. The little water-bound tract of prairie was of a trian form, the river forming the base; the creek that divided tho plain from the woods, the perpendicular; and a large, deep bayou ex- tending from the river diagonally across the plain ost to the creek described the hypothe- nuse. © narrow space between the creek and the head of the bayou admitted the teams to and from the place. The Peninsula, as Major Bronson not inap- propriately named the triangular tract, was about five acres in area, and of sufficient alti- tude to escape the periodical overflow of the river, and the malaria so common to the low, wet lands of the river bottoms. It wanted two hours of sunset when the train reached the Peninsula. The wagons were ar- ranged in a hollow square, inside of which the tents were pitched with more than usual care, for they were not to he moved soon, at least, until cabins were erected. A new spirit seemed to have been infused into the heart of each one, unless it was that of Mil- dred, for all felt that this was the beginning of a new life in a new home. Mildred Cleveland still felt that she was in the midst of strangers, and could not indulge in that social and familiar freedom of those around her; although every one tried to make her feel at home, and as one of the party. During the short time they had been together, Frank Heyward had been quite attentive to the beautiful fugitive, and more than. one believed he had been smitten by her wondrous charms. But, be this as it may, it was more readily per- ceived that his attentions were received with smiles and blushes which spoke plainer than words—told that she toved Frank. | It did not rae much time to go into camp, : corral the stock to grass and procure wood for cooking purposes, from the adjacent forest. On the morrow they were to commence build- ing. Tho party passed the time in various ways during the evening, — The abundance of fish in the river drew the attention of the boys and they were soon group- ed along the bank with rod and line in hand. The girls wandered at pleasure about the Pen- insula, culling the wild flowers that grew in profusion everywhere, while the old folks gath- ered and laid their plans and made their calcu- lations for the work that was before them. Mildred Cleveland and Dora Barnwell stroll- ed away alone, and seated themselves upon the river-bank at the upper side of the Peninsula. Here they entered into converse, Dora’s voice rippling away in musical notes and merry peals of laughter; while the tall, dark-eyed henuty at her side spoke in a low, soft tone and smiled maya aa at her vivacity and merry-heart- e SS. Something besides the loss of her father secm- ed to make Mildred unhappy and uneasy. Dora was keen of perception, as all women are, and she saw at once that Frank Heyward was the object of her restlessness of heart. She— Mildred—loved him, and yet was in doubt whether her love was, in the least, reciprocated. This doubt was occasioned from the fact that Frank had been quite frequent in his attentions to Dora, herself. At last Dora said to her: “Why is it, Mildred, you scom uneasy this evening?” ‘*Oh, Dora! I have been so very uneasy ever since 1 learned you had so much money and valuables with you. The prairie-pirates, they say, are more dangerous than the Indians, and have scouts and spies out in all directions.” “T would not let that trouble you, dear Mil- dred,” replied Dora, kindly; ‘‘ father will ree that we are not surprised by an enemy. Aro there any prairie-pirates about here that you have heard of, Mildred?” Mildred hesitated, and turned her dark eyes away to keep from encountering those of her little questioner. The subject, itself, seemed terrifying to her sensitive heart and mind. But seeing Dora did not change the theme of con- versation, she finally said: "Yes, Dora, I heard our guide speak of a band of robbers under the outlaw brothers, called Bodsford. They not only steal horses and phin- der emigrant-trains, but make a business of kid- napping youns, girls and women and selling them to the Indians, or holding them for ran- som. Dora uttered a little Nig Rare carb geron have made reply, Lut approaching footsteps caused her to esist. “Pardon my intrusion, ladies, but I could not resist the temptation of your society.” It was Frank Heyward who addressed them, He came near and seated himself by Mildred’s side, at the same time making some pleasant re- marks about his own impoliteness. Milcred’s eyes glowed with unusual brillian- cy, and a deep flush came to her cheeks, which Dora, as well as Frank, himself, did not fail to observe. P Soon Dora framed an excuse, and rising to her feet, left Mildred and Frank alone. She strolled listlessly along the river-bank, zing down into the murmuring waters, or plucking the wild flowers that bedecked her path. Suddenly her eye caught ~ ay of a small canoe, Jaying half-concealed under the edge of the bank. At first she thought it might contain an occupant Who was in the concealed portion of it, but she soon became convinced that such was not the case, when she saw it moving with the gentle pulsations of the water. Her young spirit of adventure at once became aroused, and she resolved to have a boat-ride upon the river. She was no novice in the use of oars, having been raised on the shores of a little lake where she could have daily access to the boat-house, and row upon the lake, which de- veloped a skill with the oars and a love for the water. q idea tS mae + ta <w assistance, she sprun own the bank and ste into the little craft which had evidently drifted there for it. was not made fast, It was an Indian canoe, made of bark, and about large enough for two persons. In the | bottom lay a paddle, so there was nothing want-
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Keen-Knife. 5 ing to insure the success of the maiden’s ride up- | on the river. Seating herself, she headed the barkup-stream, | and, skirting the bank for a rod or two, shot abruptly out into the stream directly in front , of Frank and Mildred, causing them to start suddenly. A clear, joyous laugh pealed from Dora’s lips on seeing her friends start with surprise, then plying the paddle she sent the little craft flying up the stream. ‘*Do not venture away too far, Dora,” cau- tioned young Heyward, ‘“‘or you might get caught by some lurking Indian.” “Te there should be but one, Frank,” Dora re- plied, in a playful manner, “J will take him prisoner and bring him tocamp. I know you would all like to see a genuine wild Indian.” She used the padile with remarkable dex- terity, and after skimming around near Frank and Mildred for a few moments, continued on up the stream. Young Heyward saw that Mildred watched her movements very closely, as if half-envious of the attention he bestowed upon her; and whenever he spoke in praiseworthy terms of Dora, a smile, in which there was a shadow of jealous envy, played about her pretty red lips. Dora continued slowly up the river without seeming to notice the distance she was leaving the camp behind her, but watching each shore with a cautious eye. Suddenly she saw that which arrested her at- tention with an admiring interest. From the boughs of some low, scrubby trees that stood upon the east shore and were inclined outward over the water, hung a curtain of m vines resembling Spanish moss. Upon the face of this curtain the maiden saw numerous clusters of small white flowers and red berries. It wasa sight very pleasing to the eye of an enthusiastic maidea, and Dora at once headed her canoe inshore, with the intention of procur- ing a cluster of the berries and flowers, to carry back to camp as a ome of her adventure. It required but a few strokes of the oar to carry the canoe before, and within reach of, the gen facade of creepers and parasitica] vines hat hung to the water’s surface and concealed the shore beyond. Dora rose to her feet and reached out for the nearest cluster of berries, but in so doin™, the canoe rocked slightly and the paddle fell over- board. Before she could make an attempt to re- cover it, it was carried beyond her reac This was quite a misfortune, as she was out of sigot of her friends, there being an abrupt bend in the stream below. She could go ashore *vhere she was, but then the river would be between her and her friends. ‘‘ What should she do¢?—what could she do?” She had scarcely asked herself these questions when she detected a slight rustling in the green foliage before her. She started and grasping the vines for support, listened intertly. She could still hear a slight rustling in the drapery of vines before her, such as would be made by the movement of a huge ae larmed, and almost paralyzed ora grew a an with Pe felt certain that she had got herself into trouble, and was in the act of calling for help when she saw the flash of something red through the vines upon which the setting sun was pers 3 The next eteny = selvage S the green drapery was parted, and a pair o Hen , scintillating orbs peered through upon er. Dora attempted to ery out, but terror held her ess. Then the vines were wider and the lumed head and grim, triumphant face of an Fadian warrior appeared in the opening. CHAPTER V. WHOSE WAS THE BODY? SLOWLY, and with all his natural ution, Keen-Knife a: ed the lifeless form that lay covered er the leaves. He felt satisfied that it was the body of Bold-Heart, yet he did —_ let this belief blind his precaution, for fear of some trap. When he reached the body he raked the a therefrom with the rarer tle rifle, and a trium m when ree the pet Pore tion x wiarrite, with a bullet-hole through his forehead. The dead —— was unscal vinced Bob’s red by Bold-Heart, who had either made good escape or been captured. The latter the most probable, else the warriors w carried their dead comrade with them. red d have However, the young Indian resolved to wait till midnight, and then if Bold-Heart did not meet him at the appointed place, he would go in search of him. turning, he retrac- ing his footsteps down the river, moving with greac rapidity, yet with the most extreme si- lence, close along the shore. He had traversed over two miles, when his keen ear suddenly caught the dip of a paddle. Peering cut upon the river, he saw a small canoe, with a single occupant—a beautiful white Creeping closer to the edge of the river, he eoncealed himself within the deep shadows of a clump of vines, to watch the fair, sylph-like creature. Much to his surprise, she turned her canoe and came directly toward him. Like a grim statue he sat and feasted his eyes upon her, for she was a being of extreme loveli- ness. She came near him—within arm’s length— only a curtain of trailing vines se ted them. Allowing her canoe to stand still, she arose to her feet as though she were going to leap ashore, but instead of so doing, she reached upward toward a cluster of scarlet berries on the vines. The movement caused her canoe to ightly, and her dle slipped overboard. isappointment was written upon her sweet oung face, and she gazed around her like one in trouble. Keen-Knife felt satisfied that she pues to the party of emigrants spoken of by Bold-Heart, and so he resolved to release her from her di- lemma. He arose to his feet, and that he might not frighten her, he carefully parted the vines and made his presence known. The sight of him seemed to fill the maiden with terror, seeing which, Keen-Knife said: ‘*Let the pale-face maiden fear not. I am Keen-Knife, the friend of the white man.” Dora Barnwell breathed freer, yet it was several moments before she had regained her com e to speak. “Tf you are a friend,” she at length asked, “ why have you come upon me so noiselessly?” A grim smile swept over the Indian’s face as he replied: ‘“‘T was here before you came. But if you mistrust me, return to your friends and tell them Keen-Knife, the white man’s friend, de- sires an interview with them.” ‘*But I have dropped my paddle in the river,” Dora replied. The Indian quickly withdrew, and Dora heard his footsteps hurrying down the stream. In a few moments he returned, and handed her the truant ashen blade, Dora thanked him kindly, adding: This act of kindness, red-man, removes all doubt from my mind of your friendliness. If you like, you can take a seat in my canoe and o with me to my friends. I have heard of een-Knife, the Prince of the Prairies, before.” Keen-Knife made no reply, but leaped lightly into the canoe. Seating himself, he the addle from Dora’s hand, and headed the bark own the stream, Vora could not help admiring his rude gal- lantry, as well as his noble form, dark eyes, and long, flowing hair. He was a noble specimen of manhood. In the mean time, those at the camp had be- gun to grow uneasy about Dora’s protracted absence, when all at once, Major Bronson discovered the canoe rounding the bend of the river. “By heavens!” he exclaimed, “there comes — now, and as I live, there’s an Indian with er a kept her word then,” said Frank, rock sl “and an Indian. He must be friendly; what think you, Mildred?” Mildred fixed her dark eyes upon the ap- proaching Indian, and Frank saw that her cheeks grew pale, and that her lips quivered with emotion, as she replied: “Yes, it must be a friendly—probably the mn Keen-Knife, of whom you have heard, perhaps. + i Ged hyeyeig heard of Keen-Knife, Prince of the Prairie: the white man’s friend.” At this moment the canoe touched upon the mi Vbboud of Soy Tpetleg "eit the: testyrenit shout of joy m the em é lips when they feared who the Indian was. Major Bronson conducted the yo Prince to his own tent, and ed to question him, while Dora gave a pleasant account of her ad- venture to her friends. “ Are you well acquainted with the country and the dangers hereabouts, Keen-Knife?” asked the jinajor of his guest, after they had conversed awhile. “T have hunted and ates here for many long months,” replied the Indian. ‘‘ There is no watercourse but what I have followed, no path but what my feet have p You are in great danger, for the Sioux are on the war- th, and the dark-browed man at the Lone te furnishes them with fire-water to make them mad and crazy for white blood.” ‘‘ What do you mean by the Lone Estate?” “Tt is the place where a pale-face lives, with many black slaves. He is a bad man, and con- sorts with the Sioux and many white Indians.” ** Does he live alone with his slaves?” ‘No. There are white women there.” “Did you ever see them?” ‘“‘T was never at the Lone Estate. It would” be death for me to go there, But Bold-Heart lg to-day, fair as the rose upon the ‘* And who is Bold-Heart?” ** A white friend of mine.” “Where is he now?” ‘*T know not, but at midnight he promised te meet me in the forest, not far away.” ‘Then he has been to the Lone Estate, has he?” has; and to-day he talked with the daughter of the dark-browed man.” jor Tom started, and an anxious light beamed in his steel-gray eyes. ‘‘ Keen-Knife,” he asked, ‘‘ will you do me a favor by bringing your friend to our camp? I want to see him on important business.” ‘‘Keen-Knife will tell Bold-Heart what the chief of the pale-faces desires,” replied the In **T will reward you well for your services, Foune man; but if you are not to meet Bold- eart until midnight, you will remain with us till then, will you not? You shall occupy this tent if you so decide.” “Keen-Knife is the friend of the pale-face. He never sleeps when there’s danger around. I will watch over your camp till it is time to go and meet my friend.” ‘*You’re a noble fellow, Keen-Knife—” began the major, but before he could conclude his sen- tence, Keen-Knife had pices from the tent, and when he next saw him, he was cerefully in- specting the situation of the camp. CHAPTER VI. WHAT KEEN-KNIFE SAW. No one watched the movements of Keen- Knife more closely than did Mildred. The sight of the Indian seemed to fill her with fear, and although Frank noticed the Friendly fix his gaze u her more than once with a stran admiring expression, he never permitted dark eyes to meet those of the fair, queenly maiden. Before nightfall, a number of guards were posted at different points, and Keen-Knife promised the major that he would keep on the scout around the Peninsula until midnight. With a double assurance of safety while the noted young Prince of the Prairie watched over them, the emigrants retired early to bed. Be- fore he left, Keen-Knife had promised to their situation to the major, who was then te station a new set of guards. night was one of extreme darkness and silence. Nothing save the coruscations of the fire-flies could be seen, and only a few sounds peculiar to the northern night could be heard away off in the wilderness. Keen-Knife had disappeared from sight after nightfall as if by magic. But the guards, now and then — sight of a shadowy form flit- ting about from place to place, and they felt satisfied of its being the young Indian. As the hours wore on, a low, half-stified cry suddenly pealed out on the still night air, caus- ing the guards to start with alarm. It was a cry as of human y. But it was not repeat- ed. A silence was more intense than ever now ensued, : Half an hour later, Keen-Knife, coatings under the edge of the river bank, — of an object that deeply arrested his a welt. ast : So river close along the e rn shore, ap y at the will of the current. It was About the- size of a small bird’s egg, and had it been in the woods, Keen-Knife would have taken no oa ticular notice of it, for there, after night, he had often met with such objects commonly known among the hunters and old woodmen as fox-fire, a piece of fungus or decayed wood. But its being upon the surface of the stream aroused his native curiosity, and he resolved to inquire into the object when it came nearer,
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6 Beadle’s Half-Dime Library. But just at the moment when ho would havo done so, his acute ear caught tho sound of a ue footstep on the bank below him. He turned his head and was not a little surprised to see a figure wrapped in a blanket or gown, standing on the bank, plainly outlined inst the starry sky and seemingly magnified into a being of colossal stature. The Indian scarcely breathed, so silent did he remain and watch tho giant, shrouded form. Finally it moved down the bank to the water’s edze and paused a few paces below where he lay concealed. Tho dull speck of firo floating on the water seemed to arrest tho attention of tho shrouded figure, and when it camo nearer, tho figure knelt down—*ut outa hand and lifted it from tho m. Keon-Knife could scarcely restrain his silence longer, but curbing his anxiety with that true Indian patience, ho waited and watched. He saw the shrouded figure, still kneeling draw tho dark blanket over its head closer and remain in that position several minutes, during which time tho Indian caught the vivid flash of a light between the edges of the blanket. At last ib arose and tossed the glowing object out into the river again, then turned and moved back from tho river. Keen-Knifo watched the stealthy form, and | saw it disappear among the tents of tho emi- grants’ camp. What did it all mean? What mystery was hanging over the encampment? en-Knifo now turned his attention to the floating object again. In the middle of the cur- rent, if was being carried quite rapidly down the stream, and went gliding along so that it would have appeared to a casual observer more like tho coruscation of a fire-fly than aught else, Stealing swiftly along the bank to the mouth of the bayou, tho Indian quickly threw aside his outer clothing, with the determination of taking to tho river t» secure that mysterious object. Hoe lai 1 aside all his weapons but his hunting- knife. This he placed between his teeth, and steppin into the stream, was soon swimming out toward tho object. So silontly did ho move that he scarcely stir- red a ripple upon the smooth bosom of the river. H> swaza upon his back, and only his face was visible above the water—even that seemed like an inanimate thing floating with the current. The wily youth had almost reached the glow- ing object, when a small circling wave, followed by another and another, dashed over his faco and caused him to raise his head slightly. His fears were instantly aroused. He knew those tiny wavelets had been caused by some living thing in tho water, for not a breath of air was stirring. Carefully ho turned himself and glanced along the surface of the stream. The glowing object he saw was within arm’s reach of him. Ho put out his hand to seize it, but at this instant he beheld.a pair of dull, glow- ing orbs just beyond, and a dusky human hand upraised in the samo attitude as his own, and no doubt for th? sam> purpose. It required but an instant for Keen-Knife to comprehend all. Tho savage, for such the young Prince recoznized him to ba, was there to inter- cept the floating object after it had passed throuzh the hands of the shrouded figure at tho camp. Keon-Knifo oy his knife and dashing for- ward, grappled with the foo. There was a quick floundering in the water, a low, gurgling moan, then all became silent as the grave again. A few minutes later, a figure crept from the river and stood erect where the white man’s friend had first taken to the water. It was Keon-Knife himself. In one hand he hold a reeking scalp, in the other he held a small object that glowed like a coal of fire. at was the object? Keen-Knifo examined it closely. It was simply a sm2ll glass bottle, corked air- tight. Within it was a small bit of phosphorus and a slip of white paper—nothin; more. Donning his clothes, the young Prince of the Prairies swept the sky with a quick gazo as if to rea the hour of night by the stars. Then he turned and retraced his footsteps to . ramp. ‘ . He proceeded at once to the tent occupied by Mais Bronson. He found him up with a light in riment. a yr cll, how do matters stand, Keen-Knife?” ‘the old man asked. wie In a triumphant and significant manner the - young Indian tapped his girdle, where the major d two scalps dangling. “Then there te been Indians about,” he said, fairly shuddering at miny of the reeking objects, yet aiming to conceal his disgust. “Yes,” returned Keen-Knife, “‘let the gray- haired chief of the pale-faces be on his guard. His whole band isin danger. And I must leave now. The stars ey close to the hour of mid- night. When I have met my young friend, Bold-Heart, then will I come back.” “Do so by all means,” exclaimed tho major. “Keen-Rnife will be as good as his word, but here is something for the white man. I took it from tho river when it glowed like fire,” said the youth, handing the major the mysterious bottle. Major Tom examined it with no little sur- prise, although the light of his lamp dimmed the glow of the phosphorus within it. “There is a bit of phosphorus and a white pepe within it,” said the major, holding the ttle up to the light. “Then let the white man take it out and read it. Wero it the writing of tho Great Spirit on the trees, the wind or tho clouds, then could Keen-Knifo read it. But tho silent talk of the e-face is darkness to mo. But now I will eavo the camp of the pale-faces, and as a part- ing injunction let me say to the pale-face chief, beware! there is a traitor in his camp!” Major Bronson started up to confront Keen- Knifo. But Keen-Knife was gone—he had van- ished from the tent like a shadow, and the major stood alone with his excited thoughts. CHAPTER VII. IN A DILEMMA. At the hour of midnight, Keen-Knife was at the place appointed for his meeting with Rob Radcliff, the Boy Hunter. But to his surprise and regret the youth was not there, and his ab- sence now convinced him that he was either dead or a captive. He waited an hour or more, hoping he mnie | yet come. The moon had arisen and fl the forest and prairie with its soft, yellow | beams. Keen-Knife was not long in deciding upon his next course. He would go at once in search of Bold-Heart. Gliding from the covert he crept away direct- ly north. In a few minutes he pang just with- in the thicket that skirted the Lone Estate. The great opening lay like an island, bathed in the mellow light of the moon. Carefully he swept its bosom as far as his vision would reach, but all was like a blank, wrapped in the stillness of the midnight hour. No—all was not silence either. hile Keen- Knife stood there within the thicket, he sudden- ly heard the quick, heavy tread of a foot which ho knew wore no moccasin. It was a booted oot. The next instant a man wrapped ina long, dark cloak emerged from the forest into the moonlit opening. He paused and glanced wari- ly around him, then strode on toward the cabins of Manuel La Mort. Keen-Knife started at sightof him. He re- cognized him at once, for he caught sight of the face when he gazed around him. Jt was the face of Frank Heyward! And Keen-Knife was positive that his form was the same that had stolen to the water’s edge and intercepted the floating bottle. But he was not the one whom the Friendly had mistrusted as being the traitor of whom he had warned the major. The Indian was sorely tempted to follow Hey- ward and see where he went to; but he knew he would have area difficulty in doing so; be- sides, he would neglecting his friend Bold- Heart, who might, at that instant, be in need of his aid. If he was a captive. it was more than likely he had been carried to.the Indian village, in case he had not been placed in the power of Don La Mort, and so Keen-Kni‘eat once shaped his course toward the Indian stronghold. This was situated many miles north of the Lone Estate, yet the young Prince knew he could make the point long before daylight, and under cover of the darkness make such inspec- tions as would satisfy him beyond a doubt, of old-Heart’s whereabouts. Deep in the heart of a dense forest, the village of an eA the Sioux chief, was loca It was flanked upon the east side by the Rac- coon river and on the north by a range of hills whose steep facade defied ascent or descent. The other two sides were a level track of deep dense woods, admitting of an approach to the town, so far as natural obstacles were con- cerned. It was nearly daylight when Keen-Knife hove in sight of the village, which he approached from tbe south. With all the silence he could master, the In- He found it silent embers of a num- skirts of the town? It could be obtained only at risk of his life by entering the village, but ‘this he resolved to do. Like a shadow he crept on- ward until the footsteps of a sentinel caused him to pause, and reconnoiter, with eye and ear, | his situation. Not over an arm’s length from him he saw a grim, shadowy form standing in the attitude of intense listening. It was a savage guard, and the slightest sound had riveted his attention, and put every faculty on the alert. Keen-Knife grasped the haft of his tomahawk and with one sweep he buried the weapon in the savage’s brain. Only alow moan escaped the doomed sentinel’s | lips as he fell to the earth a lifeless mass. Waiting until he was certain that the sound had not been heard, the youth crept on. But soon he found another guard directly in his path, from which there was no deviating. The savage was seated upon a fallen log where the moon’s rays fell partially upon him, and where it would be impossible to pass him wnob- served, The log ape which he sat was about fifty feet in length, and lay parallel with the course Keen-Knife was pursuing. Its ends were both concealed from the savage’s view by clumps of bushes. The wary red-skin sat ncar the middle of the log, while the Prince crouched down at the south end to watch his movements and take him when off his guard. But this opportunity was not likely to be af- forded soon, for the eyes of the savage were on a ae meee rouching lower to escape discovery, Keen- Knife saw that the log was hehiont-ohin could see the glow of the dying camp-fire through the opening far beyond. A thought struck the Friendly. Why not crawl through the log and thus pass the guard? The thought was no sooner formed in his mind than he proceeded to carry it into execution. He laid aside his rifle and tcmahawk, and such clothing as would diminish his size, then with his knife between his teeth, he crept softly into the log. The end that he entered was the <mall- est, and as he advanced he found the hollow gradually increased in size so that he had no trouble in making his way along. He crawled slowly and with all the silence of a serpent, ay om his eyes fixed cn the open- ing before him, through which he could still see the glow of the fading campfire. Be had oe along more than half the length of the log, when he saw the cpening before him suddenly closed up as if by magic. Some dark form had entered it. There was no doubt of this; the Friendly could hear and feel the faint, vibratory touch of the moving creature—w hat- ever it was. Keen-Knife was now in the horn of a dilemma, as well as a hollow log, frcm which there were little hopes of a safe escape. The form was still oS eermage stan £0 near that he could see the dull glow of the eyes, and feel the breath in his face! CHAPTER VIII. AN EXCHANGE OF PRISONERS, RETREAT was the only resort for the Prince, but he would have sacrificed his scalp, rather than retreat befcre a single encmy. +H would: have been a reflection upon his hitherto spotless courage and manhocd, and nerving himself, he seized his knife in a firm gripe. But if it was an enemy, why would he ven- ture into the log to confront him? It seemed a little strange—nay, mysterious. Then he suddenly remembered that the out- law Lrothers made their headquarters at the In- dian village, and that Death-Trail kept a num- ber of fierce blcod-hounds, and might not the a him ke that of one of those terrible But whatever it was, it suddenly ceased its approach, having, evidently, discovered the presence of the Prince before it. Two pairs of dull, glowing orbs now glared upon each other with unwavering glances—two beings possessed of life were in doubt as to what “<< — ut, suddenly, a savage yell, mingled with the baying of hounds, broke the sheudeal the bour. The sound came from the village, and into- nations told of excitement and baffled triumph.
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Ng ‘‘ Bold-Heart,” he said, in a low tone. ‘Thank God! it’s Y dag Keen-Knife!” ‘“Yes,” replied the Indian. “Follow me, Bold-Heart. The Sioux and Death-Trail’s hounds will find us here.” “Yes, quick, quick, Prince! I would never have entered this log after I escaped, but to elude the guard seated upon it. Ah! the ac- knaves are at the end of the log now!” With remarkable rapidity Keen-Knife re- treated from the log, closely followed by his friend, Rob Radcliff. ; Grasping his weapons and clothing from where he had cast them, the young prince gli- ded away into the dense shrubbery. Robstarted to follow him, but, before he had gone three steps he fell to the earth under the blow of a club in the hand of the outlaw, Tim Bodsford. Then with yells of triumph, a hundred sav- ages gathered around the —— youth. Keon-Knifo paused in his retreat when he comprehended the misfortune of his friend. Above the savages’ yells he heard Death- Trail calling his hounds back to the village. This convinced him that his presence had not been discovered. With the half-unconscious Bold-Heart, the In- dians retire 1 to their village. In a few minutes new camp fires were twink- ling all over the town. and from his covert Keen- Knife saw the savages gather in council. He knew well what it meant—Bold-Heart’s fate was to be decided on at once. Foremost in the council was Tim Bodsford and his brother, Death-Trail. Every conceivable mode of torture, almost, was spoken of and commented upon by the sav- ages; but their vindictive ingenuity could not invent a punishment for Bold-Heart, of a se- verity sufficient to satiate their devilish thirst for revenge. At last, Tim Bodsford suggested a torture that was received with a shout of ap- probation by all. It was to skin Bold-Heart alive! This fearful torture was postponed until day- light, and a strong guard set over the captive. Day, however, soon came, and to Tim Bodsford was given the lead in the preparations for the torture. Great excitement prevailed—a gala-day was anticipated by the red barbarians; and when the slain and scal by Keer-Knife was found, new fuel was added to the flame of their wrath. With some thirty men, Tim Bodsford retired to the woods shortly after sunrise, and soon re- famed bearing a long, half-decayed log with em. They deposited the log near the center of the square, then Bodsford ordered the captive brought out. Bold-Heart was led forth bound hand and foot, yet betraying no fear by look nor word. His step was firm and his face wore an expres- sion of fearlessness and courage. He was thrown rudely across the log and bound in such a posi- tion as would soon bring death itself. Bodsford now announced that all was ready for the torture to begin, and with yells and howls of fiendish Soe t, the warriors, squaws and children gathe around to witness the sufferings of the Boy Hunter. Inkpaducah, the head chief, with his little son Appanoosah, the future chief of his tribe, a child of some five years, took his stand near the large end of the log where they could command a fair view of the torture. Tim Bodsford, with sleeves rolled up, and knife in hand advanced toward the doomed pale- face, feeling the keen edge of his weapon as he went, He reached the log and stooped to begin the work of torture, but at the same instant he fell dead with a tomahawk quivering in his brain. **Keen-Knife! Keen- re The words burst from the lips of the old chief, for he alone saw the form of the young Prince of the Prairies rise, as if by magic, from the earth at his feet, and hurl the weapon at the outlaw’s head. ‘““Keen-Knife! Keen-Knife!” chorused a hun- But oth hi peculiar and terrifyi ut wi s an ying Keen-Knife turned, and seizing the war-cry. child of Keen-Knife. 7 Inkpaducah by the heels, threw it over his shoulder and dashed away like a deer. A glance showed the chief from whence the outh had come. The log was hollow, and in it ad he been carried into the heart of the village by Bodsford and the savages. Though feeble with the weight of years, the old chief bounded away in swift pursuit of the cunning foe, calling loudly on his warriors to follow. Little Appanoosah set up a fearful scream, and struggled like a young panther, but his captor held him firm, and ran on at a marvel- ous speed that defied any pursuer. He ran directly toward the river, and there the savages expected to head him off, and scat- tered out to the right and left to keep him from turning up or down the stream. A hundred rifles were raised time and again upon the daring young Indian, but each time lowered. They dared not fire, for the cunning a covered his body with the child of the chief. On toward the river he ran. A canoe was moored ae its banks, and without slacking his speed, he leaped into the craft. The impetus of the bound carried the little bark out from the shore, and drove it clear across to the oppo- site bank. Leaping ashore, Keen-Knife turned, and hold- ing the child up between him and his pursuers, uttered a fierce, defiant yell. ; Again a hundred rifles were leveled upon him, but the cry of Inkpaducah stayed the fire, for the child us well as his captor, would have been riddled with bullets. ‘“‘Let the cowardly Sioux fire if they would slay the cub of their chief,” exclaimed Keen- Knife, defiantly. The savages rushed frantically up and down the bank, and some plunged into the water and began swimming across. “Call your dogs of warriors back, chief,” continued the young Prince; “call them back if you would save the life of your child. The moment a warrior sets foot upon this shore, the boy chief shall die!” He drew his knife as he concluded, and raised it over the child, as if to give emphasis to his words. Full well Inkpaduch knew the foe with which he had to deal, and at once recajled his warriors from the river; and then in a low tone, inaud- ible to Keen-Knife, he addressed them. Their rage and cries at once became stayed; and with the river between them, the hundred fierce war- riors gazing in silence upon the single youthful foe who had baffled them. “Tis well the chief recalled his braves,” said our hero, ‘‘or his child would now be food for the hounds of Death-Trail.” Although fifty tory of water separated them, Keen-Knife could see the scowl of vengeance, mingled with paternal anxiety and fear, upon the chief’s face. “‘Let Keen-Knife release the child of Inkpa- pr gs then shall he depart in peace,” said the chief. A grim, scornful smile swept over the face of the Tm Prince. ** Does ucah think Keen-Knife a cow- ard? He defies the Sioux to take him, with the child of the chief alive.” “But the hounds of the Death-Trail know Keen-Knife from the child whose hand has given them meat,” replied the chief, with a malicious smile of triumph. “You threaten me with the fangs of Death- Trail’s hounds. When they tear the flesh of Keen-Knife, his scalping-knife will have drank the blood of Appano?sah. But when you set at liberty the young pale-facein your camp, then shall you have your child unharmed.” The face of the chief grew brighter, and had our hero been nearer him, he might have seen a smile in which there was a hidden meaning, move his lips; but from the silence that prevail- ed, the youth knew his old brain was hatching some plot to capture him as well as secure his child. At last he turned to one of his warriors, and addressed him in a low tone. Then the warrior turned and moved away toward the village, and_in a few moments re- turned with Rob Radcliff, the Boy Hunter. The chief now turned to Keen-Knife and said: ‘¢The Boy Hunter shall be released. Let Keen- Knife return the child of the chief and take the e-face away.” “The old Sioux chief is a fool,” returned Keen-Knife, contemptuously; ‘‘does he think Keen-Knife will run into the power of his cow- ardly varlets?” The Indians scowled fiercely at the defiant youth. en Sere A —s. ES ““What then does the sneaking boy want?’ asked the chief. ‘Want you to send your braves all back to the village, then will I bring your childand take Bold-Heart away.” Defeat was written upon the face of the chief and his warriors, and for a moment an outbreak of vengeance seemed imminent. But that deep, paternal love for his offspring soon mastered the old chief’s emotions of a hostile character, and he ordered his warriors to fall back to the vil- lage. Keen-Knife watched their sullen retreat, and saw them take a position in the village, ready to dart forward at an instant signal. he youth knew that they intended deviltry, but, never- theless, he determined to improve the moment fcr Bold-Heart’s release. i With the child of the chief he entered the canoe, and in a few minutes he was upon the op- posite shore. It required but an instant to pass the child to his father and for Rob Radcliff to leap into the canoe, but at the same instant a wild, savage yell rent the still morning air, and the whole band of Inkpaducah came pouring to- ward the river. Before they reached the bank, however, the youth had put the stream between them, and with a yell of defiance, sped away into the woods. But they had not gone far when they happened to glance back. They saw thata num- ber of the foe had crossed the river, and were in hot pursuit. Deep into the dark and almost impenetrable shadows of the woods the vouths sped on—on where it would have been difficult for the sav- age foe to follow. But hark! what sound is that comes echoing through the woods? Ah! ‘tis the hounds of Death-Trail giving tongue, and they are close upon the track of the fugitives! CHAPTER IX. FRANK HEYWARD MISSING. “ A TRAITOR in camp!” : Major Bronson repeated the words, time and in, He could searcely think it possible that een-Knife’s assertion was true, unless the In- dian was the traitor himself. But, such a thought he could not entertain, in justice to his own conscience. It was true the Indian was eccentric to one unaccustomed to his ways, but from the time they had set foot within the bor- ders of the territory, he had heard Keen-Knife spoken of as immovable in his fidelity to the whites. In fact there were none upon whom the major could fix suspicion. Not one of the ue besides himself and Frank Heyward had ever been within the Territory, nor within a hundred miles of it until their coming with the colony. And he could as easily have suspected his little ward, Dora Barnwell, or Mildred Cleve- land of the crime as Frank Heyward. No, there must be some mistake, or else the Indian was simply ss to work upon his fears to keep him on the alert for danger. ‘But let me see,” he finally said to himself, ‘perhaps the paper in this bottle will furnish a clew to the matter in question.” He sat down near the lamp, uncorked the bottle and extracted the little roll of paper therefrom. ; “Now,” he continued to himself, as he unfold- ed the paper, ‘‘if Keen-Knife’s words were true, this bottle and paper must have been thrown into the river by that tiaitor, who trusted to the current to carry it to some ac- complice down the river. And the Indian must have seen him toss the bottle into the stream, hence his suspicion. But I’ll see what the paper sa’ s.” The pepe: unfolded, he held it close to the light, and saw written thereon, in a bold hand, a a lead pencil, a number of words which ran us: A muttered exclamation burst from the are of Major Bronson, not through rs ag at the e ini of the contents. of the pa writer, “F. H.” ey were those of his be- loved young friend, nk Heyward, but the handwri was evidently Lg open And who knew better than Frank did the amount of money in the camp?’ The two beautiful girls referred to were Dora and Mildred, and a groan of agony burst from the old man’s lips when he
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~——— maidens were exposed. “T will go this moment,” he said to himself, | “arouse them from their s eep and warn them of their danger. Then I will go straight to Frank and show him this paper. Suspicion | ponte to him, although I would rather find im dead than to learn that he is the traitor, | and has decoyed me and others here to rob us. | God forbid!” The old man arose and leaving his tent made his way to that of Dora and Mildred. eer | were asleep, but he awoke them and bade bot ress and hurry to his tent, In obedience to his wish they were soon 1eT6. “What do you want, father?’ asked Dora. “ Oh, you must be sick, you’re so very pale.” ‘“No, no, children,” he said, in his familiar -manner of speaking, ‘ We are all in danger— you girls in particular.” A little cry pealed from Dora’s lips, and Mil- ered turned pale as death, “ Keen-Knife told me there was.a traitor in eur camp,” continued the major, ‘Sand here is a paper which he found in a bottle on the river. Itis a communication from that trai- tor, whoever he is, to some one outside of our eamp.” Then the major read the letter, omitting the Snitials Again Dora uttered a little ery, and the ba sely Mildred fairly staggered under the shock the news gave her sensitive nerves. “Oh, father! who do you think the traitor is?’ asked Dora. “T cannot say, Dora. I haye had such per- fect confidence in every man, woman and child in this band, that it seems impossible one of them could be guilty of such a crime. Howev- er, Vllinvestigate the matter fast as possible, end in the meantime let me caution you, chil- @ren, about wandering away from the camp. No telling what danger may be lurking about the place. Now f° to your tent, implore the protection of the Divine power and try and rest oe Good-night, girls. hen they were fone the major rested his face on his hand, and for a moment a desperate struggle seemed raging within his breast. A heavy sigh now and then told of his agony of geixib that seemed to convulse his powerful vaine. Finally ho aroso to his feet and throwing a ¢loak around his shoulders, said to himself: “Yes, I will go to Frank. with the letter and dsmand an explanation. If he is the traitor, the presence of the letter will be undeniable evidence.” He went out and proceeded conte: toward Fran!: Heyward’s tent. Arrived there ho hy itiy on the flap door. uere was no response. ‘* Frank,” he called. Still no response. : * Frank ere 3 > o response yet, and with a cry of surp the major rushed into the tent. +4 But it was empty. Frank was gone, and his fbsence forced upon Major Bronson the terrible conviction that Frank Heyward was the traitor! tapped CHAPTER X. THE PRAIRIE PIRATES. A panty of ten horsemen were moving west- ward over the plain near the close of the same @ay that tho emigrants went into camp on the Peninstila. - The leader of the band was a man of ‘some thirsy years of age, of medium build and fine, com) 1anding proportions. He a have been called handsome had it not been the hard, bold expression of the dark, flashing eyes, and he sensual bearded mouth. Ho was dressed in a flashy suit of velveteen, with a jaunty ca oni feather, and high-topped boots upon whic jingied a pair of silver rowels. : His companions were dressed and painted like Indians, yet it was easy to be ‘seen that th ‘were white men. This was not only observable from the contour of their features, but the man- ner im which they sat their animals. In fact, it would have been an easy matter for one accus- tomed to the prairies to have also recognized the n as a band of prairie pirates. They were headed y toward the Lone taté, and ere the sun went down, they drew rein before the door of the’pretentious cabin of Manuel La Mort. oy The leader hastily dismounted, ‘and his exam- ple was followed by his companions, A troop of negroes and half-breed Indians ¢amo swarming from the adjacent cabins, and & Beadle’s Half-Dime by La Mort. ** Ah, my good Rubal Ryan,” said he, to the leader of the outlaws, ‘‘you are on time, as usual.” ‘* Always, Manuel,” returned the outlaw chief; **but, by my soul, old fellow, what ails your eyes? One would think the pious, temperate Don La Mort was a regular whisky mug, judg- ing from your optics.” ‘Be seated, men, be seated,” returned La Mort; ‘‘never mind my eyes. The cursed whelp that struck me is having a foretaste of fire and steel by this time in the Sioux village.” “To whom do you allude?’ queried Rubal Ryan. “To Bold-Heart, the Boy Hunter.” *‘ Bravo!” shouted the pirate captain, ‘‘ and I would give considerable if they could catch that infernal Keen-Knife, also.” **Tt’s hard catching the devil’s own,” retorted La Mort. ** Yes, good Manuel, or you and I would have been caught, long, long ago.” An outburst of laughter followed the truthful remark. ‘Full of your wit as ever, Rubal,” said La Mort, ‘‘ but not changing the subject, how did your emigrant ruse work?” ‘* Like a charm, Manuel, like a charm.” ** Good!” ejaculated La Mort; ‘ now, gentile- men, we'll have a bottle of my best ‘enthu- siasm’ over it, after which I will see to sending some dispatches down the river, then entertain you further.” He ordered a bottle of whisky and glasses, which he placed on the table before his guests, with whom he drank freely, then left the apart- ment. ; Down under some willows by the river-bank he met three Indians—evil-looking fellows—to whom he addressed some instructions; then giv- ing one of them a small glass bottle, with addi- tional instructions as to its use, he returned to the house, while the Indians crept away down the river, La Mort did not rejoin his guests on aii the cabin, but, continuing along the narrow hall, entered a room to the right. The apartment was néatly and comfortabl furnished, and bore evidence of feminine deli- eacy and handiwork. A rich carpet was upon the floor, and the walls were covered with some woven hangings of a rich and harmonious color. Here and there was arranged a bouquet of wild flowers, that diffused delicious odor through the room, <A musical instrument, upon the chords of which the fairy fingers of the évening zephyrs were lightly playing, lay upon the window-sill, and near it sat a young female, whose form was almost blended With the twilight shadows that were stealing into the room. It was Camilla La Mort, the fair maiden with whom Bold-Heart had met that day on the edge of the glade, and with whom ho had been over- heard in converse by her father. Her eyes were red with weeping, for her pa- rent had approached her angrily and with threats of punishment, for her meeting with the Boy Hunter. He accused her of plotting against his life, and forbade her going beyond the con- fines of her room without his consent. And now, as he entered the apartrnent where she sat weeping, she turned her eyes to elude the fierce gaze he fastened upon her. ‘‘T hope my truant daughter,” the villain said, “feels better, and that by this time your con- science has upbraided you for the course pur- sued to-day.” “T regret nothing I have done,” replied Ca- milla, bitterly. ‘Well, it makes but little difference to me, since I propose to be master of this ranch, and have my will obeyed. And now I will tell you what I came in for: Rubal Ryan has returned, and within the next threo days you will prepare to become his wife.” “Father! would you have me wed an out- law?” the maiden cried. “TI would have you marry Rubal Ryan, no matter whether he is priest or pirate. The safe- ty of the Lone Estate is owing to him and his men, and in lieu of his services he demands your hand, and his desire shall be gratified.” The villain turned and left the room, slamming the door to after him and locking it. Poor Camilla! She threw herself upon a sofa ibe rae and sobbed as though her heart would reak, La Mort rejoined the prairie pirates, and then began a night of carouse that lasted until most of them had fallen to the floor in a drunken sleep. La Mort and Rubal Ryan alone remain- ibrary. thought of the dangers to which those innocent "took their horses, while the freebooters were | ed awake at the hour of midnight. In fact, | conducted into the cabin, where they were met | they had imbibed less freely than the white In- dians, taking care not to swallow too much of the liquid poison, for during the night they ex- pécted some important dispatches from the emi- grants’ camp on the Peninsula. To pass the lagging moments, the two revelers indulged in cass and dice, taking an occasional ‘draw ” from a bottle that sat near. At last La Mort broke out: ““Curse the stupid dolts, they’ve had time to go twice to the camp and back.” “Tt may be they’ve gone there and are un- able to get back,” replicd Ryan. “ If that lynx- eyed Keen-Knife is there, ten to one your spy will get entrapped.” ‘‘Time will tell, but Tl swear I hate to lose this night. We ought to have been at work hours ago, and not give the emigrants time to or emselves, or they might give us trou- e. ‘“‘ Very true,” responded the pirate chief. The hours wore on and the red streaks of dawn were seen in the eastern . Still the messengers had not returned, and Mort was going off in a fit of rage and fury, when a step sounded in the hall. ** Ah, the snails have come,” he said, and ris- ing and opening the door, he admitted armall Indian balf-breed, whose whole being was the embodiment of subtle cunning. ‘* Where are Cule and Joht, Snake?” asked La Mort, with a savage frown. ‘‘Dead, master, dead,” replied Snake. ** Dead!” exclaimed La Mort. “Dead,” repeated the half-breed. “The white man’s friend, Keen-Knife, slew them.” ‘** Fiends and furies!” raved La Mort, ‘‘and how does it come that you ever got back with your scalp, Snake?” “The Snake is too cunning for Keen-Knife. He waswithin the confines of the emigrants’ camp aud came out again safe.” “What was you doing in their camp?" “Went to meet the Spy, for Keen-Knifo found the bottle on the river after it had left the y's hands with the dispatch.” “Ah, you’rea cunning dog, Snake. Now tell me wicther you met the Spy in the emigrants’ eg 2 rae. | “Bravo! What did the Spy tell you? “‘ Said—tell you there were two purty girls in the SAD _A peal of laughter burst from the outlaw’s ps. “Go on, Snake. What else?’ said Rubal yan. ‘Said there was lots of money in the camp. Hadn’t found cut where it was kept, though thought it was in a two-wheeled wa with a box on it. Said you’d have to wait till to-mor- row night, as the death of Cule and Jcht has de- layed work to-night. Keen-Knife gone now.” ‘Well, that’s a good riddanee,” heartily ejaculated Ryan. “He may be back in time to thwart our plans,” rejoined La Mort; ‘but have you any more news, Snake?” “Yes,” returned the evil-eyed messenger; “when I left the camp of the emigrants, I saw the cloaked form of a man moving away before me. My fingers itched for his scalp, for I knew he was one of the emigrants, but I followed and watched him. He came directly to the cabins of Don La Mort. Under the Forked Cotton- wood tree he stopped. Then I saw him take something from under his cloak and lay it in the crotch of the tree. Then he went away. I didn’t follow him, but went to the tree and found this, and Snake drew from the bosom of his calico shirt, a small bouquet of wild flowers, around the stenis of which were twincd some broad spears of ‘ ‘““By heavens!” exclaimed La Mort, as he took the flowers, ‘this may give us some infor- mation—who knows?” “ But I can’t see what information a bunch of posies would give you,” said Captain Rubal. “Then you don’t understand the lan of flowers,” said La Mort, fumbling the bouquet over. ‘Well, it is a little strange that one of the emigrants should put this in the tree, now isn’t it?’ “Tt surely is, Don Manuel: but I shouldn't wonder if it was put there for Camilla, by some sneaking lover.” “ Ah! see here!” exclaimed La Mort, remov- ing the from about the stems, under which he found a neat, folded paper; ‘this will pro- bably explain the whole mystery.” He olded the slip of white wer and saw er upon in a plain, bold hand, and us:
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| “My pear CaAmiItuaA: After long, weary months of | anxiety and suspense, I have again returned to the | coon with a colony which I was instrumental in getting up. My sole bao as well as their interest, was your release from the power cf La Mort. And, as I told you last May, I believe I have found your father—Major Thomas Bronson, who is witli’ our perty. I will place this note in our old post-office— he Forked Cottonw: and I hope you will fiud it to-morrow. If you do, dear Camilla, make haste to answer it. To-morrow night at twelve o'clock, I will be under the tree, and would like an interview with you there. If youcan meet me. come prepared to go with me to our camp. Once there we can defy (Ke minions of Don La Mort, for we are prepared for any emergency. Frank Heywarp.” An oath burst from the lips of La Mort, and he brought his clenched fist down upon the table with such force as shook the floor of the building. What now, impetuous Don Manuel La Mort?” exclaimed Rubal yan; ‘‘ don’t, I implore you, don’t cep ae of your boots, nor go off ona tangent. Take a whiff of ‘enthusiasm ” to set- tle your nerves, and then explain the cause of your lordship’s wrath.” ‘‘Read that, read that!” hissed La Mort, thrusting the paper under Captain Rubal’s nose. “Steady, La Mort, steady!” said Ryan, placid- ly, and taking the paper fad it. . pa So, so!” exolalnsea the outlaw when he had finished the letter. “Then my affianced Ca- milla has another lover. Frank Heyward—who is Frank Heyward, my dear, tumultuous Don Manuel?” “ You tell!” fumed the lord of the Lone Es- tate; ‘‘one of the cursed emi of course. And he has been in this neighborhood before— last go ee met Camilla and fell in love with her! Now he has returned to release her from be gg of Don La Mort! By Heaven, that’s cool!’ Rubal Ryan burstinto a roar of laughter, and thumbed his nose in a significant manner. Knitting his brows with rage and fury, La Mort continued : “Tt seems that the girl and her lover have mistrusted something of her parentage. Major Thomas Bronson! ell, well, we'll see about this matter. Frank Heyward shall be entrap- ns to-morrow night at twelve o'clock, and his ife shall pay for his meddling. Here, Snake; take this bouquet and put it right where you got it. Ill watch Miss Camilla to-morrcw; and morrow night—well, [’ve said what do—en- <3 Mr. Heyward, and Camilla, too.” e carefully rearranged the paper and blades of grass, and then Snake carried the purloined missive back and deposited it in the forks of the cottonwood where he had found it. Alas, poor Camilla! she little dreamed what a snare was being set for her young feet, and the lover for whom, for long weary months, she had been fretting her young life away. CHAPTER XI. WORK BEGINS. THE morning dawned clear and pleasant, and as the sun rose above the distant range of hills, it shone upon a scene of life and bustle in the camp of the emigrants, Refreshed by a —— ful night’s rest and quiet slumber, all felt fresh and vigorous, and filled with a new spirit of 1K his surprise, Major Tom found Frank Hey- ward in his tent at daylight, and for a moment he felt like demanding an explanation of his ab- sence during the night. But, he had had time to study over the letter found in the bottle; and so he concluded to keep the whole discovery a secret with Dora and Mil and maintain a watch upon Frank’s movemen If he really was guilty of being in league with the foany it would be the way to convince himself of the fact—by catching him in some act that would oint a is guilt. However, he ho e would make no such a discovery, and tried hard to convince himself that Frank’s fidelity was above reproach, : Mildred and Dora seemed more light-hearted and charming than ever, and during the morn- ing they strolled leisurely about the Peninsula in quest of pleasure and exercise, and to pour out the exuberance of their young spirits in a admiration of the beauties of nature aroun em. Most of the wagons were now unloaded and their canvas tilts 3 removed, so they could be used in drawing building logs from the timber. The two-wheeled vehicle, with its long narrow box, remained as usual], and more than once Mildred fixed her eyes upon it with an inquiring After their morning meal was over, several teams were harnessed, and with ax and rifle, the 9 men repaired to the woods for logs, crossing the creek some distance above the camp. Guards were deployed in all directions to pro- tect the choppers, and soon the ring of the white man’s ax was heard in the virgin forest. Anxiously was the return of Keen-Knife looked for. Surrounded by the dan tile Indians, the colonists felt greatly the need of one of his experience as a scout to watch the movements of the cunning foe. As the day wore on it found Dora and Mildred seated on the river bank, at the lower side of the Peninsula, in conversation. ‘*Who do you think, Dora, Major Bronson suspected of sending that dispatch afloat on the river last night?” “T have not the least idea, Mildred. None but Frank Heyward could be in league with the Indians and outlaws, for none but he and fa- ther have ever been in the country before they came in with the colony.” “Then Frank has been here?” “Yes. Just last spring he and a number of Meg teem came West on a hunting excursion. ut nk soon returned, and at once gh irri to father to form a colony and go West. that I always thought he had more than a com- mon interest in this country, so you see he is the only one upon whom father could possibly place icion of being in league with the Indians or outlaws. But, Mildred”—and there was an earnest lightin Dora’s kling eyes—‘‘ I would as soon believe you guilty of the crime, as Frank Heyward.” * A clear, metallic laugh rung from Mildred’s ps. “You little chit,” she said to Dora; “I see you love Frank Heyward.” Dora colored an utingly replied: ““No, I do not, Mildred; but he is worthy of any woman’s love, and— But look yonder! Isn’t that Keen-K now? It surely is!” Mildred looked in the direction indicated and saw a plumed head, with a flashing red cap upon it, ap above a little clump of bushes on tho opposite side of the river. ‘Yes, it is Keen-Knife,” said Mildred, and pet cae grew white, as if with affright at sight of him “Tt is,” replied Dora. “I recognize his red cap and white feathers, though I was sure I saw another dark face peering through the bushes to the right of him. “Tut! tut, Dora! it-was only i ination. Surely Keen-Knife would not be that close to a hostile Indian and not know it. See, he is mo- tioning for one of us to bring the canoe over after him.” **The men are all in the woods and I'll go and bring him over to camp,” said Dora, and rising to her feet, she trip lightly along the to where the little canoe lay moored. CHAPTER XII. . HIDING A TRAIL. On sped the fugitives, Keen-Knife and Bold- Heart, with the hounds of Death Trail bellowing close behind. us yit, Prince,” “The eke brutes will git said Rob cliff, glancing k at the forms nm the und, gliding on with nose close u “Tf Keen-Knife and Bold-Heart had each a tomahawk, then could they defend themselves — the fangs of the brutes,” replied the In- an. “Yes, yes; here I am without a weapon of ony, kind, and you’ve nothin’ but your rifle and e ‘Take the rifle, Bold-Heart, and I will try and stop the hounds for a moment, at least.” Bold-Heart took the Indian’s rifle; then the Friendly removed his crimson head-gear and threw it upon the ground as he ran on. The act serv d its purpose, for the hounds stopped by the fillet and sniffed around it with a loud whining that told they had been thrown econ: seen the teiek acetone preing Whtine soon struc e , and giv C) was off like a dart. ili Keen-Knife now removed his mantle and drop- it, and again the hounds were detained, but t was only fora moment. He now took his ri- fle from Bold-Heart and changing his course so as to b the hounds in fair view, he stopped short, and, turning, brought his rifle quickly to his face. It cracked, and the beagle—the fore- most hound—fell dead. This stopped the other hounds entirely, and not until Death Trail came up and called them from the body of their leader, did they take the "hut the fugitives had gained much ad ut the ves now much ad- vantage, erring to the left, they entered a stony defile, which, as they continued to follow rs of hos- | / it, grew narrower at each step. And at last tho | high walls came so close that the fugitives were / compelled to press their forms through sideways | for several feet, when they found themselves in a little open valley, or plateau. ‘*Stop here,” said Keen-Knife. “What for, Prince? The hounds are close up- on us.” | “Let us slay them here. bf can come | through the defile only one behind the other, and | we can kill them as fast as they come.” “True, true, Prince. An Indian for wit, every time. It will be a gcod riddance to slay them hounds, for—” The rest of the sentence was drowned in the crack of the Friendly’s rifle, and a howl of pain that told another of the hounds had been slain. | Laying aside his weapon, the Indian grasped a bowlder in his right and and awaited the ap- | proach of the dogs, which had already entered the defile. Bold-Heart followed his friend’s example and grasped a rock from the ground at his feet. In two minutes more the last of Death- ’s Later, lay crushed and mangled in the de- e. Then with his defiant war-cry the fearless Keen-Knife dashed across the plateau and plung- ed into the woods beyond, closely followed by Bold-Heart. A poy a yell, mingled with oaths and curses, told the fugitives when the pursuers had reach- ed the spot where the defile was blocked by the bodies of the dead hounds. A grim smile of triumph swept over the face of SSR eer and in a low guttural tone he said: “No need run now. The savagesvrvill bave to follow us by sight of our trail, and not by the sound of the hounds’ voice. We can make tracks faster than they can count them.” we you think they will follow us, do you “*Yes. They will never leave our trail until they know we are safe beyond their reach. But we can throw them off the scent, Bold-Heart. Come. Not fer away a little creek went purling scuth- ward through the forest, and toward it Keen- Knife led the way. When he reached the bank, he turned and moved cown its gcurse, keeping to the water’s edge, and bidding Bold-Heart to follow Lehind, Lut not to step in his tracks. Consequently both left a plain trail behind them in the cand. They had continued thus over two hundred yards when they s heered gradually to the left un- til they found themselves wading in theccnter of the creek. They now paused, and, at a signal frem the Indian, toth began walking backward frcm water and along the shore, taking great care to plant their feet in the same tracks they bad made in going down. When they kad thus re- traced alout a hundred yards, they stepped aside into the water again, without leaving the least sign, whatever, of their having done co. ‘They now waded across the strcem and con- ccaled themeelves under ecme dense ioliage that Lung to the water’s Lrink. Ecarcely ten minutes elapsed before a number cf Indians came gliding from the wccds upon their trail, and rot a little surpriscd vere our friends when they saw that cne of thcm wore “alg soy hcad-dress and mantle of Keen- ; Ane, | A lowcry of triumph cecared their savage lips when they discovcred the track of the f tives in the yielding sand, and with the swift- ness of Lounds they glided away upcn it. They | f0on came, however, to where the trail entered the water, and here they :ecmed to I csitate. Keen-Knife was afraid they might pcrsibly detect his ruse, For sevcral mcmcnts they ex- amined the spot carefully, Lut ccspite their keenness of instinct and perce] ticn, they did not discover the cunring reti ograde of the {vgitives; but, suppesing they had takcn to the water and continued cn down the creek, they pressed on in swift pursuit. A low, silent laugh crcayed Kecn-Knife’s while Bold-Heart te laa his admiration o ~ ‘Friendly’s g in eluding the crafty oe. They remained in their covert over an hour, and as the enemy did not return, they felt as- sured they had gone on, and were akcut to issue from their place of concealment, when the more cautious Keen-Knife laid his bard quickly on Bold-Heart’s arm,‘and drew him tack into the shadows, at the same time pointing through a little opening at a form that emerged frcm te side of the creek. and his rough, the woods on the o: Tt was the form of Death-Trail,
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4 | / ! wes SS SSS SS (=== = SS 2a aS Ss SSF eS Se eae Geta ee SS ae SS a ==> => See ee = | i 1 i 10 Heart’s. Stopping within ear-shot of our friends, the outlaw burst out in a tempest of rage. “very hound dead,” he exclaimed, aloud. “Curse them boy imps! This tomahawk—” and he raised the weapon asif to strike an im- aginary foc—‘‘ shall be buried in the brain of that Indian, as he buried it in Tim Bodsford’s— not that I care so much for Tim, but them hounds, And this rifle, I hope, will send a bul- let through its owner’s heart, for if it hadn’t been for him, my hounds woudn’t have been smashed into a jelly this minit. There was old Sult, the leader, and a better hound never sunk tooth in the flesh o’ a captive. And Sult’s dead, poor dog—yes, every devil o’ ’em’s dead! Cuss them boy imps!” At this juncture Bold-Heart saw his com- panion stoop and pick up a small stono; then pio quickly from his covert, hurled it with all his power at the outlaw. Tho villain caught sight of the youth, just as he drew back to throw, and in order to avert the blow, ho stooped slightly forward. Keen- Knife, however, had oe mr this very movement on the part of the foe, and aimed at the breast. Tho missilo struck tho outlaw square on tho top of the head, crashing in tho skull, and felling him dead without a moan. fs By blazes, Prince! you throw as you shoot —dead to the center,” said Bold-Heart. ~ “Ugh!” was the response of the Friendly, as they crep5 from their covert and advanced to the fallen outlaw. ‘‘Stone is good as bullet if you know how to use ’em.” The outlaw was indeed stone dead, and Bold- Heart lost no time in possessing himself of his rifle and accouterments, and Keen-Knife secured his tomahawk. Nor did the victor; of tho In- dian end here: before Bold-Heart could stay him from the bloody act, the scalp of the white ruffan hung at his girdle. The next moment they were moving away through the woods, They traveled on in silence for hours, seldom peep May keeping a wary watch around them. eir footsteps were echoless, and they seemed like phantoms gliding amid the shadows of the wood. Keen-Knife was in advanco, and Bold-Heart, younger and less experienced in woodcraft, had aes imitate, as near as possible, his move- ments in order to proceed with equal silence. Suddenly the young Prince stopped, and with a low, guttural “ugh,” threw himself pete flat upon tho carth, as if he had been ot. Bold-Heart followed his cxamplo, and it was then that he heard a low sob, followed by the crashing of some heavy bodies through tho un- dergrowth not far away. CHAPTER XIil. DORA IN TROUBLE. Ir required but a few minutes for Dora to reach the canoe and enter it. Then she plied the oars vigorously, and the next moment was an J own toward the opposite shore. ildred watched her with an expression de- noting uneasiness and uncertainty. The Indian still maintained his position behind the clump of bushes. Only his head and shoulders were visible to Dora, while he was screened entirely from those at camp by an intermediate knot of bushes. **Oh, Keen-Knife!” exclaimed Dora, when the row of her craft had touched upon the beach, ‘how anxiously have we waited your return!” The Indian made no reply, but advanced quickly toward her, and it was then that Dora saw it was not Keen-Knife, but a Sioux warrior wearing the Friendly’s red head-dress and blue With great f mind Do ed to great presence of min ra essay’ push the cratt back into. the river, but the savage saw her intention, and quick as the movement of a panther, he sprung forward and seized the boat by the prow, and drew it half up on. the beach. Then another dusky form ided from the shrubbery, and throwing a blanket over her head and shoulders, lifted her in his arms and boro her rapidly back e woods. . For fully threo minutes Mildred sat like one in a trance, then springing to her feet as if from a fearful dream, she ran back to camp with the sta news of Dora Barnwell’s fate. . ormation almost produced a panic The among the women and children, but one woman retained her composure sufficiently to seize a dinner-horn and blow a few sharp blasts upon it. This was the signal—agreed upon—to the men in the woods, that danger menaced the camp and that their presence was needed. Dora Barnwell struggled pempenetel for free- dom and tried to cry out, but the thick folds of the blanket completely stifled her voice. She was conscious of being borne swiftly away—of Beating the patter of feet, then all became blank rer, There were four of her captors, a part of the band we left on the supposed trail of Keen-Knife and Bold-Heart, and one of whom, it will be re- membered, had donned the Friendly’s discarded head-dress and mantle, by which the capture of the maiden had been cunningly achieved. The subtle foe knew that only great haste would enablo them to retain their captive against pursuers, and changing the inanimate form from one to the other, they were enabled to move with great rapidity. Not until they were far away did they attempt to hide their trail. Coming to a point where a small creek debouched from a dark valley they stopped. One of them Tuo, pointed out what seemed to be the dry bed of a stream, lying par- allel with, and not a great way from the living stream. Close examination showed tho wily red-men that the little stream had been turned from its original course for some purpose or other; how- ever, it was just what suited their purpose, and they proceeded at once to avail themselves of its proffered advantage. Two of the savages took the contive, and step- ing into the dry bed proceeded down its course for some distance. Then they turned aside and moved away into the forest, while the other two Indians proceeded to turn the stream into the dry bed, thereby obliterating the trail of their comrades, This done, they turned and moved away in a direction altogether different from that taken by the two with the captive, leaving a broad trail behind them to mislead any one di d to follow them into the belief that they had the captive. Believing they had effectually concealed their trail, the two captors moved on more leisurely, for the unconscious form of the maiden was no light burden. Only their dogged yatience and savage triumph, kept them from braining and scalping the helpless Santee. ey moved on and soon entered a dense thicket through which they pressed with great difficulty, and emerged into a densely wooded spot c.ear of undergrowth. Just then two dark forms arose before them from the ground—there was a vivid flash—the sharp report of a rifle—a death-wail, and one of the sav: fell dead—shot through the brain. The other dropped the inanimate form of Dora and fled, but tho sound of pursuing footsteps rung upon his car. hen Dora awoke to consciousness, the mur- mur of rippling water was the first sound that broke upon her ears. Then through the tree-tops overhead she saw the light of day, and a shad- owy form hovering over her. She felt the gen- tle touch of a hard, cool hand that thrilled her with a new life and strength. And then she soon became conscious of a fair, boyish face, beaming with pages | and admiration, bending over her. Who was it? She tried to recall her situation and a remembrance of the face hover- ing. over her so tenderly, but without avail. hen a footstep sounded near. The boyish face turned aside and a voice asked softly: “Did ye git the lopin’ varlet, Prince? Ah, yes! I see you did, Throw the bloody thing away—she’s returnin’ to life and ’ll sicken at sight of it. But I tell ye, Prince, she’s an angel!” Keen-Knife removed the scalp from his girdle es tossed it aside, then advancing nearer, said: “Yes, she is very beautiful, Bold-Heart, and brave, too; but I fear they have had trouble at the camp.’ At sound of his low, musical voice, Dora’s bewildered senses came back, and soon she was enabled to sit Up. Then she recalled the past and acquainted her rescuers of the manner 0: her capture. Keen-Knife angrily shook the folds of his re- Ngo man‘le, as if to dispel an evil spirit from it. “Tet us hurry to the camp. We may be needed there,” he said. " Yes; the woods may be full of the skulkin’ knaves,” added Bold-Heart. “Can you walk, fair girl?’ questioned the young Prince, Jeet pt te ere elem emptiness cil asl is tt i tt pe appr ‘Yes; I feel strong as ever, now,” she re- plied. Then she arose to her feet, and supported by the arm of Bold-Heart, they set off on their re- turn to the camp, Keen-Knife leading the way. CHAPTER XIV. BOLD-HEART AND THE MAJOR IN CONSULTATION, WHEN the young hunters, Keen-Knife and Bold-Heart, reached the Peninsula with Dora, they found the emigrants in a state of great ex- citement. A party had been formed and was just on the eve of starting in pursuit of Dora’s captors, when they arrived. he young men ‘were received with great re- joicing, and words of kindness and heartfelt thanks were poured upon their heads by Major Tom for the restoration of his little ward. And none seemed more joyous over her rescue than did Mildred Cleveland. The major now took Bold-Heart into his tent, and proceeded to question him in regard to the maiden at the Lone Estate. ‘*No longer than yesterday I met the gal at the Lone Estate,” said the youth, in reply to a question of the major’s. ‘Did she tell you her name?” ‘She said it war Camilla La Mort.” “‘Do you think that she resembles La Mort— that she is his own daughter?” “She don’t resemble him, major, more than one of your niggers resembles the moon, And I’m satisfied that she’s not his child, though she called him father. Thar’s other white women *bout that ranch, but I never see’d one of ’em uare in the face. La Mort and me had a little difficulty yesterday ’bout the gal. I met her ridin’ out and had a little talk with her. She said her father was a villain, and premised, if I'd never tell whar I got the news, and would carry a message to some one far away—a lover, I supposc—she’d tell me all ahout the. old man’s b’siness, I promised Vd do as she requested, and so she war about to tell me, when who should step out of the thicket near by but Don La Mort! He had heard all we said, and undertook to tan my jacket, but I grabbed his whip and give him the blind staggers quick as a wink. I know he’s a villain, major, and in league with the Indians and Rubal Ryan’s prairie-pirates. I’ve been a threatening to report him to the authorities, but I hate to on account of that innocent little gal, Camilla. But, major, La Mcrt bas crossed my path, and, boy though I be, he’ll have to polly- gise or leave the country, and that soon.” “Do not be in a hurry, Bold-Heart,” said Ma- jor Tom, ‘for I have every reason to believe Camilla La Mort is my daughter.” ‘“ Your darter? The dickens! how’s that, ma- jor?” asked Rob, in his free, familiar manner. “Years ago,” said the major, with a sigh, ‘I had a child stolen, and years of search proved fruitless. About the time she was mis a@ vil- lainous Spaniard—and a bitter enemy of mine —left the neighborhood and was never heard of more. And now, although it is not the name, I have been led to think La Mort is Gaspard La Muerte, himself; and she who gives her name as Camilla, my child.” “Tt may all ke, mage returned Bold-Hea “for I know an angel can’t be the offspring o a demon, and Camilla is the one and 7 Mort the othe.” “Does Camilla resemble that, Bold-Heart?’ asked Bronson, taking from his. breast-pocket a likeness of a child some six or seven years old and handing it to the youth. “By the blue blazes, major!” he exclaimed, the instant his eyes fell upon the fair young face, ‘‘ that’s Camilla’s eyes and features to a t’s heel, though she’s got long hair now, and ooks older and more womanly than the picter.” “That is very probable, Pold-Heart, for it has been ten years since this picture was taken.” “Tt may be your gal then, major.” “‘It must be!” repeated the old man, as though loth to believe otherwise; ‘but, Bold-Heart, how long can you remain with us?” “Tf thar’s need for me, I can stay as long as wanted.” “TI do want you, Bold-Heart, at Jeast until I have seen and ed with Camilla La Mort. I will doubly satisfy you for your loss in being absent from your traps and hunting.” “Never mind the pay, major,” replied the Eo, as his mind revert to pretty Dora arnwell; ‘‘I shall be glad torerve you for the sake of—of bein’ in your camp.” ‘Then I have one request to make to you.” “Name it.” “That you keep a close watch upon the move- ments of every person in this camp. Keen- Knife told me last last night, there was a traitor
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Keen-Knife. side of camp. g th lay hidden like an adder behind the act of ap- was—it may be he did not know. But I want | parent kindness. you to try and find out. Say pene. intentions to any one—not even Keen-Knife.” “Your request shall be granted, major,” said Bold-Heart. ‘Then I shall resign camp, for our experience in Indian cunning is limi and we have felt greatly the need of an efficient scout and guide.” Bold-Heart felt greatly elated by the confi- dence bestowed upon his experience, and the responsibility imposed on his young shoulders; nevertheless, he accepted them with thanks and manifest pleasure, and at once repaired to his to you the defense of our duty. He wandered about camp, carefully noting the advantages and disadvantages of its loca- tion, the horses, cattle and wagons with an eye of critical admiration. But when he came to the two-wheeled vehicle with its broad tires and long, narrow box tightly closed, he found some- thing that puzzled him, He could not, for the life of him, make out what it contained, and why it was kept guarded so closely; and like ildred, he did not like to inquire into its con- tents for fear of being considered inquisitive. While Bold-Heart was thus occupied, Keen- Knife and Frank Heyward were ensconced in the latter’s tent? deeply engaged in conversa- tion. “ Keen-Knife, I want your service to-night in a little matter which I want to keep secret from the rest of the emigrants until it is over with,” said Frank. ‘*What is it?’ asked the Prince, as his mind reverted to the person he had seen abroad the night before in the vicinity of the Lone Estate. ‘There is a maiden,” Frank replied, ‘‘ at the Lone Estate whom I am going there to meet. Last night I was near the place and left a letter for her in a tree. If sho gets it, she will either leave an answer or bo there herself. If she is there, she will come with me to camp, for she wishes to escape from La Mort.” This explanation removed all suspicion from the Indian’s mind of what he had seen the night before, and he at once replied: “Then you know the maiden of the dark- browed man?” ‘Yes, Prince; six months ago I met her in the woods near the Lone Estate. I was in the country then with three others on a hunting ex- cursion; and I would have gone to the maiden’s home, but she begged me not to on account of her father, who was a bad man._ I met her sev- oral times after that, and then when she was for- bidden to take her daily ride through the forest, we carried on a correspondence by letter, using a forked tree near the placo asa post-office. By this means I learned that she was unhappy, and in doubt as to whether Don La Mort was her father. From some facts that I gleaned, and others which I already posseansd, had somo reason to believe she was tho daughter of Major Tom Bronson, an old friend of mine. He had a child stolen years ago, and from the description I gave him of her, he believes Camilla is his daughter. But, now that he is so near her, he isin painful doubt as to whether he would rec- ognize her. Sho was buf a little child when sto- len. So I wish to go to tho Lone Estate to-night, unknown to any ono but you and I, and if possi- ble, bring Camilla to our camp, and present her to the major without telling him who she is, and ‘seo if ho will recognize her as his lost daughter after so many long years of cruel myer. “Tho heart of the young man beats with kind- ness,” said Keen-Knife, “and I will assist him to do the good work he proposes.” “Then cn hour before midnight, call at my tent.” ‘Let my whito friend be ready. Keen-Knife will be there.” CHAPTER XV. AT THE HOUR OF MIDNIGHT. AurnoucH Camilla La Mort had been abso- lutely refused the privilege of leaving her room, unless accompanied by the mistress of Don La Mort, a dark-eyed woman of fiery temperament and passionate nature, she was not a little and happily paeinod when her father rescinded that order of limitation, on the morning following the arrival of Captain Rubal and his men at the Lone Estate. He fre her permission to take her accustomed walk in quest of such pleasures as her nature longed for, but under no circum- stances was she to go beyond the limits of the Camilla thought strango of her father thus re- your Anxious to get beyond the dark, prison-like | walls of her room, Camilla donned a light shawl | and wandered forth at an early hour to enjoy | the cool morning air within the shadow of the | little wood that skirted the river. She seemed grave and thoughtful, yet from the fixed ex- er thoughts were not upon any thing around her, but something far away that gave her both | joy and pain, as an occasional smile or sigh bore evidence. But she little dreamed that every move- ment she made—every expression of the face and glance of the eye, were being closely watched and noted by her father’s half-breed scout, Snake. Asshe had been accustomed to do for the past two months, Camilla made the Forked Cottonwood a resting point in her morning walks, She did this more through a longing desire to find there a communication from the lover to whom she had betrothed herself months before, and who was entirely unknown to La Mort. The lover had promised to return and carry her away from her prison home, and he had requested her to watch their secret post- | office closely, for he did not know how soon he Me release her, in spite of the minions of Don ort. So, upon the morning in question, when she went to the old trysting-place and there found a delicate little bouquet of flowers, her heart fluttered wildly and tears of silent joy filled her might return with a force of sufficient one eyes. She kissed the flowers and pressed them to her heart. There was no mi i Bale oe! were from. Intuition told her this. k had come back, and now her life of misery would be over, and her marriage with the outlaw, Rubal Ryan, averted. This was a joyous realization. She knew where to look for the letter, and when she had secured it, and read it, she knew not whether to cry or laugh, her emotions of joy and happiness were so great. She read and reread the delicate missive until committed to memory, then for fear it might fall into the wrong hands, she tore it into pieces and threw them into the river. The Snake saw all these movements and emo- tions of joy, and when she went back to her room, he went directly to Don La Mort with the news of his observations. La Mort and Ryan chuckled together over their devilish cunning. And during the day they remained in close consultation, plotting not only for the capture of Camilla’s lover, but the destruction of the emigrant camp for the sake of the plunder and gold which, their Spy had informed them, was no little sum. The Snake was still set to watch Camilla, up- on whose freedom, and access to and from whose room, there was not the least restriction. The day wore as and at dark Snake rag coon ed that Camilla had put no letter in the " From La Mort knew she intended to repl to her lover in person, and no doubt flee wit In fact, this was just what Camilla had de- cided upon doing, and to allay all, or the least suspicion, she retired, as usual, to her bed- chamber shortly after dark, But she did not go for sleep and rest, as usual. There was no light in her room, nor was there one to be seen in all the house. As hour after hour wore on and the time for her meeting with her lover drew near, Camilla w restless, and a feverish impatience, min- gled with fear and hope, took sion of her, All was still in the house. e repulsive voice and ribald laugh of Rubal Ryan and his men could not be heard, as on the previous night, in drunken revel with the master of the place, Don La Mort. Camilla knew by the stars, which she had studied in her lonely hours, that it was near midnight, and having first gape the Divine protection and guidance of the steps she was about taking for better or worse, she arose from hood-like over her head and shoulders. Softly she opened the door and passed on ba e stole to the rear entrance. Here she paused and listened. All was still. den, then by a circuitous route reach Forked Cottonwood. her humble position and threw a dark cloak toe out into the narrow hall, along which She opened the door and passed out into the ed ‘the She could scarcely restrain a cry of disap- ression of the eye, it was plainly evident that | if _ then she saw the figure of a man approaching 11 intment when she found her lover was not here. Still she thought it might not be mid- night, and so quieted her emotions with the be- lief that he would yet come. She seated herself and listened—listened £0 in- | tently that her own heart seemed to create a tumult in its throbbings. Once she was sure che heard the rustle of a leaf—then the low, sup- pressed breathing of powerful lungs; but all this she accorded to the feverish excitement of her mind, as fancy. Suddenly a light footstep fell upon her ear, her through the gloom. Love’s memory instantly recalled the famili- arity of that footstep and that pay form, and with heart throbbing joyausly, wildly, she arose to her feet and advanced to meet her lover, * Camilla!” “ Fra nk {” CHAPTER XVL CLOSETED WITH THE DEAD, In due time Keen-Knife called at Frank Hey- ward’s tent. He found Frank armed and cloak- cd for his midnight jcurney to the Lone Estate; and without delay, they took their departure from the camp, carefully eluding the guards and Pold-Heart, whom Keen-Knife knew was scout- ing about the Peninsula. he Friendly led the way through the dark forest, and at such a rapid speed that Frank could hardly keep pace with him, Hcwever, it was not Jong until they fcund thcmeelves in the immediate vicinity ct La Mcrt’s calin. Frank’s emotions now kecame arcused, Anx- iety, hope and love were crcssed with fear and uncertainty. When they had gained a point not far from the cabin cf La Mort, he and his red ccmpanion came toa halt in order to interrogate the cur- roundings. All was quiet akout the place—not a sign of life could ke scen ncr hcard, rot even the flash cf fire-fly, ncr the chirp of a cricket, All and every thing abcut the prcmises secmed bib pei in prefcund slumber. “Tf you will rmain here, Prince,” Frank fin- ally said, “I will move cn to the Forked Cot- tonwood and see if Camilla bas Jeft a rete, or is there in yerson. In either cere I will rejoin you in a few minutes, unless I should get into trou- ble, then a sharp whistle will ke my call.” “ Keen-Knife will remain hcie,” raid the Prince, seating himself upcn a iy Icg, ‘and will come to ycur assistance if needed. & bring the fair maicen thatthe heart of my friend loves so well,” Frank turned and moved away toward the cottonwood, which was about two hundred yards distant. Keen-Knife now relapred intc silence, putting every faculty cn the alert. Accubteinat as he had been frcm infancy to the signs of the wil- derness after nightfall, there was no deceivin his sense of Tcaring. If there were nothing a all to be heard of animate nature, it was a cer- tain, infallible sign that danger wes abrcad in some form or other; and this ke ktelieved to be the case at the present mcment. He was ccncealed in a narrcw of weods skirting the 1iver, and with the tive Indian pre- caution and ragacity, ke mace es careful a — of his situaticn as the daikners would admit. The log upcn which he hed rcated himeelf was a linden of immense size, The white cnds showed that it kad been quité recently ckcyped down. It ted, also, been cut in two, the per- tion upen which Keen-Knife sat being ekout thirty fect lcng, and cntirely free cf Iimks or knots. The Friendly suppesed it had been cut —by La Mort’s negroes no dcukt—fer tke pur- pose of making a canoe, by the natives called a dugout. But in further gratifying his Irdian curiosity, he discovered that the Icg was Lollow at one énd—in fact, wasa mere slell. It keing thus rendered rnfit fcr a dugcut, ke cculd form no idea for what it was intended. He, also, noticed that frcm the Icg the tank sloped gradually down to the river’s rink, end he was careful about it when ke realized what a little power it would take to send the pres- trate monarch rolling down the slcye into the river. Something like ten minutes hed pesred after Frank had left him, when Keen-Knife rucdenly caught the light tread of feet mingled with the sound of many voices. He became alarmed, not for bis own rafety but that of his friend. He knew by tke scund it was not Frank returning with the maiden, He—Frank—would not have been so thcv¢ htless of the surrounding espe as to have keen so loud in speech and ess in movements. No,
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12 the tread was heavy, like that of booted feet moving under a weight, and the voices were coarse and husky. The Indian quickly threw himself upon the ‘ound to make a more careful examination of | is situation. He now saw fully a half-dozen forms coming directly toward him from the di- rection of La Mort’s ranch. From their move- ments and talk he knew they were white men— a party of outlaws without a doubt. o elude discovery, Keen-Knife slipped him- self quickly backward into the hollow log some ten feet from the opening. Here he lay in breathless silence and listened to the approach- a, Paint e party came on and he was not a little sur- rised when he found they had srapped near the og. ‘Here they engaged in a brief consultation inaudible to the Prince, but which was followed by a slight commotion; then the Friendly saw the mouth of the log closed up, and at the same time he became painfully conscious of the fact that. something or some one was either crav ling into the hollow, or was being forced into it. The loz was over three feet in diameter, and there was ample room within it for the Indian to sit erect; and no sooner did he hear and feel the movements of the creature—whatever it was—entering his retreat, than he raised him- self to a sitting posture and drew his knife for nse defense, But, to his peace of mind, the sound soon ceased, and then he saw a faint glimmer of i, again at the entrance. @ listened, and heard a strange voice say: “ That'll do, boys. I presume no one will ever find it in there.” ‘“Who cares if any one does, captain?” asked a second voice, “Not me for one. Now block the entrance boys, and let’s heaye her in,” said the first speaker. Keen-Knife started. He knew the persons were villains—no doubt La Mort. and his ‘accom- rs But what had they deposited in the log? e bent Jow and tried to ascertain, but the darkness was too intense. And what did they or by blocking the entrance and heaving her The one he felt almost certain meant the clos- ing of the log, and he experienced no little un- easiness when he suspected what the other might possibly mean. In the first hesoon found he was correct. He saw the entrance of the log suddenly closed up with a block of wood, making all blinding darkness within the place. This was followed by a heavy pounding at the entrance, and it was then that the Prince real- ized more fully that he had been entrapped, and that the block was being wedged fast in the end of the log. However, he did not permit his fears to betray his presence. Such anact would have been a mark of cowardice to him, and he would rather have perished in the log than to ask mercy at the hand of the outlaws, But he had little fear of perishing in the log, for with his knife he could soon chip his way out. As soon as the pounding ceased, all became quiet, and the entrapped Prince heard the sound of retreating footsteps. But a moment later he heard them approaching again, and felt a vibra- tory shock Upon the log, and heard a stentorian voice cry out: “Now! all together!. yea-he-o!” Keen-Knife felt the log move, and the next in- stent he was barely conscious of whirling in rapid evolutions within the log. Losing all con- trol of himself, he was dashed with almost stun- ning violence against the sides of his narrow prison. But-this did not lastlong. The log soon ceased its pape motion by rolling, with a thun- derous splash, into the river, and for a moment was buried beneath the waves. It was several moments before the Prince could get himself aright and collect his ae hie sufficiently to realize the magnitude of his dan- ger. His first fears were of the log filling with water, for ali he could hear it creeping in through the crevices at the entrance. He could scarcely, however, keep his balance sufficiently to make any efforts at escape, for the ng ie t such a continuous rolling and dippin the water. as kent him prostrate. But at length it became quiet, and then our red friend was en- abled to re a sabe iad posture, and define more fully the perils of ‘his situation—of bein, afloat on the river in a hollow log from whic there was little hope of escape! He soon found, however, there was one thing in his favor that he had not calculated upon. One end of the log was perfectly sound, and this inequality of weight, tending toward an equili- brium, threw the hollow end of the log above the ~ Beadle’s Half-Dime Library. surface of the water. This he discovered from | not only the inclined position of the log, but the more agreeable fact that no water entered the log after it had become settled. e could feel that he was floating at the will of the current, and by remaining perfectly quiet the log would neither dip nor roll in the water. But to remain quiet altogether was to remain inactive, and this the Prince could not do when he thought of his young friend Heyward and the dangers to which he would be exposed. He felt confident the outlaws knew nothing of his Vag mis in the log, but what had they put within it? He had scarcely asked himself the question when his ears were greeted by a low gasp, that was followed by a slight movement at the end of the log. He was startled by the sounds and listened for a repetition of them, but all was silent as the tomb, save the light swash of the waters over the outside. The Prince, however, was not satisfied with this silence, and resolved to make some investi- gation in his prison-barge. He turned and slowly put his hand out before him toward the mouth of the log, and he start- ed with a low cry when it came in contact with something, which, upon closer examination, he found to be a human body! This was what the outlaws had put into the log, which they had rolled into the river to con- ceal the evidence of their crime. A shudder of horror thrilled the form of the Indian when he realized that he was fastened w in the tomb, as it were, along with its silent, ghastly occupant! CHAPTER XVII. BOLD-HEART ON THE ALERT. Boup-HeEart, true to his promise made to Ma- jor Tom, kepta close watch over the camp during the night; but, despite his vigilance, Keen-Knifoe and Frank Heyward had made their way out of camp unobserved. However, they had been gone but a short time when he discovered their absence, and was on his way to report the fact to the major when he saw a cloaked figure, with muffled head, steal out from the group of tents in acrouching attitude. He tried to identify the form, but failed. Yet from the stealth of its movements, he knew it was being actuated by some forbidden motive, whoever it was; and so he followed it up, determined to see where it went to. It crept to the two-wheeled vehicle and ex- amined it closely over and over, then moved on. On the banks of the river it stopped, and crouch- ing down, turned its head up and down the stream as if looking for something or some one. In this attitude it remained for several minutes, bine it started up and began moving down the ver. Bold-Heart glanced after the figure and saw some distance beyond it the quick flash of a blue light, which he believed was a preconcerted sig- nal understcod by the skulking form who was moving toward it. By acircuitous route the Boy Hunter got in ahead of the figure in hopes of finding out who it was. He threw himself in the tall prairie-grass un- der which he cunningly concealed his form from the most penetrating eye. To his surprise the figure came on and stopped within arm’s length of him. Here it was joined by a second person who stood dimly outlined against the starry sky and who he saw was an Indian. The young hunter listened intently to catch the words that passed between them. They spoke in a low, hurried tone, glancing warily around them in the mean time. ‘* What news?” asked the Indian of the cloaked figure, in a tone just loud enough to reach Rob’s ear, “ Their icion is aroused,” replied the fig- ure, *‘ you'll have to be ag St ieee” I’m wo-whee sure, isin a large, rude vehicle, probably in an iron safe. The tent of the two girls, Dora Barnwell and Mildred Cleveland, is near the center of the camp. Keen-Knife and the Boy Hunter both are about. What news from the ranch?” - “A letter was found in the Forked Cotton- wood last night written to Camilla by a lover that signed his name Frank Heyward, But the letter was put back and Camilla permitted to receive it. They’re goin’ to run off to-night— that is they intended to—but the Don and Ru- bal Ryan are goin’ to kapter him.” The cloaked figure started, and, in a tone that denoted excitement, said: . “What did they intend to do with him?’ attack is to be made on the encampment, at the hour when the emigrants are all i slumber.” ‘**But how will you know when that hour comes?” ‘You are to give the signal. Here is a tottle filled with phosphorus, and at any mcmcnt after midnight, when you stand cn the bank of the river and toss it into the air, it will Le scen and the attack commence. But you'll have to be careful, Spy, if ycu elude the cunning foxes, Keen-Knitfe and Pold-Heart.” “From what direction is the attack to be made?” ‘Before midnight the Indians will descend the river in cances to within a skort distance of the camp. Then they'll take their cances from the water—drag cm arcund through the wocds and appreach the cyposite tank. The instant the signal is given, the party will rush from their ambushment—leunch their cances—cross the river and attack the place before the men can seize their arms. Now rcmcmker.” So saying the Indian rccut turned ard glided away, While the cleaked figure glided back to camp so rapidly that cur friend was urable to follow him and sce which tent he entered. The youth admitted himself scmewhat out- witted. He was fully satisficd that thcre was a traitor in camp, and had le Leen better acquaint- ed with all its members, ke prokably wculd havo identified the voice. How ever, he went fcrth- with tothe major’s tent ard arousing him, made known all that had tianspircd under Lis ckser- vation during the night. The major was Bey surprised and scme- what excited by tle ycuth’s story: Lut he felt thankful that Fiank Ecyward bed kecn cleared of all suspicion of kcing a traitor. Eut who was the traitor? Rob descriked the figure as being tal], and covered frcm hced to foct with a lorg blanket or cloak, ‘Lhe vcice was neither hcarre ror soft, but rising ard fallirg in a quick, excited tone. “Great Gcd!” cxclaimed the major in great spony of spirits, “who can that traitor ke? hich of the friends that I have alwcys con- sidered a fim, tried friend is tetraying cur camp into tke Indians’ pow er? The rcrcy they can have, if they will cnly spare the lives of my frierds end ny two darlings, Dora and Mil- dred. No, ro, Pold-Heart, they must rot have my girls! I will diein tleir ceferse! But go, young men, and kecp a close watch cover cur camp, ard ycur reward shall ke whatever you name. To-mcrrcw right we will te prepared for Inkpecucah erd his minicns. And then we must slay the traitor that’s bartering cur lives away. Ch, it is awful to_talk cf slaying a friend! f£urely it cerot ke Ethan White. for he has a femily that wculd be in darger. No, no, it cannot be any cf tre whites. It must te cne of the tlacks—yictably Vesco—Frerk Hey- ward’s servant, a fall, powerful man, who kas seen much cf life asa Mississippi tcatran end has made several cverland triys frem £&t. Lcuis to Santa Fe. Yes, it must be Varco, although he has always sccrred kind-heartcd, kcrest ard faithful. Go, Bold-Heart, and let ycur vigils be unceasing over curceamp. RemcemLer, over fif- ty lives are intrusted to your care.” Bold-Heart turned and left the tent, while Major Tcm returned to his ccuch to treod over the increasing Cangers, but rot to slecp. The night wore away and morning Cawned. All were carly astir, filled with new life and vigor. The major ccncealed his emotion as best he could, and went forth, hoping to rerd in the face of the traitor, whcever he was, tke evil of his heart. But he was disappointed. The face of every one seemed as joycus and inrocent as the sweet, fair faces of his two pets, cra and Mildred. Vasco was there, full of life and hcnest mirth as ever; and it was he who first discovered the absence of his young master and Keen-Knife from the cane. Much speculation was entertained cver their mysterious absence, but in the midst of ther won- derment a human cry suddenly pealed cut on the morning air, and riveted every form with r’. The cry was that of distress, and was faint at first, but as it continued to peal out again and again, it grew louder and louder with each suc- ceeding yell
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“What is it?’ was the question that passed from lip to lip. But the only answer that came to their ears was another cry, that seemed to issue from be- neath the silent bosom of the river. CHAPTER XVIIL THE FUGITIVES. “CAMILLA.” “Prank.” The hearts of the lovers, Frank Heyward and Camilla La Mort, were too full of joy for fur- ther utterance, and they clasped each other in one fond, lingering embrace. ‘The silence that followed A gg plainer than words could have done of the love-communing of those young hearts. It was several moments before either spoke, but finally Frank breathed into the ear of his darling a renewa! of his love that found an echo in lias eS ev spoke briefly of their long separation then Frank asked: 4 “! ‘‘Have you decided to go with me, Camilla, to the camp of the emigrants?” “Would such a course be prudent, dear Frank?” “T would not ask you to go, if it were not, sweet Crmilla.” ‘Then I will go, Frank, for within a few days, | was to become the unwilling bride of Rubal Ryan, the Outlaw captain.” “Thanx Heaven!” cried Frank, ‘‘I am in time to prevent it! Come, Camilla, come.” “Oh, Frank! See those dark forms!” Before another word could be uttered, a num- ber of dark forms glided from the thicket sur- rounding the tree, and the next instant blankets were thrown over the lovers’ heads, preventin them from crying out. Frank was then fell unconscious to the earth under a crashing blow of a club, while Camilla was lifted in a pair of strong arms and borne ewiftly back toward the cabin. She struggled d rately for freedom, but all in vain. She had n carried over a hun yards when she heard the quick rush of feet, fol- owed by a dull, crunching blow. Then she felt the arms of her captor relax their vice-like gripe from aroun] her form, andshe sunk to the earth. Quickly she threw aside the heavy blanket that enveloped her form and sprung to her feet. Before her stood one of her father’s negroes, & gray-headel man of sixty, with a club in his hand. Athis feet lay the unconscious form of Rubal Ryan. “Dico!” exclaimed Camilla, “is it you who have rescued me from that villain?” Tt jis’ am dat, Miss Milla, and may de good ess your soul, chile,” replied Dico, trem- fear; ‘‘ole Dico smelt a mice and dar war gwine wrong wid de master mre cap’p. But, Miss Milla, ole Dico’s a ll bey Me ce fay dis I knows it all de e, chile, bu couldn’b see young missus *bused by the furnal bad men.” . ‘* Do you know what they have done with him — Heyw Dico?” asked Camilla. ‘Don’t know who he yar, chile; but de ole master and de cap’n’s men are doin’ debbiltry a Nagel God, Dico! I fear they are doing eT OR cht ed D “and gs’ te) groan ico, ‘and s'pects dis ie a have to die, too, tur stirikin’ de cap’n wn. ‘* Dico, you can save your life and mine too. On the river below here there is a lar. ery Te svalgrants camped. We can seek safety there. us rs de good salvashun!” exclaimed Dico, clapp his_ withered $8 with joys “den ones ss Milla, and let’s hurry off.’ Oe preaeh tee atk a eae 80 as avoid the c close behind it ins, following ing the cornfield at the rear of th house, they threaded their way pont the inclosure and entered the forest a mile east of the cabins. Poor Camilla! her situation and feelings were terrible, though the fearful uncertainty of her lover’s fate was more torturing than the fear of recaptured by her father. The negro led the way onward through the woods without to the course he was pursuing, and Camilla was too tly distract- Pa to thintk of aught but her Ag =i They wand on and on, and at last the kind-hearted and ignorant old darkey realized that he was lost. But he had thought enough to keep the fact from Camilla, whos spirite be Saw were already failing. Keen-Knife. At length they seated themselves on the trunk | of a fallen tree to rest and listen. Phew. were upon an elevated ridge, and far away through the woods they saw a number of lights bobbing about in the vicinity of the Lone Estate, ; “They are searching for us, Dico,” said Camilla, sadly. } ‘“*Spect so, Miss Milla. But many’s de time dis ole slave hab heard de bay ob de _ blood- hound when hid in de swamps ob ole Lou’sanna. But dar’s no hounds now, Miss Milla, and we needn’t be much ’fraid, but it’ll be death to ole Dico if ebber cotched again. He’s gittin’ ole and feeble and can’t do much work, and so de master wouldn’t lose much by my death.” ‘“But, Dico, it will be worse than death for me if Iam taken by my father again,” said ila. “ Lor’, Miss Milla, if ye knows jis’ what dis | spirit and tossed ih SE90¥- ole nigger does, you’d nebber call de ole massa La Mort father in.” | | 18 aroused, and the next moment he was bending over the moticuless form of the unfortunate young man, who he had discovered was not dead, as he could feel his heart beating and hear his long, labored breathing. For over an hour the kind-hearted Friendl worked with the unconscious man. But his ad- ministerings were not invain. He scon-had the joy of hearing him speak—inquire about his situation and where Camilla was: but Lis words were vehement and disconnected, chowing that he was still slightly delirious, Keen-Knife, after many aitempts, finally suc- ceeded in giving him a comprehensive under- standing of his situation, and the manner in which he had come there. As to Camilla, ho could tell him nothing. The half-unconscious Heyward grcaned in Keen-Knife stieceeded in pacifying his spirit, and in learning the extent of his injuries. He Camilla started, and laying her hand upon | had only been wounded on the hcad—stricken the darkey’s, asked, excitedly: “Why, Dico, is not Manuel La Mort my father?’ **Lor’, Milla!” returned the darkey, “‘I’se ‘feared these trees hab ears and ’ll bear witness ’g’inst ole Dico, den he'll hab to die if taken by e ole master.” ‘*'You need have no fear, Dico. There is nothing about us that has ears tohear. 8 good Dico, and tell me what you know of my parentage.” “De ~ master promised to kill me if I ever told it, Miss Milla, but den I hab nebber live happy wid de secret on my ole heart. No, no, Miss Milla, you’se not de chile ob Don La Mort, but de chile ob a gentleman who lived wid his invalid wife at San Augustine, in Floridy, long time ago.” “How do you know this, Dico?” ‘God bress ye, chile, it war ole Dico dat carry ye one whole long night in his arms when de ole master stole ye from de bower in de grove ‘mong de magnolias and orange trees.” “Oh, Dico!” moaned Camilla, ‘‘ why haven’t you told me this before?” ‘*°Ca’se de ole master promised to flog me to death if ebber I told it, and, Miss Milla, life am sweet even to an ole nigger who hab toiled un- der de lash fift, long years.” “Yes, yes, Dico, life is sweet to all. I kno the power t has kept you silent. Manu La Mort would have kept his word. But do you know, Dico, what my father’s name is?’ “No, Miss Milla; ou was a little chile when stolen, and cried heap for papa and mam- He so pitiful dat dis nigger’s heart was almos’ roke, Camilla was silent for several minutes, try- ing to recall the days when she had known a kind father and mother, other than La Mort and his wife. But in the continual change and excitement that must have followed her abduc tion, her young mind had failed to retain a re- membrance anything beyond her life as Camilla La Mort. They conversed awhile longer, and as they could still see the lights flitting about, the Lone Estste, they arose and continued on, as i sunpored in a direction that would eventually bring them to the camp of the emigrants. CHAPTER XIX. eae ATSAAS ON THE RIVER. ZEN-Knire’s feelings were anything pleasant wheu he realized that he was fastened up with a human corpse; and drawing his knife, he crept as far away from the body as possible and began chipping. an outlet overhead. But this wasan unde ing of no little pense. and a that would require hours of labor com; ‘ He worked away diligently, his mind occupied solely by the object of escape from the log and the loathsome thing within reach of him. The log retained its balance well and he could ing oe Leap rata enough to tell that it was float- slow but onward. uddenly the Prince was startled by a low moan within the log, and there was something in the sound that seemed familiar to him—some- Leaving his work, he cre body, and when it was reached, he fingered the face and head over carefully, then continued his fumbling along the body until he came to the booted feet. Then a cry of surprise burst from his lips for he had discovered that the form was that of Frank Heyward. All the sympathetic anxiety of the Indian was : = 7 unconscious by the blow of a club. And then when Frank was found to be in no serious dan- ger, the Prince returned to his work of cutting through the log. ; But his progress was slow. The side of the log was over three inches thick, and by the time he had made a hole sufficiently large to see out, he saw it was growing light. Still he labored on, and by daylight the hole was increased in size to run his hand out. ?, down to the ocean by this time, Keen-Knife,”’ Frank finally remarked, then a his ear to the hole, he listened. A ely Emel his lips. in size sufficiently to enable him “*T should judge we were nearly “The log floats slow,” replied the Prince; ‘s What is it, Prince, what is it?’ asked Frank, cagerl : Ae voices. Ugh! heap good, for we're the emigrants’ camp,” “Ts it possible?” : Frank recognized the voice and answered: “We're c , major, and for God’s sake get an ax and cut us out of this log!” The canoe ran back to shore, and procurin, = oa ax, was soon alongside of the floating log. en the blows of a chopper were heard and felt by those within the log, and soon a large hole was made in the floating prison, and its inmates rescued therefrom. Great curiosity and excitement prevailed over the situation in which they were found, and not without giving a complete history of their move- ments, the object of their leaving camp so se- cretly, and so forth, could F explain the redicament into which they had fallen. So he ld the whole story from beginning to end. Then for the first time mostof the emigrants learned that Frank had been in the coun a few — — and a a ‘om’s co’ est was through a hope of recovering a child stolen from him years before. The emigrants were ail put upon their guard now, for not until they had heard Frank's story were they aware of their proximity to the Lone Estate, which Frank, as well as the two yo hunters, had previously pronounced the h of outlawry. Major Tom took the first opportunity to tell Frank that there was a traitor in their cam and of the ener attack to be made coming nigbt. * And could neither of the scouts tell who the Frank, after hearing the ma- t was a tall person, muffled frcm head to heel in a long blanket, and who always di poae among the tents before the scouts ave time to follow itup. It may be some one that enters the camp after dark, but if not, I know of no oneupon whom I could fix suspicion, unless it is your servant, Vasco,” : ‘‘ Never, major, never!” exclaimed Frank; ‘there is not a truer heart in this camp than Lew Vasco’s.” “Then, in Heaven’s neme, whos the traitor?” exclaimed Major Tom, excitedly. “Tt must be one of La Mort’s spies, that enters the after night.” r ‘“* But how would a spy, just stealing in in that pete know ree a mneney, ae tent occupied m lings, Dora Mildred? And then, poem to what Bold-Heart says,
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14 B the traitor is one of our party, and holds secret interviews with outside friends. ‘The wie 3 ment for the attack confirms the fact. ‘The traitor is one of our party! To-night I hope we will find out who it is; and now, Frank, we have got to prepare for the preconcerted attack. Let us keep the whole terrible truth from the women and children, for fear of undue excitement. But let us take each man aside and inform him of the truth, that he may be prepared for the conflict. ell have to get the two-wheeled cart around close to the river, with the money the devils so greatly covet, and which they’ll get with a vengeance if they attempt to cross the river.” “Tf we succeed in defeating them, major, we should follow up our dees F and push on to the Lone Estate and rescue Camilla at once, for fear she may be spirited away. Rubal Ryan, the prairie-pirate, is there, and Camilla said she bho to become his unwilling wife within three 7s. ajor Tom aned in spirit. ~ hops + Re ani “*we can rescue her, Frank, for even if she is not my child, I am anxious to deliver her from such a nest of devils, because you love her, Frank.” ‘*God bless you, Major Bronson!” exclaimed Frank. Here the conversation ended and the two friends separated. The major sought each of his fellow-travelers and acquainted them with their coming danger. Preparations at once be- gan to put the camp in a state of defense. Never did men work harder than did they that day, and before the sun went down, the lower section of a block-house was completed. This would afford the women and children a safe retreat. The wagons were all arranged around the tents on the outside of the building as a defense, while the two-wheeled cart, with its secret con- tents, was moved ’round close to the river-bank, facing the point from whence the attack was to be made. By dark all was prepared for the conflict, and the preparations had n made so quietly and with such little outward concern that not one of the women suspected what was up; for, as the major had requested, not a man had hinted, to any of the women, of their threatened dan- ger. The women and children were sent into the block-house that night to sleep, while for want ee room the men took to the tents on the out- e. At dark a number of guards were posted, and Keen-Knife and Bold-Heart put on the scout. The hours worn on. Not a moment’s sleep closed the eye of a man, but with throbbing hearts they lay and waited for the signal, call- ing them to the conflict. CHAPTER XX. THE ATTACK. At the silent hour of midnight, fully a score of canoes, com at least, three occupants each, put out from the east shore of the river near the Lone Estate, and dropped silently down ' the stream. Not the sound of a voice could be heard; only the gentle rippling of the water broke the silence of the hour, Grim and silent sat the painted and plumed voyagers, each clutching a rifle or tomahawk. There were whites in the party, however. In a canoe in the rear of the main fleet, as it were, were three persons, wo of whom were whites. The latter were Manuel La Mort and Rubal Ryan. The third person was the Sioux chief In ucah. The three leaders were discuss woe be an un- dertone the probability of their expedition being a success, ‘*T feel certain,” said La Mort, “that we have ample force to carry the camp by storm. The Spy sends word that the emigrants are all in- experienced in Indian warfare and cunning.” - Waagh!” ejaculated the chief, indignantly, ‘“‘ Bold-Heart and Keen-Knife are cunning dogs, and their scalps will hang at the girdle of the Sioux scouts ere morning.” : ‘* No doubt of it, no doubt of it, chief,” replied Ryan, at the same time nudging La Mort ina t manner, “There is one whose scalp will not be there to-night, I presume,” said La Mort. “You mean my rival, Frank Heyward.” “Yes. If he is still on the float he must be near the Des Moines ere this.” “Well, now, La Mort,” said Rubal, ‘you have said Heyward will not be there; probably you can say whether Camilla and the devil that knocked me cold last night, will be there or not. ‘“‘T feel certain we'll find them both in the emigrants’ camp. If so, Dico shall be whipped till there is not a grease-spot of him left; and that girl, P—” ‘““Never mind that girl, my dear Manuel. She belongs to me,” interrupted the prairie-pi- rate. ‘Suppose we capture those two beautiful girls at the emigrant camp, whose will they be?” Rubal Ryan laughed a *“You know the spoils of this expedition are to be divided equally, Don Manuel, do you not?’ “Oh, certainly,” replied La Mort. And so the conversation ran on. In the mean time, Major Bronson sat alone in his tent, wrapt in darkness and silence. He was waiting the return of Keen-Knife whom he had sent up the river to watch the movements of the Indians. Suddenly, as the hours wore on, a step was heard without. Then the door was darkened by a shadowy form and the Prince of the Prairies stood before him. ‘¢ What news, Prince?” the major asked. _ ‘*Three score of Indians are at this instant cgncealed on the opposite side of the river, wait- ing the signal to attack our camp.” “Then go, Prince, and keep a close -watch for the traitor! Let him give the signal, then watch out for the foe. If they make their ap- pearance, give the signal, and I will repeat it by a blast upon this horn.” Keen-Knife glided from the tent, and even at that instant he saw a tall, shadowy form emerge Srom the door of the block-house! It stopped and gazed around, then crept on siwand river. The Prince knew it was the mysterious Spy and traitor, but what was it doing in the block- house? How came it there? The Friendly stole around to the right and reached the river-bank above the cloaked figure just as it tossed a dull ball of fire into the air. Quickly he bent his upon the opposite shore, from whose shadows he saw a number of dark forms emerge. Then he heard the foe launching their light aor and a moment later the soft dip of pad- es, The Indians are coming! A low cry like that of a hawk issued from the lips of Keen-Knife. This was quickly followed by the sharp twang of a horn; then forth from their tents rushed the men, rifle in hand. Down to the bank they ran, and forming in line poured a deadly fire into the approaching canoes, giving vent to a loud, triumphant shout that seemed to issue in chorus from a hundred throats. The savage foes were appalled—terror- stricken, and recoiled like a wave before the monde. of our friends, High upon the midnight air rose the din of battle—the crash of fire-arms, shouts of victory and groans of the wounded. Some of the savages plunged into the river to try and escape what they believed an inevitable death, while high above the confusion of the moment could be heard the voice of La Mort and Rubal Ryan trying to rally the panic-strick- en savages. Vain attempt! In two minutes not a savage nor outlaw, save a number of dead and wound- ed, was upon the river. j Great excitement, however, had been created at the block-house among the women and chil- dren. Major Tom and hurried thither to pacify them, and just as they reached the building they heard a woman’s scream a short distance east of them. They hurried on to see what was wrong, but could hear nor find noth- ing. Fastening back to the block-house they suc- ceeded in quieting the fears of the women and children, and it was then that they learned Mildred Cleveland was gone. ‘*That must have been her scream, major,” said Frank. “Yes, yes. Some prowling devil of a red- skin has captured her. But by my soul she shall be rescued.” ‘But bow came she out of the block-house?” asked one of the women. from her sleep and rushed out, as the door was unbarred, with affright.” ‘*She was gone,” said Dora, with whom Mil- dred had slept, ‘‘ when I awoke.” “Poor girl!” sighed the major. ‘‘I will hunt up Keen-kKnife and put him on the trail.” CHAPTER XXI1. LA MORT’S FLOATING FORT. To describe the rage and disappointment of the three villains, La Mort, Rubal Ryan and Inkpaducah, would be quite impossible. La Mort swore and raved like a madman; the chief gave vent to his emotions in deep gut- turals, while the recklesss Rubal Ryan laughed at them in a half-rejoicing manner. With hi there was little care whether the battle was won or lost. But they returned to the Lone Estate only to plan anew for the capture of the camp, and it was soon apparent what was next to be sabes, for all hands set to work and soon a heavy raft was constructed, on which a bastion of logs was eer: and thus a literal floating fort was ready y noon. At two o’clock this formidable structure was manned by some fifty Indians and outlaws under Ryan and La Mort; and then, by means of long poles, it was pushed out from the bank and permitted to drop, at the will of the cur- rent, down the stream. So certain were they of the destruction of the camp that Inkpaducah, with a number of war- riors, had gone around upon the prairie to’cut off the retreat of the defeated emigrants in that direction. But what would bave seemed the most oo lar to a cusual observer, who knew whither the savages were going, was the fact of there bein a beautiful young white woman aboard the with rifle in hand, as if ready for the coming conflict; and with whom La Mort was occasion- = seen in consultation. Yho was she? and why was she there? The raft drifted slowly and steadily on. CHAPTER XXXII. THE SECRET OF THE TWO-WHEELED VEHICLE THE work on the block-house was and every defensive point strengthened. About noon some excitement was raised over the discovery of two persons far out upon the prairie. They were on foot and approaching the Peninsula, By aid of the major’s field-glass they were en- abled to distinguish them as a man and woman and they saw the latter waving a white obje as if appealing for assistance, “Tt must Mildred,” cried the major; “Frank, you and two or three others come with me to their assistance. They must be aided, for br seem in great excitement and distress.” ollowed by Frank and others, the major ran to the corral, and mounting the fleetest animal there, dashed furiously away across the plain. The others followed on as fast as possible, but when themajor reached the fugitives his com- panions were over a quarter of a mile behind.. To Bronson’s surprise he found that the two persons were strangers—one a beautiful young girl, and the other an aged negro, both seeming tired and travel-worn. It was Dico and Camilla La Mort! As the ny cod drew rein before them, a low exclamation burst from the voeee Ay lips, and he started back as if with sudden affrigh ““Who are you?” asked Bronson, i i eyes upon the shrinking negro. “ Fugitives from the power of Don La Mort,” replied Camilla, Major Bronson started at the sound of her voice as meg: he had been struck with a dag- ger. He fixed his eyes upon the maiden with a wild gaze, and his breast heaved as though a volcano was surging within it. “Great heavens!” he exclaimed, as he threw himself from his horse, ‘it is her voice and her image—my sainted wife—my dead Clarice!” “Oh, good Lor’, save dis nigger’s soul!” burst from Dico’s lips; “dat am de very man dat lib in Floridy—dat am your father, Miss Milla. I remember his face well, chile, and—” “This my father, Dico?’ shrieked Camilla. “Yes, dat am him, Miss Milla, and now dis poor ole nigger will bab to die!” “Yes, yes, girl!” cried the major, ‘‘ you must God, yes, you are mine own be mine—oh, ~——— _ —— ee Oe
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Keen-Knife. The old major clasped the maiden in his arms and poured a shower of kisses upon her. Intu- itive love told him that she was his child, yet there was nothing positive—an uncertainty more agonizing than the pangs of death tor- tured him, Frank and his companions came up. Then occurred another joyous meeting—that of Camilla and Frank—which I will not attempt to describe. The party returned to camp. Camilla was received with much kindness and every thing done to make her comfortable. The major received from Dico’s lips the fact that Manuel La Mort’s true name was Gaspard La Muerte, and that he—Dico—had assisted his master to abduct Camilla from her parents ten years before at San Augustine. He narrated the cireumstances under which she was stolen, so in accordance with facts | known to Major Bronson, that it left not a sin- gle en in his mind, but that Camilla was his child. He had known Gaspard La Muerte as a bitter enemy, who. hesitated at no crime when inspir- ed with revenga, When the major wassojourn- ing at San Augustine with his invalid wife and little child, the latter suddenly disappeared and could not be found, not even the faintest trace of it. But Major Tom had more than one good reason to believe that La Muerte had stolen tha child, for about this time the villain disapp2ared and was never heard of mors, until Frank Hoy- ward returned from the Wess and.gave him som3 hops that his child was found in Camilla La Muerte. As the day wore away, Keen-Knife left the ¢amp and stole away into the woods, but ere long suddenly burst into the camp ina state of great excitament, never halting until he stood in the presence of Major Tom Bronson. “What now, Prince?” “The Indians are coming again, this timo upon a big raft! Walls protect them from which they cannot be dislolged with our rifles.” Instead of going into a fit of excitement, the major only smiled. ““When the whito-hairel chief sees the raft he will not smile. And if he will look eastward over the prairie he will see a party of Sioux ready to cut off our retreat from ths river.” “We'll attend to them, Keen-Knife,” said Major Tom, composedly; then turning to his friends who had gathered around, he said: ** Boys, the red-devils are coming, and we have got to prepare to mest them. We will have to open the money-box on the cart. Ah! there she comes now—a regular floating bat- tery! ll eyes were turned up the river in an in- stant, and beheld a huze raft slowly rounding the bend of the river, about four hundred yard3 away. Above the top of the defenss, upon it they saw fully fifty plumed heads and painted facas of the Indian warriors, who set up a tri- umphant and demoniac yell as soon as they came in sight. ‘To the money-cart, pore, to the money-cart!”’ shouted Major Bronson, turning toward the two-wheeled vehicle, ‘‘and let us send them a bank-chock on the happy hunting-grounds.” The mon, with riflss in hand, hastily gathered in a circle about the vehicle, that stood near the river-bank, completely screening it from_view of the enemy, while Major Tom and Frank Heyward were busily engaged about the vehi- cle, insids of tha circle of men. a’ ace eee 8 me — it was not ene rifls-shot yet, ths ye , jeering savages di not withiraw bohin their works, = A dead silence reigned in the camp. A set- tled expression of anxiety and impatience was written upon every face. “Fall back, boys, fall back!” a voice suddenly rung sharply out on the air. It was the command of Major Tom, and scarcely had it bsen uttered before tho men fell back, revealing a small brass cannon mounted upon the two-wheeled vehicle, and Major Tom standinz with laniard in hand ready to fire it. This wa3 the secret contents of the cart. The next instant there was a puff of white smoke, a thunderous roar, and a solid cannon ball went skimming along the surface of the river, sending up great sheets of spray and strik- ing the advancing raft near the center in front, throwing a cloud of splinters and sand into the air, and tearing a breach in the wall that Don La Mort had pronounced impregnable. A yell of horror went up from the raft, and the next instant all the savages had disappeared behind their works. capital artillerist. other.” Again the howitzer was charged with a solid shot, and brought to bear u breach was torn in the wall of the floating fort, sending the sand and timber in a perfect cloud ranks of the enemy. And now, while Frank and the major con- tinued to load and fire the howitzer, their friends opened a destructive fire with their long-range rifles, upon the enemy whom they could see through the broken wall. at with the occasional roar of the howitzer. ut the conflict was altogether upon one side. Before the savages could fire a shot, terror took possession of them. Their leaders tried in vain to rally them, but | those that were not killed or wounded took to the river and swam ashore. In five minutes. the floating fort, as La Mort termed it, was a perfect wreck, and cleared of all but the dead and dying. But these composed the greater part of the enemy’s force, and now their cries of pain and agony rent the air. Scarcely had ed Indians on the prairie were seen approaching at a sweeping gallop. They were not far away, and in Jess time than it takes to write it, the major had his howitzer trained upon them sent a solid shot plowing through their ranks. This terrible and unknown messenger of | mn theraft. Another | 15 “ Ah, major!” exclaimed Frank, “you are a | Indians was all a farce. The Indians were Ru- Load, and give them an-_ bal Ryan’s prairie-pirates. And my story of being the daughter of Orville Vane Cleveland of course, was untrue—told to ingratiate myse into your confidence, and learn the point of ‘your destination and whether you had any valuable | stock, oramount of money in your party. Fath- overhead, and death and confusion into the | er knew that Orville Vane Cleveland was a dear friend of yours, hence my knowledge of such a person.” ‘Then your father knew that I was coming into this country, did he?’ asked the major. “Yes. Although father has made an out- | ward show of honesty by the cultivation of the A perfect crash of firearms rent the air, min- | Lone Estate, he has been in direct communica- | tion with the Indians and prairie outlaws, And | aspy that had known |ed your money—is what m the firing ceased when the mount- and | death, tearing both warriors and ponies to pieces | oS almost, sent terror to the heart of every savage, and turning, the Sioux fled faster than they had | approached. his ended the conflict. The savages had re- ceived a chastising never to be forgotten; but | ed from the Lone: Estate. now that the battle was over, its horrors stared | | child!” cried the major. The disabled raft had floated down and lodged | the emigrants in the face. against the bank, just opposite the camp, where every wail of the dying could be heard. Our friends, however, were not wanting in Christian humanity, and with hearts that knew | no wounded. foe, but suffering creatures, they were soon aboard the raft administering to them. Over thirty forms lay prostrate upon the no sooner had you set foot within the territo than the fact was communicated to bim throu ou in the South. ) first night that I stayed in your camp, I held an interview with a ey ae was about, and sent word to the Lone Estate of your proposed colo- ny and the point of its location. Father hated you, and resolved to destroy your whole band. ut he has failed—we have all failed. That two-wheeled vehicle—which I supposed contain- ed me, and thereby have I led all to death and destruction. Oh, what a life IThaveled. But I was trained to it from infancy, and I ae Heaven will for- give my sins. But, Major Bronson, you hada child stolen from you once, bad you not?” “Yes, yes!” gasped the major; ‘‘ what of her, what of her, Mildred?” ‘Father abducted her from your homein San Augustine years ago, and—” ‘Where is she now?” “T can not say. Two evenings ago she esca We called her Ca- thank God! milla.” “Thank God! Camilla is my “Then you have found her?” said the dying girl. ‘ y es.” “Heaven be thanked!” murmured the girl. “But you must have your wound attended to, Mildred,” said the major. ‘Here, men, bear | this poor girl tenderly to the camp and let Dr. | Pritchard dress her wounds and alleviate her bloody, slippery logs, half of whom were dead, | and lying in all conceivable attitudes. Some bore no wounds at all, but the awful expression of the rigid features showed that they had ab- solutely been frightened or stunned to death by the flying logs. The tacle was a terrible one, and almost the first face that Major Tom’s eyes fell upon was that of Don La Mort. He was dead, yet his face wore a natural and calm expression. The grim monster had seized him so suddenly that he had scarcely left his ghastly seal upon the wicked man’s features. suffering. Tenderly, tenderly, boys.” Frank Heyward and Bold-Heart lifted her in their arms and bore her ashore and tothe cam But, when they had laid her down upon couch, prepared for her by Dora and Camilla, she was dead! CHAPTER XXII THE END. WE will pass over two days—memorable days in the history of the little band of colonists. Faye La Muerte, the beautiful traitress, or ‘‘ By Heavens!” the major exclaimed, “that | Mildred Cleveland, as we have known her, was | buried by the side of her father, in a little is the face of Gaspard La Muerte!” “Yes, or Don La Mort,” replied the Boy Hunter. ‘* Heaven has meted him his reward at last,” Bronson, ‘‘ but here is another white face.” ‘“Ah!” exclaimed Bold-Heart ring down Rubal Ryan, tho notorious Prairie-Pirate.” ‘* Ma-jor—Bron-son!” The cry came from the further extremity of the wreck, and every one that heard it started with surprise and excitement—not because its in- tonations bore the unmistakable evidence of death, but because it was the voice of a female, and one that sounded strangely familiar. Hurrying across ihe raft in obedience to the summons, “Major Bronson found a young wo- | man half-sitting and half-reclining against the broken wall, Masses of long purple black hair fell over her breast and concealed the wound from which her life was ebbing away in crimson drops. As the major advanced to where she lay, she raised her vores lustrous orbs—and gazed up into his ace. A groan burst from tho major’s lips, and he started back with a ent terror. ** My God, it is ui dred Cleveland!” The dying woman started slightly, and ina feeble voice sho said: ‘*No, major | | ; ’ ; ’ / | | | | Iam not Mildred Cleveland! I | am Fayo Muerte—the spy that has been in | your camp.” Another groan burst from Bronson’s lips. “Is this reality?—oh, surely not! surely not!” he exclaimed. “Tt is, major,” replied the dying traitress. “I havo pla a wicked part against you and yours, My boing pursued into your camp by | by grassy glade in the woods not far from the Pen- insula. The dead and wounded Indians were given up to their red friends, who eerie ler a iy flag of truce the day after the fight, asking for upon the grim, contorted face; ‘that, major, is them. The little band of colonists were molested no more by the red-skins, The brass howitzer proveda greater terror to them than a thousand armed dragoons would have done, The domains of the Lone Estate were taken session of, a few days after the fall of La Nort. It was found entirely deserted, and not one of the emigrants ever heard of those that had composed the family of the outlaw. The colony, planted on the Peninsula, pros- pered and grew to prominence. The broad acres were soon marked by the hand cf man, and vast herds were seen upon its bosom. Asthe recompense for his services, Bold-Heart asked of Major Tom, the hand of his little ward, Dora Barnwell. The major was taken greatly rise, but of course he could not, and did ‘nk: Fone the gift; and in all his lifo he never had occasion to regret that he did. And no sooner had he recovered his lost An- nie, than she was taken from’ him again, by Frank Heyward. Keen-Knife, the Prince of the Prairies, spent much of his time, when not out on the hunt or trail, with Rob Radcliff and his young wife; and went often to visit his dear old companion, Antelope Abe, and talk over their adventures when mere boys. Old Dico lived with Frank and Camilla, a faithful, duty-loving old servant until his death. THE END,
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