Beadle's Pocket Library (no. 382) (1891 05 06)

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a | » y Copyrighted, 1891, by Bravia anp Apama, Entered as Second Class Matter at the New York, N. Y¥., Post Office. May’ 6, 1801, No 389, 82.50 Published Weekly by Beadle and Kdenis, Price, Vol. boas a Year. No. 98 WILLIAM St, New York, Five Cents. Wide-Awake Geng, the Boy Pioneer. BY EDWARD WOE Eee Sa THE GUN CRACKED, AND THE CAP FLEW OUT OF THE CROTCH, AND FELL ON THE BOY’S BACK,

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2 Wide-Awake George, the Boy Pioneer. Wide-Awake George, THE BOY PIONEER; OR, LIFE IN A LOG CABIN. Incidents and Adventures in the Backwoods, BY EDWARD WILLETT. CHAPTER I. WELCOMING A NEW SETTLER. “Tris is my first act of ownership!” As George Denston spoke he struck his ax ‘into a tall young white oak tree, Near him stood his mother, with his sister Lucy, a fine girl of sixteen. A little nearer was his brother Ben, a bright boy of fourteen. George bimself was a tall and manly young fel- low of eighteen. He had become the head of the family, and felt himself equal to bis responsibilities. After the death of his father the farm in In- diana had been sold under a mortgage, and George, who had taken the direction of affairs, advised a move to South-western Arkansas, where he had traveled, and where a friend of his had offered him a section of Jand at a low price and on easy terms. accepted, and the move had been made. After a long and tiresome journey the Den- ston family had reached their destination, and were camped in a tent, waiting until George could put up a log house for them to live in, It was then early spring, and the air was mild and moist, As George struck his ax into the white oak, which he had marked as one of the logs for his cabin, he saw a man coming -toward him through the forest. This man was tall and lean, and was dressed in a ragged suit of butternut jeans. His dark face had never been touched by a razor, and his - hair looked as if it had never made the ac- quaintance of acomb. He wore a coonskin cap on his head, and carried 9. long squirrel rifle, with powder-horn and bullet-pouch, George greeted him politely, but he took no notice of the salutation. “Wot are you cuttin’ my timmer fur, young feller?” he asked. “Cutting your timber?’ “What do you mean?” ““Wot do you mean by comin’ into my land and cuttin’ my timmer? That's what I wanter know.” “This is my land, or my mother’s, and I am replied George, ' sure that I am inside of my lines.” “’Pain’t your land ‘at all. Itsmy land. I’ve lived on this tract goin’ on fifteen year, and naterally it belongs to me.” “‘My mother bought the tract of Abe Lassi- ter,” remarked George. “Don’t care f she did. I lived here afore Abe Lassiter kem into the kentry, and I know wot’s my own.” “You had better go and speak to Lassiter The offer had been | aboutit, then. If ou can show a better title than I can, I will give up the tract. Until then I mean to hold it,” “You had better look out, young feller. I’ve gi’n you fa’r warnin’, and all you’ve got to do is to git off the land, If you don’t, it ll be wuss fur you.” Without another word the man turned and walked away. “This isa queer style of welcoming a new settler,” concluded George, His mother asked him what it meant; but he could only treat the question as a conundrum, and give it up. “T will ride over to Lassiter’s and ask him about it,” he, declared. : He saddled his horse immediately, and rode to his nearest neighbor’s—unless the claimant who had just left him was nearer. Abe Lassiter was away from home, and his wife, an intrepid woman with a will of her own, laughed when George told her of the man who had claimed his land. “Yt is Joe Scur!,” sho said, ‘and he tells the truth when ue says that he lived here before we eame, My husband found him squatted on a corner of your section when we bought the lanl, and has never molested him, I sup he thinks that because he has lived there so long he owns the tract, though he has not cleared an acre, and bas never cut any timber except for firewood, Of course his claim don’t amount to anything.” “ But what shall I do about it?” asked George, “Just nothing at all. Go ahead and cut your logs, and put your house Up &s soon ag | you can, When Abe comes home I will send 1im over to Joe Scurl’s to give him a talking to. George followed Mrs, Lassiter’s advice; but he thought it best to take his rifle when he went to work, as he believed that Joe Scurl meant to insist upon his claim, whether he really believed in it or not, The trees fell rapidly uoder the keen ax | wielded by his strong young arms, and Ben as- sisted bim in cutting ‘thom into the lengths he required for his log house. F n the afternoon of the second day of this work, as he was standing on a log and squaring off the butt, be heard the crack of a rifle close by, and felt a sharp sting in his left side. At once he guessed the meaning of this at. tack, and knew that he had been bit, et ha he | did not believe that he was badly wounded, “Take toa tree, Ben!” he shouted, and ran | to the oak against which he had leaned his rifle, He had not been so badly startled as to fail to notice the point from which the shot was fired, and he prepared for action immediately, The trea behind which he was concealed forked at about the hight of his head from the ground. He cocked his rifle, set his cap in the fork, and watched for the next move of his ad- versary. A gun, an arm, a shoulder and a head stole from behind the tree which he was watching. The gun cracked, and the cap flew out of the crotch, and fell on the boy’s back, | Almost at the same instant he fired, and with | telling effect.

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= 9 Wide-Awake George, the Boy Pioneer. 8 ; : = ea Se The gun dropped from the hand ofthe man' George said that it would not be worth while who had fired at_ him, and George ran to the tree, followed by Ben. Behind the tree was Joe Scurl, holding with bis left hand his right arm, from which blood was flowing freely. As he saw George coming toward him, he attempted to drawa knife from his belt. “You needn’t do that,” said George. “I don’t want to hurt you, and you can’t hurt me now.” **T reckon you’ve broke my arm, young fel- ler,” quietly remarked Scurl. “T hope not. Let me look at it.” George cut open the man’s sleeve, and saw that his bullet had gone through the fleshy part of his arm, but without touching a bone. He tied up the wound with his handkerchief; but Scurl had lost so much blood that he was quite weak, “Run to the tent and tell mother, Ben,” ordered George. ‘I am going to take this man home.” ** Ain’t you burt, yourself?’ asked Ben, “Tve got a graze, but it don’t bother me He didn’t miss me much.” to do that, as he did not believe Joe would bother him again, and he related the adventure to his friend. “T reckon you can take care of yourself, my son,” said Lassiter, ‘‘and it is lucky ps. that you can. A new-comer always has to fight his way in this country, as there are plenty of bullies and rascals who are ready to pick at him, But when they find out that he has got grit into him they leave him alone,” “Do they leave you alone?” asked George. “ Pretty near always. Thosé who know me | don’t meddle with me any to hurt.” “T aimed well, but you was a-choppin’,” said Scurl, in the most matter-of-fact way, aa if he had been shooting at a mark. ‘* Well, a miss is as good as a mile, I suppose; but I don’t want you to practice on me any more, Come along now.” George escorted Joe Scurl to his cabin, a wretched affair that scarcely kept the rain out, and there he found Mrs. Keurl, a big-boned ip art fi ae woman, and several bare-legged oys and girls, n answer to the woman’s inquiries he briefly informed ber how her husband had gone out to shear a wolf, and had been shorn. she averred. ‘‘He won’t believe me, and I reckon it’ll take a heap o’ hard knocks to drive any sense inter his head. I’m surprised, though, mister, that he didn’t lay you out, ’cause he’s an amazin’ good shot, and that’s all on airth he’s good fur,” Mrs. Scurl dressed her husband’s wound, with the assistance of George, and looked at him with an expression of intense disgust. “¢Durned ef I wouldn’t like to frail him!” she exclaimed. ‘‘I’m keen to bet it’ll be a solid month afore he’s able to hold a rifle ag’inst that shoulder, and I’d like to know wot this yer fambly is gwine to do fur meat while he’s a- gittin’ well.” “TI will see that yon don’t starve,” said George. “Th tween your husband and me. All he wants is room to hunt and a place to live, and he can stay here as long as he wants to. But I mean to have it squarely understood that my mother has bought this section of land, and owns it, and means to keep it.” George went home and had his own wound dressed, Ashe had said, it was only a graze; | but it showed how closely he had escaped death, as Scurl had aimed well for his heart, Abs Lassiter came by when this operation was finished, on his way to Joe Scurl’s cabin, to give that squatter the “talking to” that his wife had promised. e ere need not be any trouble be- | } As Abe Lassiter was a tall and muscular man, who had the reputation of a dare-devil, and was known to bea dead shot, this statement might be easily believed. George Denston congratulated himself on having passed through his first trial so safely, and the upshot of the difficulty was that he found a firm friend in Joe Scurl. Not only did the squatter cease to molest the young settler, but he seemed to entertain a real admiration and a genuine affection for him. CHAPTER II. HUNTING A HORSE-THIEF. Grorcs Drenston soon had-a new Illustra- tion of the truth of Abe Lassiter’s saying that in that country a new-comer had to fight his way. He had put up his house, which was only a rude log cabin with one large room and a loft; but it was a comfortable abode for all that, All the neighborhood—if that could be called a neighborhood, where the homes of the settlers were miles apart—had come to the “ raising,” and he had made many acquaintances. The | building -had been roofed with shingles—or **T allers told Joe that he was a durned fool,” | “boards,” as they were called there—which he had riven from a large oak; a “stick and clay” chimney had been attached to one end, and the house had been floored with unseasoned plank from a distant saw-mill. To reach this result he had worked early and late, and had proved himself worthy to be a pioneer, When his mother and sister saw what he had done, they were greatly encouraged, and began to believe that he would soon carve a fine farm out of those acres of virgin forest. He had also cleared and fenced a small space near the house, sufficient for a garden, and was anxious to break se his clearing and plant it, as the season was rapidly advancing. . Just as he was ready to begin this task, bis horse was zaisstne- The family had brought two horses from In- diana; but one of .hem had died soon after they reached their destination, and this had left only | George’s horse, a beautiful brown mare named Molly. As the mare was their sole reliance for all their work and traveling, it was probable ane would soon Jearn the meaning of hard work, As George had not yet found time to build a stable, he was in the habit of fastening Molly, when he did not need her, where she could pick a little forest grass. The night before he missed her he bad picketed her in a glade at a little dis- tance from the house, by tying a long halter rope to a low bush.

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Wide-Awake George, the Boy Pioneer. ‘When he went to look for her in the morning “Why sof” she was gone. ‘Cause it stands to reason that ef you find He was badly upset by this unexpected mis- | the feller who stole the mar’, be won’t be keen fortune, and was leaning against a tree, won- | dering what he would do about it, when Joe | Scurl came in sight. Joe’s wound was not yet | mother that Molly had got loose and strayed healed; but he was able to roam the woods as he pleased, and he always carried his rifle as a matter of habit. *Wot's the matter, young feller?’ he asked. You look as ef you might ha’ lost suthin’,” “So I have,” replied George. ‘I bave Jost my mare, and don’t know what I am to do about it.” ‘*That’s bad. How did it happen?” “T left her here last night, tied to that low bush. I suppose she must have pulled loose and gone away.’ “Shol I wunner, now, ef she did? Lemme see, Jest you stay right thar, young feller, Don’t move a peg ontil I look around a bit.” The squatter examined the bush to which the mare had been tied, and then examined the glade around it. Although the ground was much trampled, his practiced eyes could easily read the story it told, Finally he walked a little distance into the woods, and then returned to where George was standing. “This yer’s a bad piece o’ business,” he said, “What do you mean?” asked George. “The mar’ never kim untied, and never pulled loose, and never went off of her own notion, She was stole.” # Are you sure-of that? How do you know “Tt’s as read. Yer’ t glade. She was shod, all four feet, shoes mighty well worn, too. It?s easy enough to tell her track. But yer’s the track of another hoss, and he warn’t shod, and thar’s a big chip outen bis nigh forefoot. Right yer by the bush is a man’s track, too, and it ain’t yours nor mine. He got down and ontied the halter—see that track whar the beel is deep. Thar’s whar he got onto his critter ag’in—see that track whar the ball o’ the foot is so plain, Come along, now, and [ll show yer whar he rode off, leudin’ your mar’,” ; . George examined the tracks carefully, and it was clear to him that the squatter had described the exact state of affairs, “It was arter the middle of the night when he tuck the mar’,” remarked Joe, ““ How do you know that?” “Thar was a right smart shower about the middle of the night, and the tracks that lead away was made arter the shower. That’s sim- | ple enough.” ‘*Who stole the mare, then? Do you know that?” ‘*T mought give a guess, Anyhow, I reckonI gate 7 show you whar she was tuck to.” ! ‘Will you do that, Joe? Lf you will, I will pay you for your trouble.” ‘I don’t want no pay from you, Jawge. I did you dirt awhile ego, and ort to try to be a leetle helpful to you. Ill foller the trail, but I don’t bargain fur fightin’, ’cause this shoulder o’ mine ain’t fit to hold a gun ag’inst.. You had — better go to the house and git your rifle.” plain as printin’ is to them as kin s - Oe a fe SPOTS the mar’s tracks all about the, to give her up.” eorge went and got his rifle, and told his away, and he was going to hunt her. Joe Scurl took up the trail at the glade and followed it without the least difficulty. Indeed, he scarcely looked at the ground he was passing over, and seemed to be so certain of his course that George suggested that he must know where the trail would lead them to.” “Tve a notion that Ido,” replied Joe, “* Any- how, I know the horse with a chip outen his uigh fore-foot. Somebody must ha’ thought he could impose onter you ‘cause you're a new- comer.” George asked no more questions, but made sure that his rifle was in good order, and fol- lowed the squatter until they came in sight ofa small cabin in the midst of the forest, there being no clearing around it worthy of the name, “Thar’s the place, Jawge,” said Joe Scurl. | “ Yer’s the mar’s tracks. and yer’s t’other crit- ter’s, both plain as punk’. Yes, they were plain enough, and they led di- | rect to the cabin, ** Who lives there?” asked George. “Tom Mabry kinder lives thar. Leastways, that’s his home; but I reckon he don’t stay thar much, as he hain’t got no people. Jest you wait yer a bit, Jawge, while | go and see if he’s in. The aes stealthily approached the cabin and looked through a chink in the log wall, Then he returned to George, shaking his head. ““Thar ain’t nobody thar,” he said. ‘Tom Mabry’s gone, and the mar’s gone.” “But they will come back some time,” sug: gested George. “That’s likely. Wot air you gwine to do, young feller?” “Tam going to get inside of that house and wait until the thief comes back with my horse.” ‘ Durned ef that don’t beat me. My old wo- man allers said that I was the biggest fool in the settlement, but I reckon you hold the age on me. Why, man alive, Tom Mabry is a desprit cuss, and thar’s sure to bea skrimmage if you buck ag’inst him.” ‘There will be a skrimmage if he don’t give up my mare,” stoutly replied George. “Go along, then, I ain’t fittin’ to mix up in a fight, and will lay around ver in the woods.” George hastened to the log house. There was a door in the end that faced him, and he wa ked ~ in, as the door had no look or bolt, He saw be fore him a tumbled bed, a cold fireplace and a general appearance of disconifort. On the left side as he entered was a small window, closed with a wooden shutter. He pushed open the shutter and stationed bim- self at the little window, were be could watch for the horse-thief and the horse. He had a long time to wait, and found the task a very tedious one. He had no doubt that Joe Scurl had got tired and gone home. Buthe was kept up by an intense desire to recover his mare, aud by his wrath at the man who had

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Wide-Awake George, the Boy Pioneer. 5 stolen her. His temper did not improve while he was impatiently waiting at the window. At last he was rewarded by the sound of a horse’s footsteps, and he saw a man riding to- ward the cabin through the forest. The man was dark, roughly dressed, with a rascally cast of countenance, and carried a rifle. The horse he recognized at once as bis own mare, Molly. When the rider, who was of course Tom Ma- bry, had come within easy range—that is to say, within a couple of rods of the cabin— George cocked his rifle, shoved the muzzle out of the window, and hailed: : “ Hello, there!” Tom Mabry halted, and made a motion to raise his rifle. “Don’t try to pull your quay warned George. ““Tve got you covered, and if you make a move you’re adead man, All you’ve got to dois to get off that mare, leave her where she is, and go away.” “Who are you, anyhow?” asked Mabry. “Tm George Denston, and I own that mare which you borrowed last night. Get off, now, and clear out. Iam tired of waiting here, and would rather shoot than talk. Get off on the right side, and be quick about it!” . ‘here was nothing else for the horse-thief to do, and he hesitated no longer, but quietly slid off the, mare, turned his back upon the cabin, and walked away, with his rifle under bis arm. George chirruped .to Molly, who pricked up her ears as she recognized the familiar note. But Tom Mabry, though he walked away peaceably enough, went no further than the nearest big tree, behind which he dodged, and waited for a chance to get a shot at the young fellow who had so unceremoniously deprived hin of his stolen property. George perceived that he had made a mis- take. He should have forced Mabry to lay down his rifle when he left the mare. Instead of hunting a horse-thief, he found himself hunt- ed by a horse-thief. However, he believed that he knew how to get out of the scrape. He chirruped to Molly again from the win. | dow, and stepped to the back door and called | her, She knew the tone and the voice, and came to him at once. They were then screened i by the corner of the house from the tree behind which Tom Mabry was stationed. Georgé jumped on the mare’s back at once, gave her the word to go, and started her cff at a gallop, keeping the cabin between him and Mabry’s tree. ; That individual saw the maneuver, changed reat er oecghie tt ai ment an oe abla miiet alter the youth who had so neatly out- witted him. 2 is When George had got safely away into the woods, Joe Scurl turned up in his track, with as much of a smile on his face as his usually rueful countenance could produce, “That was a cute trick, Jawge,” said he, “a mighty cute trick. I wouldn’t ha’ thought you could ha’ done it, and you couldn’t ef the mar’ | hadn’t knowed you so well. I’m keen to bet | that Tom Mabry is the maddest man just now | this side of the Mississippi.” “Allright, Jo ,” saidGeorge. “Tve got my mare, and that’s what I came for. hind, and we'll go home.” George went home, and told his mother that he had found Molly, but said nothing of the theft or of the means by which he had re- covered her. He had already learned that it would be better not to worry bis anxious mo- ther with all the difficulties and dangers that beset him in that new country. But he mentioned the matter to Abe Lassiter, to whom he related his adventure, Lassiter frowned at first, and ended by laughing: “Don’t say anything about it at all,” said he. “Let it go asa joke of Tom Mabry’s, or a drunken spree. I reckon you have surprised him so much that he won’t be apt to bother you Spent whe he will be glad enough to drop it, if ou will, a ecnge Denston took his friend’s advice, and when he met Tom Mabry ata log-rolling, not long after the theft of his horse, the two were as respectful to each other as if there had never been any sort of a collision between them. But the exploits of the young settler somehow got talked about, and he became known in that region by the title of Wide-awake George. CHAPTER IIT, THE PLAGUE OF SNAKES. Tux house that eee Dension had erected for his family was built of rough logs. On the outside they were left as nature produced them. and on the inside they were merely “scalped® to give the walls a little neater appearance. It was of course intended to be ‘‘ chinked and daubed,” the “ chinking” being done by driv- ing bits of rough wood into the crevices be- tween the logs, and the ‘‘daubing” by cover- ing the chinks with a coating of mud, thus keeping out the wind and rain. But George had so msny more important tasks to do that he was compelled to neglect this work, and the weather was so mild that there was no necessity for hurry, Consequently he had only done a little “chinking” at spare moments when the Get on be- | summer was well advanced. Mrs. Denston and Lucy slept down-stairs in the main room, and George and Ben bunked in the loft, which was reached by a ladder. Against the wall of the main room, near the door, George had fixed a small shelf, on which was placed the pail that held drinking-water, Mrs. Denston, who was usually wakeful, twice complained to her son that she had been annoyed at night by a peculiar sound, as of something lapping in the water at the pail. On the third occasion she awoke Lucy, who was frightened ig en she heard, ‘The noise troubled them, because they could not guess what it was that made it. George determined to investigate the matter. His mother made a pallet for him on the © floor, and he laid down there to sleep, with a pistol and a knife within reach. About the middle of the night Mrs. Denston’s | oo voice awakened him, and he raised his ead, He distinctly heard a sound like that of la ping in the direction of the he ay but it was such a slight and peculiar that be could not guess what caused 1t,

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hud A pend alone to look for berries, and she He quickly lighted a candle, and looked at tLe water-pail; but nothing was to be seen there, and he again laid down to sleep. After awhile he was awakened by the numb- ness of bis left arm, which was laying cutside of the cover, and which suddenly became cold | and painful. At once he guessed that the limb had been on- circled by a serpent, and, after the first invol- untary shudder, he prepared to do battle with the intruder. He rightly judged that the rep- tile, being a constrictor, could not be a ven- on:ous snake, “What is the matter, George?” asked Mrs. Denston, as he lighted a candle while the ser- pent tightened its folds about his arm, ‘* Lie down, mother,” be replied, ‘There is no danger. 1 will tell you about it presently.” He grasped his bowie knife, sat up on his pal- let, and looked at the unwelcome visitor. The sight was enough to shock him, if not to frighten him. enormous black snake was coiled about his arm, and the pressure of its folds was every moment becoming more painful. He nna inserted his knife between his skin and that of the reptile, drew its sharp edge upward with a strong and rapid stroke, and cut the snake in two. The parts loosened them- selves, and fell, writhing, upon the floor. Mrs, Denston raised herself up in ber bed, and shrieked with terror as she saw the severed monster. Lucy was spared a similar infliction, and George threw his varquished enemy out of doors, where he measured it in the morning. It was over six feet in length, and quite as large around as his arm. “That must have been the borrid snake that lapped in our water pail,’ said Mrs, Denston. It was that or another one,” replied George. “But you shall not be troubled by them any _ more—at least, not in that way.” He dropped all his other employments until he had the house ‘‘chinked ” so tightly that it would at least keep out the snakes, But the death of the big black snake, and the protection of the house, did not settle the snake ~ question. A creek, which was called a river, ran through the Denston’s section of land, and on the right bank ofthe creek was a rocky bluff. One day in the latter part of summer, Lucy halted on this bluff to rest and to admire the scenery. As she was about to seat herself on a stone, she was startled by a sharp and loud rat- tle near her. Looking auc) around, she saw a large rattlesnake in his coil, ready to spring. She started up, and ran home as fast as her feet would carry her. She was warned to keep away from the bluff, but did not need the warning, as she vowed that nothing would in- duce her to go within sight of it again. A little later Ben was in the region of the bluff, and came home with a terrible story. He had looked down a crevice or break in tbe lime- stone, the bottom of which, according to his if was literally swarming with rattle- snakes. This was a serious matter. The existence of such a den of venomous serpents, at no great Spt sear thie E a Wide-Awake George, the Boy Pioneer. distance from the house, was something that must be prevented if possible, and George con- sulted his unfailing oracle, Abe Lassiter, “T don't doubt it at all,” remarked Lassiter, when he had heard Ben Denston’s story. ‘ That bluff was always a great snake harbor, and it is as likely as not that they are more plenty than ever this season, We must do what we can to- ward cleaning them out,” “What can we do?” asked George. “Get Joe Scurl to help, if you can, and I reckon you can, as he is death on snakes, Then we will go up there in the morning, and I will shor you.” Joe Scurl was ready enough to aid in the ex- termination of a pile of snakes, The next morning he and George and Abe Lassiter, armed with axes and ash sticks, went to the bluff, taking Ben along to show them the den he had discovered. There they found a cleft in the li~estone, some twenty feet deep, and not over six feet wide at the top, the bottom of which, as well as they could see by looking over the edge, was alive with serpents. George Denston, after iving one glance at the reptiles, was not anx- ious to make a closer inspection; but Joe Scurl peered into the cavity, and eagerly examined the writbing reptiles, ‘“They’s lots o’ snakes thar,” he announced— p’ison, and them as ain’t p’ison—mighty nigh all kinds, ’cept the water-moccasii—but most o’ ’em is apt to be rattlers. It'll be a good job to clean out that den.” The job was begun by laying rollers on the flat rock near the crevice. Logs were placed on the rollers, and on them was built a rude crib, long and narrow. The crib was filled with dry leaves, brush, and fragments of dead bran- ches, and chunks of dry and green wood were piled over all. Then the mass was set on fire, and soon the crib was blazing with the heat of a big furnace, hen the fire was at its hottest, and the mass was thoroughly ignited, it was shoved forward on the rollers, and pushed over into the rocky hollow, where it fell to the bottom with a crash, Ata up acloud of smoke and sparks and cin- ders. Even above the crackling of the burning wood could be heard the hissing of the madden- ed reptiles, as they writhed and rattled in their | efforts to escape the flery death. Joe Scurl looked down into the hollow, and declared that he could see ‘‘ whole oadles” of them, tangled in hideous masses, biting each other, rushing wildly about, or flinging them- selves into the flames. The crib had broken into fragments, but the mass was burning . fiercely at the bottom of the hollow. . “ Look out, now!” exclaimed the squatter, as he drew back and seized his ash stick, ‘Them as kin git out will be crawlin’ up yer, and we must g° for ’em. Whenever you see a snake, kill it He bag to the other side of the crevice, leaving Abe Lassiter and George Denston on that side. ’ George turned pale, but grasped his stick firmly. He had a horror of snakes, but his first shudder at the sight of one was always followed health, — ee

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ae ee = Wide-Bwake George, the Boy Pioneer. @ by an intense desire to kill it. He knew that thered and his work was not #0 pressing, he the rattlesnakes, at least, were not likely to be | dangerous unless they could throw themselves into coil, and he had been taught that ash sticks were a protection to those who held them, The work began in earnest. To Joe Scurl, it seemed to be fun, though to George it was the severest task he had yet undertaken. Tho escaping snakes began to crawl up over the edge of the hollow, and out of holes and cracks in the rocks, and incessant oe was required for killing them as they appeared. Joe Scurl danced about like a wild man, striking right and left with the greatest ve- locity, and accompanying the exercise with yells and whoops. Saanter and George settled down to ‘business seriously and earnestly, and the rocks resounded with the blows of their stout sticks as they struck at all the snakes they Baw. When there were no more snakes to be seen, and they rested from their labor, the young man was covered with perspiration, and was trembling with excitement. WY % Jawge,” said Joe Scurl, “Ido believe you’re m dae “So Lam,” admitted George. ‘I have been seared all through this job, and am not ashamed tosay so. Iam glad it is over.” The rock was covered with the bodies of sexpenta, big and little, poisonous and harmless, and even in death they were a hideous sight. The dead reptiles were shoved over into the hollow, and more brush and logs were thrown upon the mass, to make a fire that would burn for several hours, “JT am as glad as George is that the job is over,” said Abe Lassiter; “‘but it was well done, and that isa comfort, We will have to give that hole another dose in the spring, and if wo keep it up the varmints will be apt to take the hint, CHAPTER IV. TROUBLE BREWING AND BEGINNING. A pretty girl in a new settlement is always sure to become a bone of contention. Lucy Denston, who was decidedly a pretty irl, was no exception to the rule. Her good Tooke and her bright and winning ways speedily became known tothe young fellows for many miles around, and much of the a et which the Denston family acquired in the neighbor- hood was due to Lucy’s attractions. George was not only proud of his handsome sister, but immensely fond of her, and he guarded her with a jealousy which gave all pons to understand that there was to be ‘‘no ooling” in that quarter, Lucy received invitations to everything in the shape of an entertainment or a social gathering that the neighborhood afforded, and George was also liberally invited, for his own egan to find more time to spare. As he was then the owner of two horses, he felt that he | could give his sister an occasional treat, such as would help to console her for her seclusion and privations, Among the entertainments to which they were invited was a bran dance at the place of a neighbor who lived several miles away, and this was attended by George and Lucy, she riding his mare Molly, and he mounted on the big sorrel horse which he had lately bought. The time of the full moon had been chosen for the festivity,'as this was to be a moonlight bran dance, and of course it was out of doors, no room that the settlement afforded being large enough to hold the guests, to say nothing of giving them space for the exercise of their agility. A circular place under the trees had been cleared of bushes and roots, and the earth was beaten down and covered thickly with bran. Some rude ‘‘puncheon” seats were prepared, and these completed the arrangements for the bran dances, with the exception of the refresh- ments, which were served in the house. The girls were attired in their brightest calico dresses, with here and there a bit of lawn as a mark of superior pretensions. The young men, mostly tall and brawny fellows, were sumptu- ously arrayed in their best home-spun, with here and there a white collar or a ‘‘ b’iled shirt,” Many of them brought their rifles, and those who did not have rifles might be reasonably sus- pected of carrying pistols or knives upon their persons. Many of them, also, were armed with wea- pons of another sort, destructive after another fashion. That is to say, they brought bottles of fiery whisky, which they took the precaution of concealing, before the dancing began, at the roots of trees, under logs, and in wood piles, all about the place. At every intermission of the festivities they could be seen strolling about in search of their hidden bottles, and privately refreshing themselves in secret places. The most noticeable of those who strolled about in search of concealed whisky was Babe Welburn. This young man, who had been christened David, but retained the name by which he was known in his childhood, was the eldest son of comparatively wealthy parents, who had emigrated from Tennessee, His father was the owner of half a dozen “higgers,” which secured for the family no little respect in a new country where that sort of property was scarce. | Babe had been petted and humored and allowed to do as he pleased, and the consequence was that he pleased to do pretty badly, presuming upon his size and strongth, as well as his father’s standing in the settlement. He had become | known as a “hard case” to such an extent that sake, as well ason her account; but he found | his work so constant and so laborious during bis | first season on the new place, that he needed all | his spare time for rest, and Lucy was not willing to go anywhere unless George could accompany er. Late in the f however, when the small crops that he had been able to raise were | the daughters of the settlers were afraid of him, although his property expectations caused to be considered as a “ good catch.” Babe Welburn had loaded himself pretty liberally with whisky on his way, to the bran dance, and during its progress he frequently resorted to a woodpile in hy nee are say —_ cealed a bottle of no sma mensio’ consequence was that he swaggered about with

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Les, ee LL “tebe eho ae fli ms ta vee eae a 7 tact rN pe 8 Wide-Awake George, the Boy Pioneen more than his usual bluster, and that his| “Nothing that he has a right to object to,” eee toward the girls was more familiar than polite. Lucy Denston took his eye early in the even- ing, and he asked her to dance with him. She had heard of him, and saw no reason to admire him, but did not wish to seem “offish,” and consented. In the course of that dance his breath and his rudeness were both offensive to her, and his subsequent pata met with a polite but decided refus When the compan up, Lucy summoned “Tam afraid,” she said, ‘‘ that that drunken fellow, Babe Welburn, will want to go home with me.” “But you don’t have to accept his compan gave signs of breaking g eorge to her side, ‘unless you~want to,” replied George, ‘‘and hope you don’t want to.” ‘ But I am afraid he will make a fuss.” **T don’t see how he can help himself, Lucy, and the best thing he can do is to behave him- self. I will see that he shall not trouble you.” “T hope you will not make him angry, George. They tell me that he is a dangerous man. “He may be dangerous to himself, but he had better not try to be dangerous to me, and he ehall not bother a sister of mine. I despise the brute.” As Lucy anticipated, Babe Welburn came and asked her if he might be allowed to see her home, and he made his offer in such a matter- of-course style, as if he could not possibly re- ceive no for an answer, that it was quite dis- agreeable to her. She briefly replied that she was going home with her brother. “ That’s no way to talk,” said he. ‘ Brothers don’t count. You are the only girl here that ve taken any notice of, and my head is set on seeing you home, I can’t allow you to say no. vd ‘But Pape will have to, Mr. Welburn,” firmly replied Lucy. ‘I came with my brother, and am foing with him,” “That won’t do at all, I tell you. My head is set on this thing.” George had been watching his sister, and was near enough to catch the meaning of this con- versation. He came to her as soon as he saw the Jook of displeasure on her face, “My sister is much obliged to you for your kindness, Mr. Welburn,” said be; “ but she can- not accept your offer. She came here with me, and prefers to go home with me,” “Is this your mix, then?’ asked the young man, with an insolent sneer, “Well, yes, it is,” mildly replied George. ‘*T will see about that,” Babe Welburn gave Lucy’s champion a black look, and walked moh ED Lucy, who feared ugly look, suggested that ti ney should try to slip off without being observed; but George, who was always in favor of doing everything openly, said that he would goand get their horses, and they would ride away as they came. : As he went to get the horses, he met a young | and ri replied George. “T heard him cursing you had better look out for him. man.” “T am a little dan, us, myself, if I am pushed too far,” remarked George. Near the horses he met Babe Welburn, who approached him with threatening looks. ‘I say, Denston,” said that young man, “how about that business of your sister?” ‘What business?” demanded George. “T want to know why it is that she don't want me to go home with her.” ‘Simply because she prefers to go home as she came, and I believe she has a right to do 80. “*T believe it is you who have put her up to have a spite against me.” “You are mistaken, Mr. Welburn, and I am sure that she has no spite against Naa “*T want you to tell her, then, that she must let me see her home to-night.” “‘T shall do nothing of the kind, and it is a waste of words to talk about it any more.” Welburn flew into a passion, and began to storm and curse, “Do you want to pick a quarrel with me?” asked George. : “Tf I should, young chap, you would know it mighty quick; and you would get hurt. I carry a pistol, and am not afraid to shoot.” “ Indeed!” exclaimed George, in a voice that was full of scorn, ‘‘ Would you reaiiy dare to shoot at an unarmed man? hata high degree of courage that must require! 1 tell you, Babe Welburn, there is no greater coward than the man who ge ea upon a pistol for settling his uarrels, and I warn you that if you want to shoot at me, you had better watch your chance, and take aim when my back is turned to you.” eeoree got his horses, mounted with Lucy, 6 home, They were not molested on the way; but he felt that he had gained a foe in Babe Welburn. CHAPTER V. 4 BEAR-HUNT. As Christmas drew near, George Denston was anticipating the slaughtering of his hogs, He had five fine porkers which he was fatten- ing for that purpose, in a small space that he had fenced in for them, at a little distance from the house. Near this inclosure he had built a pen, in which he kept several pigs, One night he was awakened by the squealing of the hogs, and hastened out to see what was the matter with them. Finding nothing to jus- tify their complaints, he went back to bed. y her he was aroused by a similar racket, and again he went out to the inclosure. The fattening hogs were awake and uneasy, but were all there, : Looking further for the cause of the dis- turbance, he discovered that two of his pigs were rear As the night was so dark that nothing could be done toward the detection or pursuit of the thief, he guarded the inclosure until morning. Then he examined the pen, and discovered the lust now. You 6 is a dangerous of a beast it aad, who asked him what he had been doing | scratches and tracks of some large animal. As be Welburn. he was unable to judge what kin

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Wide-Awake George, the Boy Pioneer. ® was that had been robbing him, he mounted his horse, and rode over to Abe Lassiter’s to consult the oracle. Lassiter, who was always obliging to his young friend, rode over acd inspected the pig- pen and the ground near it, and soon camo to a conclusion concerning the depredator. “ Tt was a b’ar,” said he. “A bear?” exclaimed George. “Nothing shorter, and it’s strange, too. I haven’t seen a bear about here—that is, near about—in two or three lage Here’s the crit- ter’s tracks, plain as print, and there’s no mis- taking those scratches on the logs. Here’s bits of fur lying about, too. The cuss has got two of your nice pigs, and he won’t be satisfied now until he pari off the whole batch.” ‘* What can I do about it?” asked George, who could not reconcile himself to the thought of losin: at “We ht build a trap,” replied Lassiter. “ How is that done?” ti “ We might dig a deep hole at the side of the m, sink some sharp-pointed stakes in the bot- m, and cover it lightly, so that the crittur would tumble in and hurt himself. Or we mighe swing a log so that it would fall on him and break his back. But it would be a sight of trouble to build a trap, and it might ketch some human.” “But I must do something,” insisted, “Of course you must, and I think, on the whole, that the Lost thing we can do is to track the b’ar and kill him. I would be mighty glad to get hold of some b’ar-meat, anyhow.” ** How can we find him?” “My dogs will trail him fast enough, and I reckon we two ought to be able to kill him. Go and get your rifle, George.” George went for his rifle, telling his mother that he was going to hunt, but saying nothing about a bear. e also took the precaution to put in his pockets a pair of derringer pistols— single barrels, and carrying a heavy bullet— decidedly a deadly weapon at close range. Abe iter got his dogs, and put them on the trail of the bear. They were animals of no rticular breed, or of a large mixture of beande, but were, as he said, “ pit coon-dogs,” and he had no doubt of their ability and will- ingness to find the bear, though they could not be depended on for a fight. The dogs, Brash and Bose, took up the trail in fine style, and folowed it through the woods at a rapid rate. It led them direct to the river and they fol- lowed it down a gorge until they reached the foot of the bluff at the top of which the war had been waged against the snakes. Finally they on at a hole in the rock, and barked vigoro re: ‘This the place,” said Lassiter. ‘‘The critter has his den in there, sure; but it must be a late thing, or we would have heard of him be- fore now.” He tried to induce the dogs to enter the hole, aud Brash finally disappeared inside; but he s00n came out with his tail between his legs, bioeccmg 4 and showing strong symptoms of ‘ear, “The b’ar ig at home, and he don’t want to be disturbed after his breakfast,” sald Abe. “I don’t see, George, but we will have to go in and see what we can do with our rifles, as those st would never fetch him out.” eorge expressed a willingness to go in. ‘*T wonder if there’s more than one of them in there,” remarked Abe, ‘I am powerful fond of b’ar-meat, and the critters must be fat now; but I really wouldn’t care to tackle two of them in that hole.” The mouth of the den was a cleft in the rock, in which two men could easily walk upright for: a little distance; but at the far end was a low and dark hole, which could only be entered ina kneeling or stooping posture, The two hunters examined their rifles care- fully, cocked them, and walked abreast into the cleft. When they reached the hole, they halted, kneeled down, and peered into the darkness. As their eyes became accustomed to the os they could see a black ghseals like a eavier chunk of darkness, lying down at the extremity of the hole. They could also catch the twinkle of a pair of small but bright eyes. ‘Looks to me as if he is lying down, with his nose on his fore paws, like a dog,” whispered Lassiter. ‘Anyhow, he is lying down, with his face toward us.” “We can hit him easily enough,” remarked pe ‘Yes, and I wish we could be as sure of kill- me him. We must run our chances, though, Take a good aim at one of those eyes, George, and give him a blizzard. My shot will follow yours,” George took a careful aim, though he wasa little nervous, as he had never hunted such game before, and pulled the trigger of his rifle. Abe Lassiter pulled the next instant, and the reports of the two guns sounded like thunder in that narrow place, and filled the hole with smoke, A deep growl told the hunters that the bear had been aroused, and that they had not yet killed him. More growls followed, and they could see the black mass rise and move tow them, “Run, George!” exclaimed Abe, and he turned and ran out of the mouth of the den. George started to follow him, but had taken only two or three steps, when he turned and faced the dark hole.” The bear rushed out from his hiding-place, gaining speed as he advanced, and had clear’ the hole and nearly reached George when the young fellow turned and faced him. Within a few feet of his foe he raised himself on his bind feet for a death-hug. George, who was standing before him in nearly an erect position, felt the hot breath of the great beast blown in his face. : He also saw that there was blood in the bear’s base a one at fore paws was hang- ng down, limp and useless. The boy wan le, but resolute. He had quickly drawn and eocked his two derringers. As the bear rose on his hind feet he presen ‘ed both pistols, reaching them forward until they | nearly touched the fur, and fired them with one reportat the hairy

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ee els RU LEE RIG heel re oa Meee Se PS __ and that those derringers of Wide-Awake George, the Boy Pioneer. The bear tottered. toppled over on the slop- ing and slippery rock, and fell toward the hole from which he had just emerged. George sunk upon one knee, but neither ad- vanced nor retreated. Abe Lassiter had just turned the rock at_ the ' mouth of the den, and had halted there to load his rifle, supposing that he was of course fol- lowed by his young friend. Hearing the double report of the derringers, he hastily rammed down a bullet and stepped back into the cleft. Before him he saw George Denston, kneeling , on the rock, and just beyond him was the bear, struggling in the agonies of death. “My God!” exclaimed Lassiter, as he ran to his young friend, ‘‘What’s this? Are you hurt?” ‘* Not a bit,” replied George. * “ And you have killed the bear! How did you do it?” George showed his two derringers. Be you staid here and shot him with those _whenlIranaway. I never heard the beat of it. Wek boy, it was almost certain death for you to stop here.” [ “Tt was death tothe bear,” remarked George. “*How could you do it? t thought you were running out with me, I told you torun. Why didn’t you do it?” “Now you are going to expose me,” said George, very meekly. ‘I was willing enough to run, and started to run, but couldn’t get any further than this. My right foot caught in a hole in the rock, and it is in there now s0 solid that I can’t stir it.” Abe Lassiter hastened to relieve his young friend, but was compelled to break the rock be- fore he could extricate the foot. “¢ Anyhow,” said hoe, “it was a big thing to | stand up to your work and send two bullets into that crittur when he was right on you. It - shows that you’ve got the best kind of nerve, a ours are worth a _ pile ina close scrimmage. . You sha’n’t lose any _ of the credit of this because you happened to get your foot caught.” They hauled out the beast, and found it to erings, but did not happen to meet Babe wel- burn at any of them. She heard, however, from various sources, that the young aristocrat of the backwoods was ‘half-crazy about her.” He was drinking harder than ever, and had been heard to de- clare that he meant to have Lucy Denston for his wife, and that no power on earth sbould hinder him. When Lucy heard this she trembled with fear, and George frowned as he wondered whai measures the desperate and unprincipled young man would take to secure his object. Lucy refused to attend any more gatherings, and did not see her strange suitor again until near the end of winter, when he made her a visit as unwelcome as it was unexpected, On this occasion he rotle his finest horse, was dressed “‘ to the nines,” and was, for a wonder, entirely sober. It was evidently his intention to makea good impression, The impression he produced in the Denston family was that his visit must miean something, and it did. A man had lately come into the neighborhood and started a singing-school, and Babe Welburn wished Lucy to attend it in his company. She made her excuses as well as she could, al- leging her household duties and her mother’s feeble health; but these did not: satisfy him, and finally she said that she did not go any- where except with her brother, and could not make him an exception to the rule, “That is only a pretense,” angrily exclaimed Welburn. ‘I know that you went with Lon Brewer to Hugh Craik’s wedding.” Then Lucy’s spirit rose, and she flatly de clared that she would not go anywhere with Babe Welburn under any circumstances, This remark, and the tone of decision that ac- companied it, settled the question, and he left the house downcast and indignant, George Denston went with him to the feace where his horse was hitched, and came in for the wrath which he had refrained from visiting upon Lucy. “T would like to know, Denston,” said he, “why it is that your sister hus got a spite against me,” be a large he-bear, and as fat, so Abe said, as : : * ‘Tam sure that my sister has no spite against butter, Bi _ Lassiter proceeded to skin this royal game, | youor any other person,” mildly replied George. 1 while George hastened to the house for a horse. “ Why is it, then, that she won’t go with me ’ to the singing-school or anywhere else?” They divided the meat, and the skin was lett eine ting ciwen, sane tap end. wal mt ; to him who had killed the bear, as a well- ren c deserved trophy. George confessed that he had | ought to be sufficient to satisfy a gentleman.” _ gained in bear-meat enough to pay him for the “Do you mean to hint that [ am not a gentle- loss of his pigs. man? You had better take care what you say, | . When ‘Abo Lassiter told the story of this | I’ve got a grudge against you, anyhow, as I be- | bear-hunt, he did not fail to give his young | eve that you are at the bottom of this busi- | friend plenty of credit, but omitted to make | ness.” ; any mention of the accident that had prevented “You may believe what you please, Mr, Babe | him from retreating. Welburn, but I can tell you that, until you _ So another big exploit was scored to the | drink less whisky and learn better manners, a \ credit of “‘ Wide-awake George.” girl who respects herself will have a good enough ina \ reason for refusing to go anywhere with you.” hen , “That's your notion, is it? Well, I can get | eg , along without learning anything that an Indiana i ; E> Xs CHAPTER VI. scrub can teach me, Perhaps you do not know s : TROUBLE AT A LOG:ROLLENG: bee Badin your folks an honor in coming “‘T would never have thought of looking at it in that light,” coolly replied George. _ During the winter Lucy Denston accom- _ panied her brother to several neighborhood gath-

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Wide-Awake George, the Boy Pioneer. i “ve # great mind to give youa good thrash- | ing, to teach you better sense.” | “Perhaps you might make a miss of it. But if you think that thrashing her brother is the | best way to court a girl, just pitch in.” | Babe Welburn did not pitch in, but sullenly | mounted his horse and rode away. _ In the spring George Denston had a log-roll- ing. With the help of Ben he had cleared and fenced quite a piece of ground during the win- ter, and he called upon the neighbors to help him pile the logs together, so that they could be burned, thus completing the clearing of the ground. There was not much “ rolling” about it, as the logs were mostly carried by squads of men upon lengths of sapling, called ‘‘ sticks,” to the place where they were to be piled. The neighbors turned out in goodly numbers, | and among them, to the surprise of everybody, came Babe Welburn, who was usually too much opposed to work to bear a hand at house-raising and log-rolling. On this occasion, though he did not go to the | house to partake of tho refreshments that were prepared for the company, he proved himself quite active and efficient, working with a will, and generally in the squad to which George Denston was attached, George had as little as possible to say to him, treating him merely with politeness, while Wel- burn seemed to be very friendly; but the former noticed that he made frequent visits to the flask that he had brought in his coat pocket, and oc- casionally noticed a dangerous alan in his eye that betokened possible trouble. The trouble did not come until the day was nearly ended, and then it came in a way that George could not have anticipated. A short and heavy log was to be carried toa pile, and four young men had relied it onto their sticks for the purpose of lifting it. One of these four was George Denston, who was at the for- ward end, and his partner at the stick was Babe Welburn. George saw that the log would have to be carried for a part of the distance along a side hill, and proposed that they should get more help. a Nonsense!” exclaimed Babe ‘Welburn, “We can carry the log easy enough, if you are any account,” ¢ | “T can carry my end,” said George; ‘but | we will all have to lift alike, or somebody may | get hurt,” The four bent to the work, and lifted the log. It was quite a strain to George; but he felt equal to the task when he got ‘straightened p. The side hill along which the log was to be | carried was a short and narrow one, but was pretty steep, and was muddy and slippery. As George was on the lower side, his work was doubdly difficult, and he was obliged to move slowly and carefully to keep his footing. Suddenly, when they had reached the worst part of the route, Babe Welburn canted his stick | up, throwing the weight of the log upon his | staggering partner. E ‘ George at once guessed that the object of this trick was to force him to loose his hold and drop his stick, so that the log might fall upon him and crush him or seriously injure him. , At the same moment his foot slipped. _ But he set his teeth, griped the stick tighter than ever, and regained his footing. ‘“‘Jump out, Tom!” he said to the man be- hind him, who had a much better chance to get out of the way of the log than he had. Then he dropped his stick, and sprung fone ward, The falling log grazed his feet, and he fell over into the mud, but out of the reach of dan- ger, while the log went crashing down to the foot of the descent. 2 He picked himself up, and walked to the top of the slope, where his late stick partner stood, laughing at him. ; o hy, you are no good at all,” said Wel- burn. “You can’t tote a log worth a cent, | You have no more strength than a kitten.” But he stopped bis laughing as the person he was laughing at approac ed him. George Denston’s face, where it was not cov- ered with mud, was pale as death, and his eyes blazed with an unusual fire, ; “You infernal scoundrel!” he exclaimed, as he shook his fist in Welburn’s face. y ‘What do you mean?” asked the other, step- ping back. ei ‘You threw that log over on me, so that ib might sfhash me, and you did it on purpose.” “You are a liar!” ¥ox “You put two lives in peril, so that you might gain a dirty bit of revenge, and you are no better than a murderer, you mean, coward- ly skunk!” Babe Welburn doubled up his fist and struck Be viciously at bis accuser, who easily warded off the blow, Then a struggle began that brought all the other log-rollers running to the spot. _ Their sympathies were with George, especial- ly when the other two men who had hadholdof the fallen log explained the facts of the case, Therefore he was sure of fair play. ; . Though tall and strong for his years, ho was _ still a little f, How compared with Welburn, and on this account the odds seemed to largely against him. But he had been trained to the skillful uso of his hands, and the contest — had hardly begun, when he showed the results | of his training, to the astonishment of the by- standers. He maneuvered so as to keep his antagonist — on the slope below him, thus neutralizing the | latier’s advantage in bight. His clean and tem- perate life showed itself in bis hard muscles — and healthy lungs, and he had a just indigna- — tion to back him, while the other knew that he had been guilty of a mean and cowardly trick. Welburn soon perceived the superior science of his opponent, and tried to rush jn and clinch; but every effort was prevented by the lithe and — active young fellow, who never failed to slip away from his grasp, or to plant a telling blow on his face or breast. ; He speedily showed the effects of bis punish- — ment, and fought wildly, striking out with — more vigor than discretion, and puffing and panting like a steam-engine. . Then George saw his chance, and ran in, seizing his antaguntel around the waist, tripping

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12 Wide-Awake George, the Boy Pioneer. him quickly, and throwing him heavily on his snarling, Snap settled the case of the coon back in the mud. “Give it to him, George!” shouted the crowd, most of whom were glad enough to see the! bi; bully worsted in such a fair fight and for suc @ good cause. | and Snap’s master slung the carcass over his shoul- der. “Talk about coon-dogs!” exclaimed Joe, “Why, thar ain’t a dog in the hull o’ Racken- sack, to say nothin’ o’ this yer settlement, as ’ud ut George put in only one telling blow on his be a patchin’ to my Snap. Ef he could on’ antagonist’s mouth, to stop the stream of curses | that flowed from it, and held him firmly to the | _ ground until he cried ‘ enough.” Babe Welburn was a sorry sight when he rose to his feet. One eye was closed, his face- was bleeding, and his clothes were covered with mud. | “You will pay for this yet,” he said, as he | walked away. George made no answer to his threat, and he put on his coat, mounted his horse, and rode | off, CHAPTER VII. A COON-HUNT, AND BIG GAME. SHORTLY after the unfortunate difficulty at the log-rolling, Joe Scurl rt to George Denston that they should indulge in a coon- hunt, and George gladly consented. He was as fond of coon-hunts as any plantation darky could be, and Ben, who had never seen one, was eager to have an experience of the sporta The first necessity of a successful coon-hunt is a@ good coon-dog. In fact, it is the dog that does the hunting, and the human hunters ac- geapany him for the purpose of securing the game when he has cornered it. Joe Scurl boasted the ownership of the best coon-dog in the country. Abe Lassiter’s Brash and Bose were well enough in their way; but his Snap was ‘ta heavy coon-dog from Sugar Creek,” unequaled at finding and treeing a coon, and he could “‘ tackle the worst old coon that ever wore teeth, and chaw him limbless.” This marvelous dog, which was not remark- able for beauty or any other accomplishments than coon-bunting, was of course the most im- keaoad member of the party. Joe Scurl and orge carried rifles, mainly as a matter of habit, and Ben bore an ax for cutting down the trees in which the coons took refuge. George also put his two derringers in his pocket, as he had ma firm believer in their usefulness since his fight with the bear. It was a moonlight night when they went to the river bottom to look for coons, and the iy- dications were good for plenty of sport. They had been out but a little while when Snap started a coon, and when the hunters reached him he was barking vigorously at the foot of a young hickory tree, near the top of which the coon could be plainly seen. Tt was the work of but a few minutes to cut down the hickory, and as it fell the attention a all was concentrated upon the coon and the og. His coonship had hardly touched the ground, and had not had a moment’s time to recover from his surprise, when Snap was upon him, and the hunters ran up to see the fight. climb a tree, thar wouldn’t be a live coon left within ten mile o’ yer.” Nobody objected to the praise of Snap, and he set out in search of another coon, But it did not seem to be a first-rate night for coons, and they tramped about the bottom fully an hour before he started another ‘‘varmint.” This one he quickly treed in a large and knurly oak, nearly three feet in diameter at the butt. Joe Scurl walked around the tree, and looked at it with an air of disgust. “Tt ain’t gwine to pay us to cut down that tree,” said he. ‘I don’t see why the critters couldn’t ba’ tuck to a saplin’, I hate to shoota coon, as it spiles the fun, and don’t do justice to the dogs.” The coon was soon located on a large limb that reached out far from the trunk, and Ben roposed to climb the tree and chop off the fimb.. He was ‘‘boosted” up, and goon made lively play with his ax among the leaves and branches, The attention of the dog was attracted from the tree to the coon, and the branch soon cracked and fell, ‘‘shedding” the coon, which had no sooner touched the ground than it was seized by Snap. A lively tussle ensued, and the coon, which was an old and vigorous one, fought so flercely that the dog had no easy task to conquer it; but victory finally perched upon the banner of Snap, and his master slung another dead coon over his shoulder. He was sent on to search for another coon, and the hunters had another tramp. They lost sight of Snap for awhile; then they heard him barking vociferously, and finally found him at the foot of a swamp oak that was heavy with branches and foliage. “That is jest the owdaciousest coon-dog 1 ever see or heerd of,” remarked his master. “He kin start up more coons in a night than any three dogs that kin be fotched together. By the way ho barks, he ‘must ha’ treed the biggest kind of a varmint up thar, and the tussle will be suthin’ wu’th lookin’ at,” Ben Denston, who was foremost in the hunt, and always eager to be the first to catch sight of tke game, ran forward toward the tree, while the others followed more slowly, looking up as they went, and peenng sharply into the dense leafage of the oak. “Cre-ation!” exclaimed Ben, as he halted near the tree. “‘ You may well say that’s a big coon. It’s bigger than Snap himself.” “Run away, Ben!” shouted Joe Scurl, who had caught sight of the object at the same instant. ‘Run back, boy! It’s a pant’er!” ‘‘ 4 panther?” exclaimed George, cocking his- | rifle as he spoke. But it was not a very interesting struggle, as | the coon was a young one, and was taken at a | he comes!” great disadvantage. ‘‘Yes,a pant’er! Run, boy! Oh, lordy! thar Ben had started to run asa dark body shot After a brief rough-and-tumble of biting and from the tree through the air, and the next

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Wide-Awake George, the Boy Pioneer. moment the boy was sprawling on the ground. But Ben, in his flurry, had run toward the tree, instead of from it, and the panther had overshot his mark. He had struck the boy sufficiently to knock him down, and had landed just beyond him, No sooner had he reached the ground than Snap seized him, probably laboring under the impres- sion that he was some new kind of a coon. But the struggle between the dog and the panther was too unequal to last long, and it was at once evident that Snap, eager and ‘ owda- cious” though he was, could afford hS antagonist no sort of cmusement. Nobody had a clearer conception of this fact than Snap’s master, who ran forward with the intention of taking his dog’s part in the fight. “Shoot him, Jawge!” he shouted. ‘ Shoot the varmint, or Snap’s a goner!” George had run toward bis brother, and was within a few yards of the panther when he struck the ground. He hastened forward with his cocked rifle when the dog seized the beast, but was thinking of Ben’s safety much n.ore than of Snap’s. He was willing enough to shoot; but how to shoot with effect, and without doing more damage than he wanted to do, was a serious question. - The panther and the dog were rolling and tumbling about upon the ground, in an almost inextricable mass, covering several yards of space in their struggle, and the barks, yelps, screeches and snarls were quite confusing. Ben was trying to extricate himself from the tangle, but had not yet got out of reach of the combatants, and it was hard for the quickest eye to judge when and where to shoot, George was not a person to hesitate, or to take any half-way measures, He stepped right up to the panther before he could free himself from the hold of the dog, watched his chance, put the muzzle of his rifle to his ear, and fired. The charge blew a hole through the head of the ugly beast, which rolled over, and, after a few convulsive struggles, it was dead. This entire ‘“‘skrimmage,” from the panther’s spring until his death, though it has taken so many words to describe it, occupied but a few seconds of time, and it was all over when Joe Scurl reached the spot. He at once dropped his rifle, picked ae Snap, and began to examine his wounds, with many lamentations over the damage that had been done to ‘‘ the heaviest coon-dog that ever came from Sugar Creek.” - Ben Denston had scrambled to his feet, and his brother hastened to him, as if he were even a more important persouage than a coon-dog. He was trembling all over, but with excite- | ment rather than with fear, and his clothes were torn, and his face and hands were bleeding. “Are you badly hurt?” asked George. ‘Not much, I guess,” replied the boy. am scratched up a little, but don’t think it amounts to anything. Hark, George! What's that?” {t was a loud, shrill, and unearthly scream, something weird and frightful to hear in the forest at night, and enough to send a chill through the warmest blood. “tT | | 138 The next instant the creature that uttered the yell—the mate of the dead panther—appeared from the depths of the forest, coming toward the group with great 5 lashing its tail, and splitting the air with yells, “Tt¢is another panther!” exclaimed George, ** Joe, come and shoot it, quick!” But Joe Scurl was so intently occupied in examining the wounds of his dog, that he seemed neither to see nor to hear anything else, George hastily picked up the squatter’s rifle, and cocked it, “Run, Ben!” he said, as he turned to face the new foe. But Ben had no idea of running, when he saw bis brother stand his ground. As the panther came on, George fired the rifle with a quick aim, The beast was hit, but the shot neither stopped nor delayed its progress, and George drew his derringers, and cocked and fired them as rapidly as he could, without giving an inch of ground, But a panther, like other members of the cat tribe, is very tenacious of life, and usually requires a great deal of killing. As George fired his last shot, the beast made its final spring, and struck bin. on the breast, knocking him over, though blood was pouring from its wounds. It might have made an end of the brave lad’s life before its own death-struggle came; but Ben stood there with his ax raised, and at once brought the keen edge down upon the back of the brute’s neck, nearly chopping off its head, George threw off the bi body, and rose to his feet, dripping with blood, and not until then did Joe Scurl seem to comprehend what had happened. ‘““Why, boys,” said he, “this yer’s been a powerful skrimmage, and Snap is mighty bad hurt, though I pg he'll git over it, with good keer.” George felt inclined to consign Snap to Hali- fax; but he said nothing, and contented him- self with ascertaining that only a small portion ‘of the blood that covered him was his own. “T reckon we won't hunt any more coons to- night,” said Joe. ‘‘ We've struck bigger game, and Snap is done up. Now, Jawge, git out yer knife, and I'll show you how to take the hide off’n a pant’er.” The pelts were soon removed from the two big beasts, and Joe LAG eat as a division of the spoils, that he should keep the coons, and the two brothers should take the panther-skins, “You've ’arned ’em, like Snap ’arned the opens, said he, ‘Thar ain’t no mistake about at. This arrangement was satisfactory to George, who bundled up the panther-pelts, and slung | them over his shoulder. “I say, George,” remarked Ben, when they were nearly home, ‘‘ we are in a pretty bad fix, to look at. " I suppose we will have to tell mother all about it.” “Of course we must,” ‘lam afraid she won’t let me go coon-hunt ing again,” ——-

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CHAPTER VIII, GEORGE DENSTON’S DUEL. Ir was soon made evident to George Denston that the thrashing which he administered to | Babe Welburn at the log-rolling had not ended | hi: feud with that backwoods aristocrat. ; Welburn had brooded over his wrongs, and __ had soaked them in whisky, until he came to the ’ conclusion that hé must have satisfaction for the | treatment he had received, and he saw but one - Way to get it openly and above-board. \ rge was plowing in his new ground one morning, an acquaintance of his named Steve _ Vancil rode up, hitched his horse, and came over to where he was seg 2 __.**T have come from Babe Welburn,” said Van- cil, ‘‘and I suppose you know what I am after.” m “ = Idon’t, though,” replied George. ‘‘ What “Babe wants to fight you.” “T should think he had got enough out of me in that line.” HL It is not that sort of a fight that he is hunt- f What kind of a fight does he want, then?” | ‘Here is a note that he sent, and I reckon it Ys “ka explain what he wants, better than I can you. _ George read Babe Welburn’s note, which was _ nothing less than a challenge to fight a duel, _ couched in the language required by “ the | code.” “TY understand this well enough,” said George; “but there is one thing that is wrong about it. . He says that he demands the satisfaction due to a gentleman, and I don’t believe that I consider | him a gentleman.” ? *“That won’t do at all,” said Vancil. “TI “would not have brought his message unless he | was a gentleman, and if you say that he is not a gentleman, that reflects upon me.” i cay hope you don’t want to pick a quarrel with _ me, too,” remarked George. “Not if can help it; but this business must be attended to in the he shape.” | _ “Well, I suppose I must try to satisfy him; i but I can't be ina hurry about it. I shall have _ to find a second, and consult with him, and that | will take time.” | “I hope you don’t mean to back out, Den- ) mn “T will tell a just what I do mean to do, | te teve Vancil. mean to act on my own judg- | b toMy and to do what I believe to be the right thing. This is a busy time of the year with us F ers, though I don’t suppose that Mr, Babe | Welburn allows any work to worry him. I can’t | afford to hurry myself to please him, but will attend to his affair as soon as I reasonably can. If that don’t suit you, lam sorry; but it is the best I can do.” Vancil was obliged to be satisfied, and George ept on plowing until dinner time, thinking te the new trouble that had been forced upon | him,. _ After dinner he rode over to Abe Lassiter’s, “ le. wnd showed him the challenge, _ This is a bad piece of business,” said Ganges | that the trouble “and Iam s0 to this point.” ~ "is Wide-Awake George, the Boy Pioneer. “So am I” replied George—“sorry on ac count of my folks, more than on my own ac- count, What had I better do about it?” “ As it is a sure enough challenge, I amafraid you will have to accept it. If you should not, Babe Welburn would feel himself at liberty to jayhawk you, and you would get no sympathy. tt is the custom of the country, you know.” “*T bad already made up my mind to accept the challenge, but in my own way.” “Yes; as youare the challenged party, you have the choice of weapons, and, as you are such a fine shot with a pistol, you will have at least as good a chance as he has,” “That is not exactly the point I am driving at,” replied George. ‘‘I would hate to stand up and shoot at a man in that way, knowing that I might kill him. I propose that you shall act as my second, and that my two derringers shall be the pistols to be used. The seconds shall choose a disinterested man to load the pistols, who shall load one of them with powder and ball, and the other with ball only. Babe Wel- burn and I shall toss up for the choice of pis- tols, and then toss up for the first fire. We will each take the same risk, and neither will know whether he holds a pistol that can kill,” “That is fair enough, and he can’t object to it,” said Lassiter. ‘But I would rather, for your sake that you should fight in the old-fash- loned way.” 2 George preferred the arrangement that he proposed, and Abe Lassiter went off to confer with Steve Vancil and settle the preliminaries, while his young friend returned to his’ work. Babe Welburn objected strongly to the style of encounter that his antagonist bad settled upon, and spoke of it as ‘‘a cowardly make- shift, entirely unfit for gentlemen;” but his ob- jections were overrule saw nothing cowardly or unequal in George's proposal. “It is just as fair for one as it is for the other,” said Steve Vancil, and the terms were soon agreed upon, and it was settled that the encounter should take place the next morning, in a glade on Abe Lassiter’s land. George Denston, it must be confessed, looked forward to this contest with no little uneasi- ness. If he should fall, he would leave his mo- ther and sister with no protector or bre«d-win- ner but his brother Ben, and that would bea great calamity for them. He also considered it very unfair that his life should be pitted against that of Babe Welburn, who had nobody dependent upon him, and who was no better than a drone in a hive. But it was true, as Abe Lassiter had told him, that he could not maintain any decent standing in the settlement if he should refuse the challenge, and he thought that he might as well be killed as be driven away. Besides, he felt that in any event he had shifted the responsibility from his own shoul- ders. If he should happen to draw the loaded pistol, and should happen to kill his anta- onist, it could not be said that he had done the deed intentionally, as it must be charged to “‘luck,” If he should happen to be the victim, “luck” would be responsible for his fate, is reasoning may not be entirely satisfactory by his second, who. — a

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occasion. Of course the young fellow could say nothing of this serious matter to his family, who would learn of the duel only by its result, and he went to the place of meeting with no company but Abe Lassiter. When he reached the glade he was surprised to discover several young men there, and more came with Babe Welburn and Steve Vancil. Tidings of the expected encounter had quietly gone about, and it naturally attracted as many as heard of it. George also perceived that the most of those on the ground were Welburn’s cronies; but he relied on the presence of his faithful friend Abe Lassiter, and of Lon Brewer, whom he ha reason to consider friendly to his family, and he had no fear of unfair treatment. Welburn had nerved himself for the occasion with frequent ‘“‘horns”—in fact, his nerves could never be relied upon unless they were stimulated—and he showed no little excitement; but his opponent viewed the arrangements coolly, if not with indifference, There was naturally a little difficulty in the choice of a disinterested person to load the pis- tols; but the seconds finally settled on Lon Brewer, though Welburn objected to him. ‘What's the use?” Vancil asked his principal. ** As you are going to toss up for the pistols and for bs first ot, I don’t see how any trick can creep in, Lon Brewer took the pistols away, and loaded them according to the agreement. Then he brought them ,back, and Jaid them on a stump, covering them with his handkerchief so that only the butts could be seen. In the toss-up for the derringers George Dens- ton won the choice, and he took the one which was nearest to him, as there was really no choice, In the toss up for the first shot Babe Welburn won, and it was with a triumphant air that he seized his pistol, though his exultation might well have been tempered by a doubt as to whether the pistol was loaded with a ball, The ground was paced off, and the two oppo- - nents took their places at th for them, George Denston was pale, but gave no sign of excitement or fear, FTe presented his right side to his antagonist, and his pistol was held by his right hand against his right leg. Babe Welburn, with a malicious look on his face, was about to take aim over his arm, when George’s second promptly stopped him. “None 0’ that!” shouted Abe Lassiter, ‘* none o’ that, or I'll shoot you where you stand!” As the bystanders were not disposed to back him up in this bit of unfair play, Welburn as- ech the proper position, and fired at the word, George Denston stood there unhurt! It was evident to him from the report of the eae if not to the others, that fortune had avored him, and that there had been no ball in the shot that was fired at him, By A look of vexation and disappointed malice settled on Babo Welburn’s face, as he turned so as to present his side to his antagonist. to a moralist; but it was the best he had for the Wide-Awake George, the Boy Pioneer. e stations marked | | Jawge, I’ve got holt. of jest the biggest t) nahiee raised his derringer; and glanced along the barrel. oo ¥ The opposing second had begun to count, One— When, to the astonishment of all, Babe Wel- burn turned and fled. bs “Tes a trick! It’s a swindle!” he shouted,as he scampered to the nearest tree, W's George fired in the air. “4 “That is what I meant to do, anyhow,”he | said, as he stepped forward and picked up the i weapon which the other had froppes: d “Tt’s a trick!’ repeated Welburn, when he =| was overhauled by his friends. “That fellow knew which pistol had the ball in it. WasTt going to stand there and let him shoot medown like a dog?” But this view of the case found no favor even with his closest friends, and his second did not condescend to accompany him when hesneaked = ati from the ground. ts “1 don’t think he will trouble George,” said Abe Lassiter, as with his young friend. ; Tn fact, the ridicule of his acquaintances was too much for Babe Welburn to endure, and he F soon left the neighborhood. His father said that he had gone to a college in Virginia, , ouany more, e went home CHAPTER IX. 4 BIG HONEY FIND, Summer work went on thrivingly at the Denston place. By that time George and Ben __ had quite a little farm to tend, whichthey had = pares out of the forest by their own unaided abor. A It is true that only a small portion of the land they tilled was completely cleared; but they had fenced in a pretty big field, in which they | — had chopped down the small trees, cleaned off — the brush, and ‘ girdled” the large timber by cutting aa | around the base so astodeaden | the trees. They were thus able tocultivatethe | field, leaving the dead trees to be cleared offat | their leisure, or to rot and fall in the course of — al ears, a is Their crops were doing finely, their “ truck atch” was flourishing, Molly had produced a ‘| e colt which was Ben’s pet and pride, acalf —_| had been born, the grounds were alive with chickens and ducks and geese, and there was | good reason tq believe that the second yearof | | Bnei backwoods farming vould find the family self-supporting. ; When ¢ George's coon was “laid by,” and he was glad that the job was off his hands, Joe Scurl came to him, and proposed a hunt, | - “T hope it is not another coon-huntfor pam- | thers,” remarked George, a “No, indeedy. It’s a heap easier and safer & 4 thing than that, and it’s a daylight job, too. Na The kind of a hunt I’m arternow isa bee-hunt.” — se “That is quite out of my line, Joe, I know — nothing about bees, except that they sting, thougt they can’t bite or scratch, sy “ Now you're jokin’; but Iain’t. I tell you, — a ou are the on’y one 1 a I don’t pris pe bes! out in the bee line, and mean to let into it. Ef may I never skin another coon in this worl “What is it, Joe?” sé

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16 ‘Wide-Awake George, the Boy Pioneer. “ve noticed when I’ve been ont in the woods that thar’s more wild bees flyin’ this sea- son than I ever see afore, The woods is full of ‘em. I’ve noticed, too, that when they git loaded they allers take one course. It stands to reason that thar’s a powerful big settlement of ’em somewhar, and the man who kin find it is liable to pack home a ’stronary pile o’ honey. Pye had it in my head to go arter them bees; but I allowed that I wanted a pardner, and I says to myself, says I, Jawge Denston is the ‘dner for me, and the only chap I mean to et into this thing.” **T am ever so much obliged to you, Joe, and will go with you to hunt the bees whenever you are ready. hen shall it be?” ** To-morrow mornin’ airly.” The next ipo | the two hunters set out, Joe armed only with a small tin box containing a little honey, and a ZF Ta compass. George wanted to carry his , but was persuaded to leave it at home, and to take in its place an ax, - to cut down the tree in which they would prob- find the honey. an : 5 hey went into the woods, to the place where ‘oe had last noticed the wild bees, and he inted them out to his companion as they were lying pretty thickly about. Then ho opened his box, placed it on a log, and set his compass near it, and the two hunters pag themselves within easy sight of the Pretty soon a bee lighted on the box, loaded himself with honey, and flew away. ‘** Jest you notice the course he takes,” said Joe. ‘ That bee will go as straight to his home as straight kin be. He takes what we call a bee-line, and that’s the way we know how to find ’em.” “Shall we go on and find them, then?” “Not yet. Wait till a few more light on the honey. I want you to watch ’em, so’s you kin know fur sartin how the thing works.” Two more bees lighted on the box, secured their loads of honey, and flew off in exactly the same direction that was taken by the first. “Now we've got the line, and no mistake about it,” said Joe, as he examined his com- pass. He closed the box, and put it in his pocket, took up his compass, and started off, closely followed by George. The squatter’s eye was true enough to enable him to follow the course taken by the bees very nearly, and he suffered nothing to cause him to deviate from it, sighting from one tree to an- other, and keeping his attention entirely fixed upon his aim. When he came to an obstruction, he passed around it, set down his compass, let the needle | come to a rest, and again took up the course upon which he had started. In spite of these delays, they traveled at a pretty rapid pace. “Do you really mean to say,” asked George, “that you can follow that bee-line so closely as to come to the tree where the bees hide their honey?” “Wal, Jawge, I allow that I kin foller the line nigh as ight as the bee made it.” “But the tree may be miles from here, and | we may miss it as we Zo,” ‘'That’s all so; but we kin on’y do our best. | Ef we do miss it, we must try ag’in, and keep on tryin’. This is a business that needs a heap ° patience. 7 ‘I believe you. It seems to me to be about the same as looking for a needle in a hay- stack.” ‘ ao the needie kin be found, Jawge, ef it’s ar. Their course led them to the river, and they | descended the steep bluff, forded the stream, = reached the bottom land on the other side, ‘We must be nigh about the place now,” said Joe, as he examined his compass, and took a fresh start. ‘Thar’s lots o’ gum treesin this bottom, and it’s in the holler gums that the bees like to lay up thar honey. Keep yer eyes peeled now, Jawge, and watch all the trees, to see if bees are flyin’ into any o’ ’em.” George used his eyes as well as he could, but saw no indication of a bee-tree. He said, on the contrary, that he thought he had seen several bees going in another d on, oe came to a halt, and set down his compass. After observing the indications carefully, he concluded that they must have gone out of their course, or passed the tree they were seek- ing. a was n to attract another bee, and to get a new course, and the honey was opened and watched. when he rose and flew away his flight was eagerly watched. “‘ Jesso,” remarked the squatter. ‘‘ We’ve come a leetle outen the way, and hev ap by the tree. So we must take the back track. But the gum must be nigh hand, or we’ve got to cross the river ag’in, and that ’ud be bad.” He took up the compass, and the two hunters started on the new course, carefully examining the trees as they went. They reached the river without finding any bee-tree, and Joe Scurl’s countenance fell. Not only would they have to cross the river again, but right before them on the opposite side rose a bluff, some fifty feet high, of solid limestone, without a break or a tree or a bush, which they could not hope to climb. “This is wot mought be ealled a stumper,” said Joe. “Ef we could fly as the bees fly, it would be an easy job; but thar ain’t the man livin’ as could climb that bluff and foller a straight course,” # at can we do about it?” asked George, who was getting tired of this seemingly endless search, “Wal, Jawge, thar’s a big pile o’ honey in these woods, and we must git it. Jest now I am gwine to sight onto a tree on top o’ the bluff, and then go around and take a fresh start from that tree. Lemme see, now, wot tree ’ll the course strike?” He glanced at his compass, and then looked up at the top of the bluff. Suddenly he uttered an exclamation of sur- prise and joy. i saree) _ Oh, Jawge! Look thar! Look up ar “ George looked eagerly, but did not know They did not have to wait long for a bee, aud *

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« Wide-Awake George, the Boy Pioneer. i7 ae his friend meant until it was pointed out m. Then he saw a number of bees flying in and out of a hole in the rock, a little more than half way up the bluff. “That's it, Jawge!” exclaimed the squatter. “That's the bee-tree we've been huntin’, and it ain’t a tree at all, but a bluff. Thar cain’t be a bit o’ doubt that the bees hev got a big setitle- ment in that hole, and thar’s nothin’ short o’ whole oodles o’ honey in the rock, outen the way o’ varmints and everythin’.” “ How are we going to get at it, then?” “[ told yer, Jawge, that this bee-huntin’ business ta a heap o’ patience; but we've struck the biggest find, and struck it the easiest, of anythin’ I ever see or heard of. How are we wine to git at it? Why, Jawge, we will go Eome-thar ain’t no use 0’ markin’ that tree, as nobody else is gwine to find it afore we git back—and in the mornin’ we'll come over yer with a wagon, and tubs, and kittles, and a rope, and we'll make a ladder, and we’ll kerry home sech a load o’ honey as’ll make the folks open the’r eyes.” The precise spot was carefully located, so that the bunters might easily find it on their return, and they went home, Early the next oe they set out, with George’s wagon loaded with so many tubs and buckets and tin pails, that Mrs. Denston sug- gested that they must have found a honey- mine. “That's jest wot we’ve been doin’, mum,” re- plied Joe Scurl. ‘‘’Tain’t nothin’ short o’ that, ef I know bees. Ben, who was greatly excited by the honey find, was allowed to accompany them, and they crossed the river at the usual wagon ford. Then they meandered along through the bottom, cut- ting a way for the team where it was necessary to do so, and finally reached the river at a point posite the bluff in which the bees had made thoir home. They cut down a tall white-oak sapling, trimmed its branches for a part of their ladder, and made the rest by driving stout pins into holes bored in the trunk. his they carried across the stream, and set it up against the bluff, and Joe prepared to mount to the hive. * The bees will sting you to death,” said George, e No, they won't. I reckon I know bees, and I'll soon settle that part o’ the business.” The squatter did understand bees, and proved his ability to rob their hives by smoking them out in short order, When he got into the crevice where they had stored their sweets, he fairly screamed with de- light. he size of the find far surpassed his expecta- tions, and he hastened to tear off the masses of comb and to let them down in a bucket to Ben, who passed the bucket to George, who waded the stream and emptied them into the tubs in the wag ‘on. They filled all the vessels poo Bog brought, and left some honey in the as Joo, said, “fur the bees to start housekeepin’ iy It was near night when hog ome, and the astonishment 0! George’s er and sister was immense. They not only opened their eyes to the widest extent, but kept them open, and were so bewildered that they could hardly be persuaded to help take care of the load. As for Joe Scurl, he seemed hardly to know whether he stood on his head or his feet, and he was continually breaking out in new raptures. Such a honey find, he said, had never been heard of in that region, and it would be talked about as long as Rackensack kept her head above water, The next day, after reserving a sufficient ee, for home consumption, he and George rove twenty miles to-sell their honey, and the fone, was a continual jollification for Joe curl, He received money enough to keep him in idleness for a long time, and George Denston’s share was more than acceptable to his family, CHAPTER X THE TURKEY SOOT. AmonG the few sports and pastimes with which the Christmas season was celebrated in the backwoods was a “ turkey shoot,” The person who furnished this amusement for the settlement was a free black man named Aaron Wipes, to whom Christmas always brought quite a harvest, During the rest of the year he raised turkeys, which he set up to be shot at on Christmas Day at “ two bits,” or twenty-five cents, a shot, the conditions of the matich Se that the shooting should be with rifles, off-hand, and that the tur- bb should be shot in the head, If a fowl was killed by being hit in any other part of the body, it reverted to Aaron. It may be supposed that such prices and terms would make Aaron’s turkey-skoots quite profit- able to him; but the truth is thatthe men of the settlement, young and old, were such close shots that turkeys’ heads were not safe before the muzzies of their rifles, and the old darky’s gains were seldom what he would wish them to be, There were some marksmen of the neighbor- hood whom he specially dreaded, and among them was George Denston. This was a late thing, as George was a new- comer, and had only recently gained reputation as a good shot; but he had shown such skill in the use of the rifle as had already made him renowned. Finding himself in a country where game was abundant and worth the killing, he had devoted allhis spare time to huntifig, and it was not long before he surpassed Joe Scurl in the art of — ch the squatter considered himself a mas- r. He could call up a wild turkey in the woods until it came within range of his unerring rifle, and when he drew a bead on such game he al- ways aimed at the head. Indeed, he would have considered it worse than a miss to hit any kind of game in the body, unless it should be some such as @ pan’ bear. A part of the living of the Denston fam- riffle, and in shoot- Thus it was not surprising that when George Deuston made his appearance af the curkay-

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~ psurroun ‘ Wide-Awake George, the Boy Pioneer. shoot, and proposed to compete for the prizes, Aaron protested pretty vigorously. “Dis yer ain’t gwine to do at all,” said he. ‘Ff you’s got a notion ob shootin’ in dis yer turkey shoot, Marse Jawge, I'll hab to cha’ge yer fo’ bits a shot.” ““Why do you double the price on me, Aaron?’ asked the young man. “Cause Ise hearn tell ob you, Marse Jawge, and I knows all ’bout yer shootin’, an’ you | cain’t shoot no turkeys yer, ’thout you put up fo’ bits a shot.” “That is rather hard on me, Aaron; but I don’t want to rob you, and I will try a couple, of turkeys at that price.” The first bird set up for George was a stalwart gobbler, which Aaron tied to the stake, grum- bling as he did so, He tied the turkey loosely, so as to give him rather more play than was really fair for the marksman, and against this trick the bystanders protested. “Reckon de ole nigga has got to hab a show fur his turkey,” grumbled Aaron. ‘“’Spect I know what sawt o’ shootin’ is gwine on around er. He took his stand near the turkey, and gave it'some fatherly advice. “Now, yer durned ole fool_gobbler, keep yer eyes peeled! Don’t yer see it’s dat Jawge Den- ston dat’s gwine ter shoot? Wot yer squattin’ like dat fur? Git up and stir around, or off goes yer ole head. Waggle about, turkey! Vaggle about, now, ’cause he’s drawin’ a bead on Abe is orge Denston smiled as he raised his rifle, and he took a careful aim, while old Aaron’s face assumed an agonized expression. The rifle cracked, the gobbler’s head was shat- tered, and he fluttered about the stake until he gave up the ghost. “Jest look at dat!” exclaimed Aaron, as he picked up the bird. ‘ On’y fo’ bits fur de big- gest kind ob a turkey!” Asif to save himself from utter ruin, he tied a hen turkey to the stake, but made no attempt to avert the fate of the bird, seating himself on the ground with an air of sorrowful resigna- -tion. Again George Denston’s unerring rifle crack- ed, and the hen turkey lost her head. ‘Dat settles it,” said Aaron. ‘You don’t shoot no mo’ turkeys away f’om dis chile, Jawge Denston. You's done broke me all up in business dis mawnin’.” “*T don’t think you need to worry, Aaron,” said George, laughing. ‘‘You have not lost much by me, and some of the others will make | it up to you.” As the young man was tying up his birds for the i rig of carrying them home, he was ed and complimented by a group of settlers, among whom was Silas Bradley, a well-to-do farmer, who was noted for his size, and especially for his large hands and feet. “We don’t mean to let you off so easy as that, Denston,” said Bigfoot Bradley. ‘‘ You are on exhibition to-day, my boy, and you have done some tall shootin’; but you’ve got to = us the best you can do, before we let you off. “Anything to please the crowd,” replied George. ‘I don’t think my shooting is much a brag of; but I am always ready to do my est. iredlcy took from his left hand a: solid gold ring, with a heavy bloodstone setting. It was a large ring, such as his big finger required. “TY am going to set up this ring, Denston,” said he, ‘‘and | shall want you to send a bullet | through it.” George examined his ring and eanpet it by one of the rifle bullets, which passed through it with plenty of room to spare. ‘That is a little too much, Mr. Bradley,” he said, as he handed it back. ‘I might hit the ring; but hitting it would be sure to spoil it.” “7 don’t want yon to hit it, my boy, but to shoot through it. I will tell you what I will do. If you spoil the ring, you shall give me five dol- lars for it, and itis well worth ten, If you send a bullet clean through it, the ring is yours. Come, now; I believe you can do it, and we all want to see some fine shootin’,” George said that he could not expert to per- form the feat, but was willing to attempt it, if he could shoot from a rest that would bring his rifle on a level with the ring when it was placed in position. ; . his was a d to, and Bradley drove a “stub” into the ground, upon which he placed the ring, with the bloodstone as a base. Be- hind the ‘‘stub” he fastened a dark piece of board, to give a background for the ring, and to mark where the bullet should strike. The young marksman drove a forked stake into the ground until the crotch was on a level with the ring. Then he carefully loaded his rifle and knelt down to his work. Bets had been freely made on the shot; but the odds were largely against Denston’s success. When he prepared to shoot, all the talk ceased, ae the bystanders watched him in perfect si- ence. After assuming as solid and comfortable a ition as possible, he carefully sighted along is rifle and fired. 3 The board was seen to quiver, but the ring did not move. “A clear miss!” shouted more than one, and all the party ran to the target. “Tt can hardly be that,” said George, as he rose and followed them. He found them standing about the ‘ stub,” staring at the ring and the board behind it. “The ring is yours, Denston,” said Bigfoot Bradley, as he pointed out the bullet-hole in the board, just behind the golden circle. It was clear that the bullet had passed through the ring without touching it, and the feat was hailed as the most remarkable that had been seen in that region, Wide-awake George was thereafter acknowl- edged as the champion rifle-shot of the settle- ment, CHAPTER XL BURNED OUT, Tue second winter in the new settlement was a culiarly hard one for that cli- mate, and it was noted in the history of the Denston family because of a calamity that be- , fell them. Stel UTE alee i ae a ——— -) rar t et A 0

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—p give a few particulars concerning the construc- tion of a log cabin. The log cabin built by George Denston com- Engel as has been said, but one room and a oft, and at one end of the main room was a fireplace, to which was attached a “stick and clay” chimney. This sort of an erection needs to be briefly described, In the middle of one side of the house a space six feet square is cut out of the logs, reaching To explain this calamity it is necessary to | Wide-Awake George, the Boy Pioneer. down to tie floor, Split logs are driven or dove- | tailed into the cut logs, and these are fastened to other timbers at the back of the fireplace, making a stout crib extending to the hight of the cut space. Of course it is built on the out- side of the house, The crib is well ‘‘chinked,” and is gradually narrowed in with smaller timber, until it is finished by laying short and flat.sticks upon each other, cob house fashion. This structure is extended a little above the point of the roof, | * and mud is thickly plastered on the inside as it is carried up. The bottom of the crib is fitted in with earth, tightly packed and pounded, to the level of the floor, and the back and sides of the fireplace | are made of moist clay, packed and pounded in a temporary frame, which is to be burned off when the'first fire is built, and thus the ‘‘stick- and clay ” chimney is completed. Such a structure is by no means ornamental, nor can it be considered entirely safe. In fact, it is liable to be dangerous, as the Denstons dis- covered to their cost before the winter was over. During the cold weather George was accus- tomed to roll in immense back logs, as big as he | and Ben could manage, against which the fire was built, and such a log usually lasted two or three days. These fires kept the log-cabin warm and com- fortable enough; but, when the blaze roared up the wooden chimney, the Denstons confessed that it looked like a dangerous arrangement. At night the embers were banked up with ashes, and then they felt safe. But it was at night that the calamity oc- curred, and at the darkest hour of the night, just before day. , George was aroused at a very early hour by a bright light that came through the chinks of the loft. ime ‘*Get up, Ben!” he exclaimed. ‘Here it is broad daylight. We will be terribly behind with our work.” He jumped out of bed, dressed himself speedi- ly, and hastened down-stairs. His mother and sister were not up, and there were no signs of daylight in the main room. y He stepped out of doors, and saw that it was yet night and very dark, But there was a strange light in the air, coming from the west- ward, and he heard a peculiar hissing and crackling noise that at once suggested the, thought of fire. Running around to the other end of the house, he at once saw what was the matter. Tho wooden chimney was on fire. The light upper part was in a bright blaze, and the logs of the lower part were in places nearly burned. off. The fire had worked its way 19 through a crack in the earthen back of the fire- place, and had probably been smoldering for several days before it broke out. When it was discovered it wasa bad caso of fire. The chimney was long past saving, the weather-boarding at the gable end of the Phila had caught, the roof was in flames, and a strong wind was blowing the fire into the dry logs. George saw that the case was hopeless, or nearly so, and ran around to warn the family, He met Ben coming out of the door, told him what was the matter, and went in to break the news to his mother and sister, who were of course greatly frightened and confused. “T will go and see what I can do,” said he; “but I think the house isa goner, and you may as well lift out such things as you can easily earry. Take the matter easy, as we will have time enough to save everything.” The coolness of his words and manner reas- sured them, and they dressed themselves and went to work. George returned to the other end of the house, where he found Ben staring helplessly at the flames. ’ As there was no fire-engine or hook and lad- der truck within some hundreds of miles, thore was little to be done with the fire but to let it burn. The chimney might be knocked over, and there was water enough to quench the flames in the crib; but the be a part cl the house was beyond saving, and the logs were beginning to burn, At the best, the house would have to be rebuilt, and it might as well be let alone. So Goorge and Ben applied themselves to the task of saving the household property. Mrs. Denston and Lucy were busily at woris, and the boys, beginning at the loft, soon cleare the house of its contents, which were neither valuable nor numerous. ‘They even saved from the burning building the doors and most of the planking. It was broad daylight when they had done all they could do, or cared to do, and George mounted his mother and sister on his two horses. and sent them to Abe Lassiter’s in charge of Ben, while he remained to watch the property, After a time Ben came to replace him, and e rode over to Lassiter’s for breakfast. That faithful friend had already assured the family of a home at his house until they could settle themselves again, and was hitching up his team to bring over their household goods. * But Mrs, Denston and Lucey were very despon- dent. ‘The destruction of a home was a terrible thing to them, even if it was nothiag better than a log cabin, and George found them in tears. ‘What on earth are you two cryin about?” he asked. “Ithink you ought to cheer up, as there is nothing to trouble you.” “Nothing to trouble us, when we have been burned out of house and home?” replied Mrs. Denston. “Nothing at all. Why, mother, that is a piece of good luck,” “Good luck? When our house is burned? What can you mean?” “The truth is, mother, that I made a great. mistake in building that house, It was only a 5 ~

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Wide-Awake George, the Boy Pioneer. ‘temporary concern, you know—a mere make- shift—and I had set y just where I wanted to build a real house when I could. I don’t know how we would have got rid of the shanty, if it hadn’t burned down. Now you shall have a nice, comfortable, and respectable house, and | there shall be no stick and clay chimney hitched to it, either. I am going right out into the | woods to cut the logs.” “That's the way to talk, my boy!” exclaimed Abe Lassiter. ‘‘ You are just the stuff for the backwoods, and those who help themselves always get help. Take Ben with you when you go to cut the logs, and I will see to bringing your things over.” “Thank you, sir. The house could not have | gone at a better time of the year.” George soon had a new lot of logs cut, and employed two men to hew and square them, and the whole neighborhood not only came to the raising, but assisted him in many ways. With the money he had gained by the honey- | find he bought lumber and hardware, doors and windows, and before 5 pai opened he had a ood and substantial double log house, almost andsome to look at, with a stout stone chimney at each end. He had gone in debt toa small amount; but his creditors had not the least fear of losing any- thing by Wide-awake path When Mrs. Denston and Lucy were brought into the new house, they were more than satis- fied, and agreed with George that their calamity had been a blessing which was very thinly dis- guised, CHAPTER XII. A RAID OF HORSE-THIEVES. Scarcexy had George Denston got his family moved into the new. house, and preparations made for his spring work, when he missed an- other horse. It was not Molly this time, as she was out in what George called bis woods pasture with the colt, but the sorrel horse, which was missing from the stable near the house, and had doubt- less been stolen. The young settler, full of honest wrath, hast- ened to get Molly, and rode over to Abe Lassi- | ter’s to consult the oracle. He found Abe more wrathy than himself. In fact, he was in a somesee passion, and was scattering the strongest kind of language about promiscuously. He had lost his two best horses, and was sure that they had been stolen, While the two friends were commenting forci- bly upon the meanness of horse-thieves, and the necessity of making an example, another neigh- bor rode up and announced that two of his horses had been taken, These three sufferers at once organized them- selves intoa vigilance committee, and proceeded to arouse and enlist the settlers, for the purpose of pursuing the thieves, recovering the stolen property, and aos justice, generally. They found plenty to join them, as horse- stealing was a blow at the entire community, and felt the necessity of doing something that would make an of it, at least for a ‘Tt is too durned bad,” said Bert hpertens “that we should ha’ kep’ our critterson corn al through the hard winter, jest to hev’em run off by sech scamps in the spring.” Among those who joined the party was Bill Anderson, who lived a few miles beyond Run- nells, and who had also lost a horse. : It was evident that the raid had been made on a large scale, by an organized band of depre- dators, and that the capture of the horse-thieves was not to be an easy task. The indignant settlers were well-armed, and mounted on the best horses that were left in the neighborhood, and Abe Lassiter had added to his equipment a coil of rope, light, but strong, which wa; intended for a purpose that every- body could guess at, Before starting they held a council of war, to choose a leader, and to decide the course they should take. Abe Lassiter was at once chosen as captain of the party; but there were different views of the best route to be pursued, the majority being in favor of following the tracks of the horse- | thieves, which were plain enough in the road by which they had left the settlement. But a stern chase is a long chase, on the land as well as on the sea, and it was known that the scoundrels had a good start. esr Denston, who had a lively recollection of the theft of his mare Molly, proposed that they should first visit Tom Mabry, and this sug- gestion was favorably received by Captain Las- siter. “T don’t believe that Tom took a hand in this game,” said Abe. ‘‘ We all know that he ain’t much above that sort of thing; but this is a touch i how anything he would be likely to take hold of. But he has ideas on the subject of horse-stealing, and I believe that he can help us outif be will. So I vote that we look up Tom rae = This opinion finally prevailed, and they set out to find Tom Mabry. On the road they fell in with another wrath- ful farmer, who had also lost a horse, and who joined the party, which then numbered a dozen able and resolute men, among whom George Denston did not count as the least. To the surprise of all they found Tom Mabry at home; but their wonder was lessened when they saw in his vabin a dark-complexioned wo- man, evidently a half-breed from the Indian Territory. “*So thar’s been horse-thieves ahout, and you’re huntin’ hosses?” said he, when Abe Lassiter had briefly explained the purpose of the expedition. ‘Ef you’ve come arter me, you're whistlin’ fur the wrong pup, ’cause I ain’t in that line o’ busi- ness. See my wife, thar? Wal, I married her tother day, and I’ve settled down, and am ine tofarmin’. Ef I wararter stealin’ hosses wouldn’t take ’em from my neighbors and old friends.” “*T believe you, Tom,” said Lassiter. ‘‘ None of us supposed that you were in this thing; but we thought that you might help us i ou hte and we are willing to pay you well to 0 SO. “Allright. Tell me all about it,andIwill ~ do what 1 kin,”

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2+ Wide-Awake George, the Boy Pioneer. 21 neem = Tom Mabry’s face darkened as the story was told to him. “Tt’s a big job that you’ve got holt of,” said he, ‘*I make no doubt that Sam Bren- ner’s gang, from over the line, has done the work, and they’re a hull team and no mis- take. But it’s easy enough to tell whar they kem from, and whar they went to. They’ve jest circled through the settlement. Fust they went up the road nigh yer, and stopped at Wills’s, and next at Denston’s.. Then they took the big road to Lassiter’s, and then crossed down by Runnells’s and Anderson’s, and so they went out. ‘You’ve saved time by comin’ yer, ’cause they'll hev to circle around to git into the Stringville road ag’in, and thar’s a chance to head ’em off by takin’ a short cut.” *¢ Will you guide us and help us catch them?” asked Lassiter. “Durned ef I don’t. I’ve got a grudge ag’inst Sam Brenner, anyhow, and would be right glad to see that gang cleaned out.” Guided by Tom Mabry, the party prssed through forest roads and bridle-paths, until they came out on the Stringville road, at the point which the guide had wished to strike. Most of the men jumped off to examine the road; but it was plain that the party they were pursuing had passed that poin‘, as fresh tracks were abundant, and those who were accus- tomed to reading tracks recognized them as the same they had seen near the places from which tha borses had been stolen. ‘As we missed headin’’em off,” said Tom Mabry, ‘“‘we kin try to chase ’em down, and I don’t reckon they’ve got much the start of us. The party pushed forward at a rapid rate, etting as much speed out of their horses as hey dared to, and it was near sunset when they came in sight of the horse-thieves, who were four in number, and well mounted, but were incumbered by the horses they were lead. ing. % Now for it!” exclaimed Abe Lassiter, as he pressed his horse to a run, At the same time the horse-thieves discov- ered their pursuers, and hastened to get out of their way. The locality in which they were sighted was a wild and entirely unsettled region, thickly covered with a heavy growth of timber, and abounding in dangerous swamps. They dis covered the pursuit just as they were entering a ae swamp which was crossed by a corduroy road, Vhen the pursuers came to the swamp, they saw that a sharp trick had been played to bafile them. The horse-thieves had halted, had torn up the logs that composed the road-bed, and had piled them on their side of the gap. From behind the fortification thus constructed they safely opens fire upon Lassiter’s party, who could only approach them in a mass over the corduroy. : “This is a bad piece of business,” said the leader. ‘ What do you think of it, Mabry?’ “T reckon thar hosses is tired,” replied the guide, ‘as they've covered ag dealo’ ground since they set out. They’ve got fresh be sure, but are afeared you mought overhaul ‘em. So they allow to hold us off ontil night, and then slip away.” “Ts there no way to work through the swamp and get around them?” “Wal, thar’s a sort of a way, and I kin lead any fellers through as is willin’ to foller, ef thar’s enough daylight left to make it.” “Count me in,” said George Denston, and several others volunteered. It was arranged that all should dismount, and that the main body of the party should get such shelter as they could and wi fs an attack on the horse-thieves, while Tom abry with Abe Lassiter, George Denston and Bill Anderson, should try to work through the swamp and get in their rear, The party of four bad a hard road to travel. That is to say, though it was soft enough, and a good deal too soft, it was a very difficult road. It was not even a ridge of any sort, buta succession of hummocks, roots and cypress knobs slippery and uncertain, surrounded by the dark and slimy water in which moccasin snakes were by no means scarce, But they pushed on bravely, admonished by the growing darkness that they had no time to lose, and knowing that if they should get caught in that swamp, they could not attempt to get out before morning. Next to Tom Mabry, George Denston made the best and easiest time. Young and light and active, he leaped from one foothold to another, never losing his balance, while Anderson .was twice soused in the swamp, and Lassiter’s weight frequently caused him to sink to his knees, They pulled through finally, not a minute too soon, and had good cause to congratulate them- selves when they struck the corduroy. It was then too dark to see anything clearly; but they heard occasional shots up the road, which told them that the horse-thieves were still there, and enabled them to judge of their distance from the gap. Abe Lassiter then took the lead of the four, and they aye silently and stealthily up the road, until they came in sight of the stolen horses, which were hitched and lumped on the corduroy, in charge of one of the thieves. ‘“Sh-sh-sh!” whispered Mabry. ‘That is Sam Bremner himself. I know him by the coonskin tail to his cap. Watch me while I slip up on him,” Under cover of the horses, he stole up the road, closely followed by the other three. Sam Bremner rose to his feet, ‘*We are all right now, boys,” said he ‘ It is gettin’ to be as dark as a stack o’ black cats, 2 mought as well git on our critters and e off. ‘All right, Sam!” replied a voice from the log-heap. “We will give ’em a shot or two, and then scatter.” ‘“* Be quick about it, then.” The words were hardly out of Brenner’s mouth when Tom Mabry leaped upon him, irigne him, and threw him on the road, 6 yelled as he was seized, and the other horse-thieves turned and found themselves uns, to | confronted by foes from an unexpected quarter,

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{ ' | | is arn ees Be Wide-Awake George, the Boy Pioneer. They knew that they could expect no mercy if they were captured, and, of course, were ready to fight desperately for their lives; while ‘the others knew that their friends could not get to them acrcss the gap, and that they must put their work in vigorously and surely, But Lassiter and his comrades had the advan- tage of being prepared for the conflict, aud their three rifles cracked as Sam Brenner fell. Then they drew their pistols, and ran in to make an end of the job. The horse-thieves, surprised and taken off their guard, were scarcely able to defend them- selves, and in a few seconds three dead bodies lay on the corduroy. e George Denston was not certain whether he had actually killed a man or not, but gave him- self the benefit of the doubt, though he knew his aim to be deadly. Abe Lassiter hastened to the assistance of Mabry, who was struggling with Sam Brenner, and the leader of the horse-thieves was soon securely bound, The only casualty on the part of the settlers was that of Bill Anderson, always unlucky, who had been shot in the arm. The others proceeded to restore the logs to the road-bed, so that their friends could join them. Then the bodies and the prisoner were taken to the land. But they were not taken far. Captain Lassiter’s rope was brought into use, and Sam Brenner was soon swinging by the neck from the limb of a tree. Then the so s of his comrades were strung up near im. When George Denston got home he was glad that he had recovered his horse, but thought that he would rather lose several horses than witness another such scene. CHAPTER XIII A WILD MAN OF THE Woops. AxovT the middle of the summer reports be- gan to be current in the neighborhood of a strange, nondescript creature that was occa- sionally seen in the woods, It had appeared to some children on their way to the log school-house,and had frightened them 80 terribly that their parents kept them at home. At least ons man was also reported to have seen it; but accounts of its size and appearance varied so greatly that no opinion of what it real- ly was could be formed, though all agreed in | representing it as a horrible creature, covered with hair, and with eyes that blazed like fire. As it could not be doubted that there was something of the kind in the neighborhood, the wiser heads settled down to the belief that it was a wild beast that had escaped from some menagerie up the country. One day Ben Denston went into the woods to look for a stray “yearling,” and he came home with a strange story of an encounter with the nondescript monster. George, who did not believe the tales he had heard, was inclined to laugh at him; but Ben earnestly declared that he had not only seen the thing, but had been quis close to it. - He had come upon it unawares, as it was feed- | ing on some berries that grew on the bushes, and he could not have been more than two rods from it when he saw it, The creature seemed to catch sight of him at | the same moment. It growled, chattered, ut- | an astrange cry and moved off on its four eet. | Ben was strongly inclined to run; but, as the thing made no attempt to pursue bim, he plucked up courage and advanced toward it. Suddenly it rose up on its hind feet and boun:! | ed away into the woods, going, as Ben said, “like greased lightning.” ‘Tt must be some big ape that has got Joose,” said George. “Was it very hairy, Ben? Did yon gy its eyes? What did it look like, any- ow | ‘The sober truth is, George, that it looked more like a man than anythiug else. Iis face was like a man’s—what I could see of it—and it had very long hair and beard, and what seemed to be hair on its body may have been more dirt than hair, and I am almost sure that it had | something in the shape of clothes,” “That’s it!” exclaimed George. “It isa wild man—some poor lunatic that is no better than a beast. 1 have read of such things.” Mrs. Denston and Lucy were greatly shocked and terrified by Ben’s story. They declared that they would not dare to venture out of the house while such a creature was roaming the woods, and even insisted upon keeping the doors locked and the windows barricaded. George rode over to Abe Lassiter’s, to whom he told Ben’s story, and Abe proposed vat there should be a bunt for the wild man, or beast, or whatever it was. It was an easy thirg to get up aparty for that purpose, and a number of the settlers, mounted and armed, met at the Denston place the next morning. Ben Denston, who was then nearly seventeen years of age, carried George’s rifle, while the lat- ter contented himself with his two derringer pis- tols. He also carried a lasso, which had been given to him by a Texas traveler, and with which he had practiced until he was quite ex- pert in its use. Ben led the party to the place where he had seen the creature, and they separated aud be- gan to search for it. The search continued for hours, covering a large extent of forest, but nothing was seen of | the nondescript. At last George sighted it, sounded the alarm and gave chase, all who were near him joining in the pursuit. : But the creature bounded away on two legs with such tremendous strides, taking to the most difficult and inaccessible parts of the woods, that it kept far ahead of the mounted men, and a shot that was sent after it only in- creased its speed. Some of them got near enough to form the opinion that it was a man, as it ran like a man, and had hair like a man’s, and they thought that they could distinguish some rags of cloth- ing. Kinally it disappeared in a glade, a partly open space in the forest, and the disappearance was so sudden and complete that some of the : —— te Rapa to

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Wide-Awake George, the Boy Pioneer. 23 party began to believe that there must be some- hing supernatura) about it. But a large hollow oak, with an opening at the base, soon attracted their attention, and it was the general opinion that the creature had taken refuge in the trunk of the tree. How to get it out, or get at it, was the next question. George Denston, who was then strongly im- pressed with the belief that the nondescript was a man, begged that nobody would shoot at it, as he wished to try to capture it with his lasso, if it could be induced to come out, and he was told that he should have a chance to try his skill. Abe Lassiter went behind the tree, and beat on the hollow trunk with a heavy stick. Suddenly the creature bounded out, in the sight of the entire party, and a horrible thing it was to look at. George Denston stood firm, and swung his lasso quickly, but with good aim, The noose settled down over the wild man’ head, and tightened around his waist; but i failed to secure his arms, as they were with drawn from its clutch witb wonderful quick ness, Then the monster, crazy with rage or fear, layed the game that is sometimes practiced by ars when they are lassoed, but played it far more briskly than any bear would have done, Seizing the rope with both hands, and haul- ing it in as he went, he advanced upon his cap- | and before George tor with lightning lea e was thrown to the knew what he was about und, and the creature fastened his teeth in | is shoulder. He bit like a dog, snarling horribly, and clas} the throat of his victim with one of his hard and sinewy hands. George Denston strove in vain to free him- self from that hateful gripe. The grasp upon his throat tightened, and he felt that bis breath was leaving him, when he was nearly deafened by a shot that was fired close to his ear. The limbs of the monster trembled convul- rely, his grasp loosened, and he rolled over, ead, When George looked up, he saw Abe Lassiter standing by him, with a pistol in his hand. “T had to shoot him, George,” said he. “It was the only way of saving your life. Ireckon you had better not tackle such a critter with a Tope again. He was worse than a wild beast,” t was seen that the creature was a man, though there was scarcely anything that was human in his features, and Ben Denston’s de- scription of him bad been a good one. There could be no doubt that he was a lunatic of the worst kind, and that the neighborhood was well rid of the terror. George Denston, who was badly scratched and bitten, went home with Lassiter, and had his lacerated shoulder roughly cauterized before he returned to his mother and sister, CHAPTER XIV. THE FOREST FIRE, Tux third summer of the Denston family in their new home had L cpsned brightly and ~ perously, and they good reason to believe is that the year would give them a handsome re- ! turn for their hard labor. But the latter part of the summer told quite a different story. It was distinguished by such a ‘dry spell” as had never before ben ex- perienced, and which passed into the history of the region as the big drouth, It extended into the early part of the antumn. Crops were withered in the fields, all vegetation was parched, cisterns were emptied without any prospect of filling them, the few wells in the settlement went dry, and the river was so low that in places it could be crossed dry shod, Several families moved out of the neighbor- hood, and the winter prospect for those whio re- mained was a dreary one. The Denstons suffered with the rest, though, thanks to George’s forethought, a piece of bot- tom land which had. formerly been too wet to use was planted with corn, and promised them at least a partial crop, When the cistern threatened exhaustion, he set at work to dig a well in a spot indicated hy Joe Scurl, who claimed to be a ‘‘ water witch.” George had never dug a well, but his experi- ence in digging a cistern had taught him how to go to work, and with Ben’s help he made rapid progress. At the depth of thirty feet from the surface he struck a vein of water, which boiled up so rapidly and plentifully that be had to make baste to get out of its way. So the water np was solved, to the great joy of the ‘amily. But the chief trouble and danger arose from forest fires. Nobody knew how they origina- ted; but the ground was so parched, the foliage so withered, and the timber so diy, that the least spark was sure to start such a conflagra- tion as could not be easily extinguished, | While these fires were reging, the settlers joined their forces to assist each other at the ints which were the worst threatened, and y constant vigilance and bard work they suc- ceeded in preventing any serious destruction of property outside of the nearly worthless crops. But it was impossible to put a stop to the fires. If they were cut off at one place, they took a’start in another direction, and every now and then they would break out afresh in unex- pected spots, or a breeze would send a danger- ous conflagration sweeping through the forest, Thus ‘the settlers were continually on the watch, and continually at work, until they wero nearly worn out by their constant exer tions. One morning there was an alarm from the Sead of-unlucky Bill Anderson, and George enston mounted Molly, and rode over there to help fight the fire. The neighbors worked hard all day, and had | the satisfaction of knowing that they had saved the farm buildings and nearly everything of value. It was after sunset when George left Ander-, son’s and he was within about half a mile of his home when a bright light suddenly broke out before him. He looked along the lonely forest road, and saw that the woods were on fire on both sides of it. As he approached the spo’ the conflagra- tion increased, and became terrible in it» grandeur,

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Wide-Awake George, the Boy Pioneer. A fire had started in the woods toward the | There was nothing more that could be done, west, and a brisk wind had risen, which was tarrying the devouring element in a swift and steady march across the little road and in the direction of the home of the Denstons. The brush and leaves were everywhere burn- ing and roaring, the flames were licking up the foliage and crackling among the twigs and limbs of the trees, and the fire was gaining strength and speed with every moment. The young man halted an instant, but only an instant, His home was threatened, and he must reach it as goon as possible. It was useless to think of passing around the conflagration or trying to head it off. There was but one course to take, and that was to keep to the road and run the gantlet of the flames. He tied his handkerchief over his mouth, pulled down his hat, and urged Molly forward. The mare objected and resisted; but he struck her flank fiercely with his hickory switch, and startled her so that she dashed into the flames. When she was once in she could do nothing but go on, and she flew down the forest road, maddened by fear, at the top of her Es George felt the flames scorching his hands and face, and the smoke nearly blinded and choked him; but he held bis head down, and trusted to the mare to pull him through. A blazing sap- ling dropped across the road before her, and she bounded over it. A large tree fell with a crash behind her, and startled her into yet more fran- tic efforts, Fortunately the lane of fire was not a hroad one. Though the headlong course of horse and rider was hot and dangerous, it was brief and goon over. The belt of fire was passed, and Molly dashed through the lowered bars into the inclosure around the house, where Mrs, Denston and Lucy and Ben were huddled together, watching the progress of the conflagration. rated sprung to-the ground, and went to work at once to ward off the threatened disaster. But Ben had not contented himself with standing still and watching the fire. He had brought into the house inclosure all the stock that could be got 4 Pied and that much at least was safe, if the house could be saved, The house stood in a small clearing surround- ed by the tall trees of a heavy and virgin forest, and was connected with the forest by fencing and other obstructions that would carry fire. The first thing necessary was to remove all those obstructions, and put them out of the way of the flames, j George set the others at that work, while he got together all the blankets and quiltsin the ouse, soaked them in water from the well, and, with the aid of a ladder, spread them on tho roof. Then a couple of trees that stood too ear the house quickly fell before the strokes of $ ax. By this time most of the fencing and other light stuff in the inclosure had been removed to the leeward side of the house, By this time, too, the fire had taken complete possession of tho forest, was burning fiercely at the edge of the clearing, and was rapidly surrounding the inclosure. except to fight off the rivulets of fire that crept along the ground, and to keep the covering of the roof soaked with water. f . The heat was then so great that George sent bis mother and sister inside, while he and Ben shel- tered themselves with the horses and cattle on the leeward side of the house, venturing out every now and then to wet the roof and to watch for flying cinders. It was soon apparent that some of the build- ings in the horse-lot, if not all of them, would have to go, and that it would be useless labor to try to save them. The horse-lot was a smaller clearing than that around the house. It was surrounded by a high fence, and contained a stable with a large loft, a cattle-shed attached, a corn-crib, and a rude hen-house, Ben pro d to go and save what he could in that quarter, before the fire cut him off, and dashed away, while George remained to guard the house. : The boy did his work quickly and well, taking from the stable everything he could get out, piling it in the middle of the lot, and hastily throwing earth upon the pile. But he had to break through a ring of fire to get back. When he reached the house the forest all around the inclosure was in flames, and the scene was grand and awful, The roaring of the conflagration was terrific; the tall trees seemed to sway and surge as they burst into masses of fire; volumes of smoke and flame rolled up to the sky and obscured the heavens; clouds of burning leaves and cinders swept over the house and dropped upon it; the air was so hot and close that breathing was painful; the horses trembled as they huddled ugainst the house; the cattle crouched near them and moaned; the solitary clearing was girt with an ocean of fire. George and Ben vere enabled to breathe the stifling air by keeping wet cloths at their mouths, and through the long and weary night they did not relax their efforts, but kept the roof soaked and extinguished every spark that touched the house, In the morning they were sure that their lives and home were safe, and the prospect was that the fire would soon cease for want of fuel. But they were pitiable objects in the midst of a scene of gloom and desolation, George in par- ticular being burned and scorched, nearly blinded, and completely overcome by fatigue, At last they went into the house for needed food and rest, and the praise they received was mea ree t blessing that you had a well s a great blessing you had a we dug, George,” said his mother. “Yes, indeed. If it hadn’t been for that, we might now be settled in another world, But the house and the stock are safe, and we have ayer through very well. The stable is gone ut the corn-crib stands with the corn in it, an that isa great comfort. We will have lots of | rails to make, but the fire has made a big clear- i t saving of labor. - ing for us, and that is a I shall build a better stable, and Ben and I will sot at work right away to repair damages.” “Not just yet, I think,” remar Lucy. =a

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Wide-Awake George, the Boy Pioneer. “Your hands and face are blistered, and your eyes seem to be nearly out. We will have to keep you in the house for awhile, whether or no, CHAPTER XV. THE YOUNG DEPUTY SHERIFF. In the fall of the year of “the big drought” there was an election, at which Abe Lassiter was elected sheriff of the county. It was an office which he had not coveted, and, as he was not well fitted for it by education, he made George Denston his deputy, engaging him to at- tend to the clerical duties of the position. George found that the work allotted to him did not seriously interfere with his labors on the farm, and it brought in a little revenue that was sorely needed; so he was well pleased with his office. Outside of his clerical duties the young depu- ty sheriff had little official work to do, until near the opening of spring, when he became in- volved in a matter that called for no little pluck and self-sacrifice. An old man was found dead in his house, oo he had been brutally and secretly mur- ered, It was the first crime of the kind that had been known in the neighborhood. Men had been killed in rows, in fair fights, or shot down openly on the high road; but such a secret, midnight, shocking murder as this was some- thing entirely new, and it caused a great sensa- tion. Reuben Draine, the murdered man, had lived alone with his two children, Thomas and Mary, @ young man of twenty-four and a girl of nineteen. He was fully sixty years of age, and was not well liked in the neighborhood, being of a harsh and morose Nat esa unobliging, unsocial, and almost repulsive in bis manners. Although he was the owner of a large and productive farm, he lived in a mean and stingy way, and it was probably his penuriousness that gained him the reputation of being a miser and of having plenty of gold and silver concealed in his log cabin. It was generally believed, and with good rea- son for the belief, that he lived on very bad terms with his children; but there could hardly be a doubt that he was responsible for this state of affairs, as it was known that for years he had treated them both very severely. It was pretty certain that they were not the kind of young people who were likely to keep a house in an uproar. Tom Draine was by no means strong-minded, and was regarded by some as little better than an idiot; while Mary was a sweet and gentle girl, whose amiable disposi- tion made her generally liked. But when uben Draine was murdered, there were plenty who believed that his children, having endured his hard and miserly rule as kang as they could, had at last revolted and made an end of him. The old man occupied one of the lower rooms of a double log house as his sleeping apartment, Mary using the other, and Tom sleeping up- stairs in the room above bis father. Reuben Draine was murdered at night, and Tom’s story was that when he'came down-stairs early in the morning be found bis father dead in his bed, his head having been split open with anax. He at once called Mary, who run to the nearest neighbor’s and gave the alarm. The door of the room faced an open hall or passageway between the two parts ot the house, and the old man alweys locked it when he went to bed; but Tom said that he found it open that forning.. He had heard no noise during the night, and Mary, who was on the other side of the passageway, bad heard none, | In acorner of the old man’s room a piece of | Tom’s clothing was found, and it was stained with blood, looking as if bloody hands had been wiped on it. The ax with which the murder | was committed, and which was found on the floor, was Tom’s ax. He said that he had left it at the woodpile the previous evening, On the strength of these suspicious circum- stances Tom Draine was arrested, charged with the murder of his father, Mary was allowed to go free, as it was proposed to use her as a witness against her brother. The prisoner had a hearing before Col. Wel- burn, of the peace. All the neighbors were called in as witnesses, and ‘the testimony was mainly directed to the unpleasant relations that bad existed between suben Draine and his children. Mary had a long and severe examination, under which she more than once broke down and burst into tears. She was compelled to make some admissions that were quite unfavor- able to her brother, as it appeared that he had made threats against his father. But she bad never paid any attention to them, as they were made under great provocation, and Tom was not strong in his head. She could give no explanation of his bloody clothes, nor could she account for the presence of hisaxin the house, But she was sure that Tom would never have harmed his father, and she could only suppose that the house had been entered at night by some stranger, who had murdered the old man for revenge, or for money. To this theory was opposed the general belief that no stranger had been seen in the neighbor- | hood about that time, that Reuben Draine had | no enemies outside of his family, and that there was nothing to show that a theft had been committed or attempted. Public opinion was strong against Tom | Draine. It was believed that he was the only person who was likely to have killed bis father, as well as the only one who had cause for wish- ing him out of the way, and he was committed to the log jail at the county town to await his ial. This tragical case made George Denston, in the discharge of his duties as deputy sheriff, | acquainted with Mary Draine. He then saw her for the first time, and sympathized with her, and admired her. ' He admired her so much that he determined to do what he could for her, and he waited on her, after Tom was sent to jail, with offers of advice and assistance. . To these offers she responded very gratefully, abe Welburn’s father, who was a justice — “ey

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Wide-Awake George, the Boy Pioneer. and was deeply touched by the kindness of the one friend who had been so unexpectedly sent to her. “Yours are the = really kind words I have heard,” said she. ‘‘Some people seem to speak kindly, but I can see that they suspect me as well as my brother. I am sure that poor Tom is innocent, and I believe that with your help he can be proved so. But the people have already made up their minds, and they will not listen to a word I say.” “What is it that you want to say?” asked George. “* Come here!” she eagerly replied, seizing her new friend by the arm, and leading him across the room. “Took at those marks on the bed- ost. ® On the post at the head of Reuben Draine’s bed were the bloody marks of a iert hand, with the exception of the third finger. *“The murderer’s hand made that mark,” said Mary, ‘‘and you see that the third finger was gone. There could have been no third fin- ger, because no man ever seizes anything with his hand and leaves that finger up. If you will look at the ax, which somebody carried to Col. Welburn, you will see the same mark on the handle.” George said that he had already noticed it, **Could Tom have been the murderer, then? He has all the fingers on both his hands Now I have something more to show you.” ’ She took him to the wood-pile, and showed him some tracks. “Tt was just here that Tom left his ax,” she said, ‘‘and here I found those tracks. No rain has fallen since that night, and they are quite clear and plain. Do they look like the tracks of my brother Tom?” George admitted that they did not. One had been made by an ordinary t;.but the other was evidently the track of a foot so deformed that it might be called a club-foot. The young deputy sheriff, who had become an adept in what may be called irene, SL looked around and found other similar tracks. “Tt is clear enough now,” said he. ‘I must look for a man with a club-foot, who has lost the third finger of his left hand.” “There must be such a man,” said Mary. _ “Tf you should find him, you may find some gold coins in his pockets. I don’t know that he ot any; but, if he did, they are marked. My father often told me that he marked his gold coins, so as to send Tom or me to prison if we grag Ho showed me the mark, and this 8 it. Mary Draine made a minute mark on a bit of papers which George Denston folded and put in i 8 ih ‘Keep up your spirits, and hope for the best,” said he. “Tam going to find a man with a clu foot and a missing finger, and we will get Tom Sut of this scrape.” CHAPTER XVI. CUTTING OUT A PRIZE, Guorce Dznston immediately began to search for the man with aclub-foot and a miss- ing finger, and at first his search seemed much like the proverbial task of looking for a needle fy a haystack. No such man was living in the settlement, nor could any one remember having seen a man of that description in the neighborhood. The people generally had settled it in their minds that Tom Draine was ity, and were not dis- posed to give any aid to an effort to prove his innocence. But George was a persevering fellow, and his admiration for Mary Draine prompted him to leave no stone unturned in his attempt to clear her brother, He learned that a man with a club-foot and a missing finger had been noted in the vicinity as a desperado and hard case in general. This was Jack Carter, who had been a member of Sam Brenner’s band of horse-thieves before the raid that broke it up, and who had escaped the pursuit that was ended by the battle in the swamp. : Jack Carter had not been seen in the neigh- borhood since that event, but George was con- vinved that he had come back at least once, and had stayed long enough to murder Reuben Draine. Having “spotted” his man, the next thing was to locate him, and this was no easy task. But he finally learned that Jack Carter had one south, probably to join the remnant of am Brenner’s band, who had emigrated to a place on the Texas border, a sort of presley settlement or rendezvous, which was known as Thieves’ Hollow. George determined to pay a visit to Thieves’ Hollow, and notified Mary Draine of his inten- tion. She thanked him, with tears in her eyes, and said that she would pray for his safe re- turn. Abe Lassiter. the only othar person to whom hoe spoke of his purpose, tried dissuade him from going on such a dangerous errand. Not only was Jack Carter a desperate man, said the sheriff, but his companions were all desperate men. No stranger’s life could be safe py err and mye would make no bones at all of killing a man who came to capture one of their comrades, Even if Carter could be taken out from among them, the return journey would be full of danger. But the pr asccey Hr ga had fully determined to make the offort, and nothing could induce him to change his mind. “You may get me a warrant for Carter,” said he, “* Of course I would not think of using ® in Texas or Louisiana; but when I get the man across the line it may be well to have it.” Lassiter procured the warrant, and bid his Saber friend a sad farewell, convinced that he would never see him again. George set out alone on his sorrel horse, car- rying some food in his saddlebags, and armed with his rifle and two derringers. On the road he carefully pees a story to tell when he should reach the rendezvous of the desperadoes. He had come from the northern part of Arkansas, where he had killed a man who was pursuing him to recover a stolen horse, and had been compelled to “light out for Texas.” He sesily made his way to the Texas border, where he had no little difficulty in getting the location of Thieves’ Hollow, as he did not thina it advisable to ask for it under that name. and

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Ae eee —- Wide-Awake George, the Boy Pioneer. the country was so scantily settled that fhere were few persons of whom inquiries could be made. But a little judicious hinting led him on, un- til he got the mght direction, and at last he rode boldly into the place of his destination. It was a very small settlement, composed of only a few shanties, the most important. of which was devoted to the sale of ‘‘forty-rod” whisky. At this place the young man alighted, and was received by a number of men who were filled with bad liquor, curiosity and suspicion. Their character was apparent at a glance, and he could not have the et doubt that he had ac ually reached Thieves’ Hollow. He, too, was suspicious and reticent, until, by the hints he dropped about being a fugitive from justice, he had gaiued the confidence of the crowd, Then he introduced himself as Bud Wilson, and told the story that he had prepared for that purpose. As he told it in a straightforward way, and was well acquainted with the region in which he had located his adventure, he was believed, and, as he put on the appearance of a 27 | been lookin’ about for the right kind of a pard- reckless young chap, he was received into the | fellowship of the desperadoes, At the same time he gave them to understand that he was young in crime, and was not above heing troubled by the remembrance of what he had done, “The fact is, fellers,” said he, “that I never killed a man afore. you git used to it; but it tetched me on the raw, and I jest had to light out.” He was assured that he ‘would soon recover from his unpleasant sensations, and that he might jind a refuge at Thieves’ Hollow, as long as he could pay his way. If his money gave out, he would have to find some means of get- ting more. . : ving established himself with these wild companions, he looked for a man with a club- foot and a missing finger, and soon found him. He learred, too, that this man’s name was Jack Carter, and then ho believed that his danger- ous mission was fully half performed. He cultivated the acquaintance of Jack Carter, and soon became so intimate with him that they two justified the old saying, ‘‘As thick as two thieves.” He noticed that Carter had plenty of money, and that it wasin gold. As thescamp spent his money pretty freely, George easily got a chance to examine one of the pieces, and discovered on it Reuben Draine’s private mark. The one thing then left to do was to capture his man and take him home, I reckon it’s nothin’ when | He sought a private conversation with Jack | Carter, and gave him an interesting bit of in- formation, ‘“‘The story that I told when Icame here, Jack,” said he, ‘was as straight as a shingle; | but there's a tail to it. Iain’t quite so green as I made out to be, and I came down here to make a strike, as well as to git out of the way | of the law. I know of a rich enttle-trader who was comin’ this way, with his pockets full of money. I’ve heard from him since, and he will be apt to cross the border to-morrer night. I’ve | ner, and you suit me to a notch. If you will go with me to strip the cattle-trader, wo will make a big haul and keep it to ourselves.” This proposition was “nuts” to Jack Carter, who was getting short of money, and he ac- ve it joyfully. he next afternoon they set out, taking the trail which George Denston had followed when he came to Thieves’ Hollow. At sunset, when they were several miles away from their comrades, and near the border, George proposed that they should conceal them- selves in a thicket at the side of the trail, and await the arrival of their victim, who would be pretty sure to come along before midnight. They had hitched their horses, and Jack Carter had seated himself on the ground to en- joy the contents of a flask of whisky, when his ee es suddenly confronted him with a leveled “ Throw up your hands!” ordered George. Carter’s rifle was,too far away, and he reached for a pistol. ‘Drop it,” said George, “‘or you are a dead man. Throw up your hands, I tell you!” Carter raised his hands; but, when George approached him, he jumped up with amazing agility, and grappled his antagonist. There was a severe but short struggle, which ended in favor of the strong and active young deputy sheriff, who tied the bands of the des- perado firmly behind his back, “What sort. of a joke is this, Bud Wilson?” asked Carter, ‘If you have brought me out here to rob me, just go through me and finish the job.” “My name is not Bud Wilson,” replied George. “Tam George Denston, a deputy sheriff from Arkansas, and I arrest you for the murder of Reuben Draine.” “ Wide-awake George, by thunder!” ex- claimed Carter. “I’ve heard of you, young chap. But you can’t serve any warrant on me in Texas,” “T will have you over the border pretty quick,” replied George, ‘‘and I warn you that you had better not try to get away.” Of course Carter, notwithstanding this warn- ing, lost no chance of attempting to make his COs and George Denston’s existence until he reached home was one of constant wakefulness and watchfulness, He disarmed his prisoner, mounted him on his ° own horse, and drove him on, riding all that night and all the next day, with scarcely a stoppage for a bite of food. Thesecond night they spent in the woods, and the third nigbt at the house of a farmer to whom George had confided his purpose on his way down. But at no time did he feel sufficiently secure to take the rest he needed, When he reached home, and had put his pris- oner into the sure hands of Abe Lassiter, he was completely exhausted. He slept, and it was long before the waking hour came. hen he hastened to Mary Draine, who had already been informed of the result of his mis- sion, and who was more than grateful to him for what he had done. The upshot of this exploit was that the proof ae See ——— ee

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Wide-Awake George, the Boy Pioneer. brought against Jack Carter caused him t6 con- fess his crime, and Tom Draine was released. Another upshot was an engagement of mar- riage between George Denston and Mary Draine, who was as pretty as she was amiable and true, and who came in for a nice bit of property that her miserly father had saved, CHAPTER XVIL RUNNING FOR OFFICE. Brrore the time came for George Denston and Mary Draine to be married, there was a eneral election, at which members of the State islature were to be chosen, ide-awake George was so popular in his own neighborhood, and had made such a broad reputation through the district for skill and bravery and good sense, that many of his friends, including Abe Lassiter, advised him to come a candidate for the Legislature. As the farm was then well under way, and Ben was old enough and smart enough to take almost the entire management of it, George bit that he would lose nothing by making a bold stroke for a higher position, and an- nounced himself as a candidate. As it was a sortof a ‘‘ scrub race,” there were then three candidates in the field besides him- self, the most important one being Ben Gerrish, & youn the neighborhood by Colonel Welburn, and who was championed by that influential gentleman, who had a swamp land schewe that he wanted to push through the Legislature for his own benefit, As George Denston had made a big name for himself by his pursuit and capture of Reuben Draine’s murderer, he was recognized as a for- midable candidate, and two of the others soon dropped out, leaving it to lawyer Gerrish and the young deputy sheriff. George at once began an active canvass, go- lawyer who had been imported into | ing from house to house, and “log-rolling” in the usual way to solicit the votes and influence of his neighbors. In the course of his canvass it was necessary to visit the ‘ doggeries,” as the liquor shops at the'county town and the cross-roads were called, and in one of them he witnessed an exhibition of practical politics that was decidedly un- pleasant, A young man had expressed in George’s pres- ence an intention of voting for him, when one _ of Gerrish’s supporters meres up to the voter and threatened to “ bu’st his head” if he did not abandon that intention. “T think you had better not try it,” said George, coming promptly to the rescue, ‘‘ His vote is his own, and he has a right to cast it as he pleases, and I will see that he is protected in that right.” ‘* How will you help yourself, you miserable whiffet, you sneakin’ polecat, you interloper from Indiana?’ Of course such an insult must be resented at once, and George knocked the man down with- | out a word. : This was the signal for an onslaught by the supporters of Gerrish and Welburn, who were largely in the majority in the “ doggery,” and George and his few friends were getting the | worst of it, when a tall and powerful man sud. denly stepped in and changed the scene, Tuis was Lon Brewer, who has been men- tioned in these sketches, and who was not only friendly to George Denston, but entertained a yet warmer feeling for that young man’s sister, He pushed his way through the ** muss,” =*:*' ing right and left with his heavy fists, « \ pci for George, and dragged him oyf ~@,, ne oor to where his horse was hitched. : ‘“‘T don’t want to run off and leave my friends,” protested George. é “But you must. Your friends will be safe enough when you are gone, The truth is, George, that you have been making such a hole in Gerrish’s vote that Col, Welburn has put some men on your track to jayhawk you. He is afraid that you will win the race unless he ean get you killed off or laid up. So you must take care of yoursolf, and [ am going to see you safe home right now.” Thecandidate mounted his horse, and suffered himself to be led away. Bat he and Brewer did not go directly home, and his stoppages on the route gave his enemies another chance, of which they availed them- selves. As the two friends were traversing a forest road a dash upon them was made from a side path by several mounted men, Ir was so unexpected and so sudden that George, for once, was entirely unprepared for it, and he was taken quite at a disadvantuge. But it happened that this was the very thing that Lon Brewer had been looking for. As he saw the rush he brought down his whip with all his force upon the flank of the mare George was riding, startling that animal into such an exhibition of speed as must have as- tonished herself as well as her rider. She dashed down the road at a headlong gal- lop, and was so thoroughly frightened that George was unable to regain control of her un- til she had gone about a quarter of a mile. In the mean time he heard rapid fir.ng behind him, and was nearly crazy to go to the assis- tance of his friend. When he finally succeeded in pulling up the mare, he looked back, and saw Brewer riding toward him alone. But he was pale, and he leaned forward in his saddle, ' “What was the matter?’ eagerly ask George. “Why did-you give my horses that cut? “Tt was those same jayhawkers,” replied Brewer. ‘I sont your horse out of the muss because I didn’t want old Welburn to win his game by driving you off the track. But you may bet your life, George, that I made them pay for their fun.” “T heard the shots. Are you hurt, Lon?” ‘Well they hit me once or twice, and I be- lieve they have kinder sickened me.” As Brewer swayed in his saddle, George helped him to alight, and found that he had been strack in two places. He bound up the wounds as well as he could, so as to stop the loss of blood, helped his friend to mount, and took him to the Denston homestead, which for- tunately happened to be near at hand. The story of this encounter moved Mrs, Dens-

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4 ; 2 ‘ Cy Peat 21 Teed ow fore he got killed; but Lucy’s sympathies at onoe went out to the wounded man, whom her brother could not praise too highly. _She posted Ben off for a doctor, and com- ” Brewer to remain where he was and - . ,-)%to be nursed by her mother and herself 48 wounds were entirely healed. The upshot of this adventure was a marriage engagement between Lon Brewer and Luc Denston, with which George was higly pleased. “You have got a prize, Lucy,” said he. ‘Lon is a man all through, and a better and truer man never trod the earth.” CHAPTER XVUL WINNING THE GAME. - Tue Gerrish party, which was in reality th Welburn party, circulated their own account of the attack in the forest road, and tried to make capital against George Denston by accus- ing him of being a coward, who had run away and left his friend to bear the brunt of the ze ete ee But this falsehood was pretty well refuted by George's reputation for courage, and by the -statements which Lon Brewer sent out from his sick room. Still, though it was clear to those who had intelligence to look into the matter that Col. Welburn’s swamp-land scheme was intended for the benefit of his private ket, and did not lack much of being a swindle, he had succeeded in persuading many that it was an important public measure which would be of great value to the people of the district. lt was also quite certain that Col. Welburn, who was a wealthy man for that region, was spending money freely in the canvass, and that he would omit no effort to elect his candidate. There could be no doubt that these methods were telling against George Denston. His youth was also alleged against the youn man, and the fact that he was ‘only a farmer,’ ‘while his opponent was a lawyer, who could | speak for his constituents and exert aninfluence | ir their behalf. These unfavorable indications were increased by the effort of the Gerrish men to bring about a jxint discussion between their candidate and his yong opponent. They made a proposition to this effect, but Georyze’s friends refused to ac- ceptit. They knew that their candidate was a young fellow, one of themselves, who had never attempted to speak in public, and believed that it would be the hight of unfairne-s to him against a trained speaker and practiced debater. The other side were not slow to say that Denston was afraid to meet Gerrish, and that cause always passes for a weak one which does not find a bold defender. Thus it was that George Denston was running behind the expectations of his friends and his own wishes, and was losing votes daily, until ha began to grow despondent. t last, shortly beforo tho ¢anvass closed, he went to Abe Lassiter, the chairman of the com- mittee on his side, and asked him to make an Wide-Awake George, the Boy Pioneer. ton to deplore her son’s entrance into politics, | immediate arrangement with Gerrish for a joint and to beg him to withdraw from the aoe be- | discussion, * q Lassiter, who saw etn but disaster in such a course, tried to ergue him out of it; but George, with a smiling face, insisted on the point. ‘« But you can’t make a speech, George,” said his friend. ‘‘That fellow will chaw you up and talk you out of your boots. “Maybe he won’t. Give me a chance, Abe, and [ think I will win this fight.” ‘‘ What has got into you, my boy? Haye you found out anything about Gerrish, or Welburn, or any of them?” ‘* Well, I have heard a story.” “A story! That is just the thing, if it is a eos story, and if you can tell it well. What it, George?” / ‘“‘T don’t care to tell it just yet. Fix the thing up and give me a chance.” The arrangement was made, and the an- nouncement of the joint discussion was cir- culated broadcast, the Gerrish faction boasting that they had the young fellow at last just where they wanted him. On the appointed day there was a large crowd, for a thinly-settled country, at the place of meeting. The entire section had taken a holi- day, and the people had com» from far ani near to see the yourg farmer ‘chawed up” by the lawyer from Kentucky. ; Lawyer Gerrish, who had tha opening, made a fine, flowery and argumentative speech. As his friends said, he was ‘‘ cocked and primed” for the occasion, aud he did not propose to “leave a grease-spot” of his young opp nent, The audience listened to him attentively, and applauded him frequently. | At the close of his spgech he confidently predicted his election, and alluded compassionately to his ‘‘ young friend,” who had been kd to make a losing race by bad advisers and the vanity of youth. George Denston rose to reply, greeted only by the’ forced applause of his friends. But he had a confident air and a smiling face. “My neighbors and friends,” he said, ‘it is true that I am young; but you have the con- solation of knowing that I am not old in iniquity. Itis also true that I have not been long in the county; but I camo here eartier than my opponent, and you will bear me out in saying that [ have done more for the district, so far, than he has done. **1t has lately been hinted that I have played the part of a coward; but I need only appeat to those who know me to nail that lie. As for the swamp-land scheme, I can only say, with- out imputing any bad motives to Colonel Wel- burn, that I believe it to be a swindle on the State, intended to benefit a few persons at the expense of the people generally, and I amsure that all who look into the matter and thiuk for themselves will agree with me. . “The gentleman who has just addressed you isa lawyer, and I am not; but Iam sure you know that [ believe in dota justice, and I have proved to you that Tam in favor of pun- ishing the guilty, rather than aliowing tho in- nocent to suffer.” (Tais sentence brought a big round of applause.) : “Shave never made a speech, and shall not

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hia kn Wide-Awake George, the Boy Pioneer. attempt to do £0 now, as J am sure that I would make a failure. Instead of that I will tell you a little ng “A fow 3 ago, when I was canvassing for votes in a ro et way, I called on a neighbor of mine, who is known all over the district as a ‘ood, sensible, friendly and honest man—Uncle immy Truesdell. “T knew that Uncle Jimmy was opposed to me for several reasons; because he is a Whig, while I am a Democrat; because he had let him- self be half-persuaded to favor the swamp-land scheme; and because he thought me a little too young to go to the Legislature. I had no idea of getting his vote, and did not ask him for it, * But I had not been in the house ten minutes when ho told mo that he was going to vote for me, “I was greatly surprised, and was curious to know the reason for his change of mind. **T will tell you just how it was, George,’ said Uncle Jimmy. ‘Last night the other man came here, and I was mighty glad to see him, as I had made up my mind to vote for him. It was late, and I asked him to stay all night. You know I’ve got only one sleeping-room with two beds in it, and the old woman and I sleep in one of them. Sol gave Lawyer Gerrish a “hint to step out while we went to bed, and when we were fixed I called to him to come in, _ **He seemed to bea long time about going to bed, and I peeped out, and there he was on ees. There's a good and Christian man, thinks I, and Vil be powerful glad to vote ror him. I whispered to the old woman, and she peeped out, and was powerful pleased, too, But she looked out again, and she made me look, and what do you think I saw? “*Why, George, that chap wasn’t praying a bit. He had pulled off his b’iled shirt, and he had pulled out of bis sacdle-bags a long thing like a woman’s nightgown, with ruffles on it, too; and he put that thing on his back, and popped into bed. ““*Now, George,’ said Uncle Jimmy, ‘you don’t ever ketch me giving my vote to aman who wears a woman’s nightgown, with ruffles on it, at that!” George Denston sat down as soon as he had finished his story, and tho applause and laughter that followed were sometbing terrific, Lawyer Gerrish rose to reply; but he was at a loss for the right thing to say, and it would have been hard to say anything in the face of the storm of hisses and laughter that greeted him. The election was held the next day, and George Denston was returned by a good majority. he district had cause to regard him as en able and faithful representative, and when the session was ended he cime home and nearly clezred his mother’s farm of debt. Baen he married Mary Draine, and settled on - the Draine farm, while Lon Brewer married Lucy Denston, and helped Ben to take care of the Denston place. THE ENR,

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omer oO % amar 7 ‘ <° = Neer ! 252 Denver Doll’s Device; or, The Detective Queen, Se Edward L. Wheeler. 253 The Boy Tenderfoot; or, Roaring Ben Bundy of Colorado. By Capt. Mark Wilton. 254 Black Hills Ben; or, Dutch Jan on the War- Path. By Maj. Lewis W. Carson. 255 Jolly Jim, Detective; or, The Young Protege’s Victory. ‘By Charles Morris, 256 Merle Monte’s Last Cruise; or, The Sea Robber at Bay. By Col, Prentiss Ingraham. 257 The Boy Chief of. Rocky Pass; or, The Young California Pards, By Maj. E. L. St. Vrain. 258 Denver Doll as Detective. By E. L. Wheeler. 259 Little Foxeye, the Colorado Spy. By Oll Coomes. 260 Skit, the Cabin Boy. Ry Edward Willett. 261 Blade, the Sport; or, the Giant of Clear Grit Camp. ra oO. Harbaugh. 262 Billy, the Boy Rover. By Col. P. Ingraham. 263 Buster Bob’s Buoy; or, Lige, the Light-House Keeper. By Capt. J. F.C, Adams. 264 Denver Doll’s Par ner; or, Big Buckskin the Sport. By E, L. Wheeler. 265 Billy, the Baggage Boy: or, The Young Railroad Detective. Hy Charles Morris, 266 Guy’s Boy Chum; or, The Forest Waif’s Mask, By Capt. Comstock. y 267 Giant George's Revenge; or, The Boys of “‘ Slip- oy Mine.” By Buckskin Sam. 268 The Deadshot Dandy; or, The Rio Grande Marauders. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. 269 The Quartzville Boss; or, Daring David Darke. By Edward Willett. 270 Denver Doll’s Mine; or, Little Bill’s Big Loss. By E. L. Wheeler. 271 Ebony Jim’s Terror; or, Ranger Rainbolt’s Ruse. By Oil Coomes. 272 Kit, the Girl Detective. By T. C. Harbaugh. 273 The Girl Rider; or, Nimble Ned's Surprise. Jos. E. Badger, Jr. 274 Dead Shot Dandy's Double; or, Benito, the Boy Pard. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham, 275 Fred, the Ocean Waif; or, The Old Sailor’s Protege. By Charles Morris. 276 Deadwood Dick Trapped; or, Roxey Ralph's Ruse, By Edward L. Wheeler. 277 The Idiot Boy Avenger; or, Captain Wild-Cat’s Big Game. By Albert W. Aiken. 278 Arizona Alf, the Miner; or, Little Snap Shot's Luck. By T. OC. Harbaugh. 279 Colorado Jack, the Tiger; or, The Ghost of the Trailer. By Frederick Dewey. 280 Dead Shot Dandy’s Last Deal, or, Keno Kit’s New Role, By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. 281 Ned, the Boy Pilot; or, The Pirate Lieutenant's Doom. By Jack Farragut. 282 Buck Hawk, Detective; or, the Messenger Boy’s Fortune. By Edward L. Wheeler. 283 Roving Sport Kit; or, The Ghost of Chuckaluck Camp. By Edward Willett. 284 The Showman’s Best Card; or, The Mad Animal Tamer. By Capt. Fred. Whittaker, 285 Old Rocky’s Pard; or, Little Ben's Chase. By Buckskin Sam. 286 Dick, the Dakota Sport. By Charles Morris. 287 Ned, the Boy Skipper; or; The Sea Sorceress’ Cruise. By Jack Farragut. 288 Deadwood Dick’s Disguise; or, Wild Walt, the Sport. By Edward L. Wheeler. 289 Colorado Nick, the Lassoist; or, Old Si’s Protege. By Major H. B. Stoddard. 290 Rube, the Tenderfoot; or, the Boys of Torpedo Guich. By Major E. L. St. Vrain. 291 Peacock Pete, the Leadville Sport; or, Hawk, the Boss Miner. By Albert W. Aiken. 292 Joe Morey, the Night-Hawk; or, the Black Rider, By Jos. 1. Badger, Jr. 298 Dwarf Jake, the Detective; or, Kit Kenyon’s Man-Hunt. By Edward Willett. : 294 Dumb Dick's Pard; or, Eliza Jane, the Gold Miner, By Ed. L. Wheeler. 295 White Wing, the Ferret Flyer, By Chas. Morris, ) By BEADLE’S POCKET LIBRARY. — —___.. ———— 296 Govinda, the Tiger-Tamer; or, The American Horseman Abroad. By Captain F, Whittaker. 207 Arizona Giant George; or, The Boyees of Sardine- Box City. By Buckskin Sam. 298 Daisy Doll's Dash; or, The Ten Colorado Pards, By T. C. Harbaugh, 209 The Balloon Detectives; or, Jack Slasher’s Young Pard, By Harry Enton. 800 Deadwood Dick's Mission, 301 Dandy Duke, the Cowboy. Vrain. 802 Big Benson’s Bet. 803 The Hotel Boy Detective; or. Robbery. By Charles Morris. 804 Bald Head’s Pard; or, Creeping Cat's Cunning, By Buckskin Sam, 805 Dusky Dick’s Duel; or, The Demon's Trail. Harry Hazard, 806 Spotter Fr'tz; or, The Store-Detective’s Decoy, By E. L. Wheeler. 807 Nick, the Boy Sport; or, Three Plucky Pards, By Major E. L. St, Vrain. 808 Double-Fisted Mat: cr, The Mystic California Giant, By Jos. E. Badger, J.. 809 O'd Graybeard’s Boy; or, The Girl’s Ruse. By ©, Dunning Clark. 810 Kit, the Girl Captain; or, The Mad Legacy. By Col. Prentiss Iugraham. 311 Frio Fred in Texas. By Buckskin Sam. 812 The Detective Road-Agent; or, The Miners of Sassafras City. By Edward L. Wheeler, 318 Honest Jack’s Protege; or, The Dwarf’s Scheme, By Philip 8. Warne. 814 Clip the Boy Sheriff; ov, The Two Crooks of Montana. By Edward Willett. 315 Tom, the Arizona Sport: or, Howling Hank from Hard Luck. By Major E. L. St. Vrain. 816 The Street Arab Detective; or, Dick Dorgan’s Double Dealing. By Charles Mortis. 317 Buckskin Ben of Texas; or, Single EKye’s Plucky Pards. By Buckskin Sam. 818 Colorado Char‘ie’s Detective Dash; Cattle Kings. By Edward L. Wheeler. 819 Frisky Fran‘ in Idaho; or, Old Skinflint the Shadower. By Roger Starbuck. 820 Cool Sam's Girl Pard; or, Captain Dick and His Texans. By T.-C. Harbaugh. 821 Billy, the Kid from Frisco; or, Silver Mask’s Clew. By J. C. Cowdrick, 322 Fred Flyer, Detective; or, Abe Blizzard on Deck. By Charles Morris. 823 Dead Shot Ike in Montana; or, Hez Helper, the Yankee Pard. By Roger Starbuck, 8% Kit, the Denver Sport; or, The Bonanza Miner King. By Edward L. Wheeler. 825 Dusky Darrell the Camp Detective; or, The Dandy’s Daring Dash. By Edwin Emerson, 326 Roy, the Boy Cruiser; or, The Water Wolf Wreckers. By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham. 827 Ned, the Roving Miner; or, Arkansaw Jack’s Match. By Harry Hazard. 828 Rocky Ben’s Band; or, Big Pete's Big Haul. By W. J.. Hamilton. 829 Dave, the Colorado Wrestler. Vrain, By E, L. Wheeler, By Major EF. L. St. By T. C. Harbaugh, . The Grand Central By Sailor’s The or, By Maj. E. L, St. 330 The Denver Sport’s Racket; or, Kit’s Big Boom. 3y Edward L. Wheeler, 331 The Coast Detective; or, The Smuggler Shadow- By Roger Starbuck, er,

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